The Pilgrim Fathers

The pilgrim FATHERS,—where are they? The waves that brought them o’er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore; Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day When the Mayflower moored below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim’s sleep Still brood upon the tide; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale, When the heavens looked dark, is gone,— As an angel’s wing through an opening cloud Is seen, and then withdrawn. The pilgrim exile,—sainted name! The hill whose icy brow Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning’s flame, In the morning’s flame burns now. And the moon’s cold light, as it lay that night On the hillside and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head,— But the Pilgrim! where is he? The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest: When summer’s throned on high, And the world’s warm breast is in verdure drest, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last. The Pilgrim spirit has not fled: It walks in noon’s broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars by night. It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And still guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more.