°o ^ ft ° * # V ■%%&/ v^> v^y... ^ 4? striate' * * >**<£.s>'* •* * Oii O* r » «? ^, •sells* 4r ^& »yj§ A <> *• • /** °o ^V^ .~jii^&* ^6* ^^ i32> im OF THE PILGRIMS. WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY Rev. H. M. DEXTER, D.D, They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. EDITED BY M. D. BISBEE. C JAN 191888 // BOSTON AND CHICAGO: (Eongrcgattonal ^unttagsSrijool anfc ^ufalisfttng $odetg. 5 Copyright, 1887, by Congregational Sunday-School and Publishing Society. Electrotyped and Printed by Stanley <£• Usher, 7 71 Devonshire Street, Boston, Mass. PREFACE. "? \M My Dear Mr. Bisbee: — You ask me to preface, by a few words, your collection of Pilgrim verses. I am glad you have gathered them together, and I hope you will publish them. Some of them may be no great things looked at simply as fruits of the Muse, but they are all wholesome and well meant. Without exception, they have a good, strong, healthy savor, — like opening a drawer where thyme and other aromatics have been drying; and some of them have the rhythm of sweet music in them. Taken together, they are eminently worthy of preservation, as the most distinctively New England, of any collection of odes, songs, ballads, or whatever, which could be made. They all deserve kindly remembrance and a good place in our history, as some of them do in our poetry. With sincere affection, Faithfully yours, HENRY MARTYX DEXTER. CONTENTS. PAGE Preface. H. M. Dexter 3 Arrival at Cape Cod. Bradford's account 9 That Gray, Cold Christmas Day. Hezekiah Butterworth 13 Kobinson OF Leyden. 0. W. Holmes 16 The Embarkation. Lizzie Doten 19 Forefathers' Day. M. W. Chapman 23 The Liberty Song. Dickinson and Lee 24 The Mayflower, I. N. Tarbox 27 Plymouth and the Bay. I. N. Tarbox 30 The Pilgrims. Mrs. Sigoumey 32 Hymn. George Bussell 35 Clark's Island. Hersey B. Goodwin 37 The Pilgrim Fathers. Ebenezer Elliot 38 Forefathers' Day. A. L. Stone 40 Song. Alexander Scammel 44 A Fragment. Anne Bradstreet 45 Hymn. Mather Byles 46 Monday, 11-21 December, 1620. H. M. Dexter 47 From '• The Present Crisis." J.B.Lowell .. 53 Ode. Grenville Mellen 55 Hymn. Anonymous 58 Ode for the 22d of December. John Davis . 60 vi Contents. Hymn for the 22d of December. John Quincy Adams 63 From "The Present Crisis." J. B. Lowell.. 64 Hymn for the 22d of December, 1709. Anon- ymous 66 An Ode. F. B 67 The Pilgrims. H. W. Longfellow 69 The Sainted Sires. Anonymous 70 From u An Interview with Miles Standish." J. B. Lowell 71 From " Biglow Papers.'' J. B. Lowell 72 Hymn. Abiel Holmes 73 Song. Thomas Greene Fessenden 74 From " Biglow Papers. " J. B. Lowell 76 Song, December 22, 1807. JosephWarren Bracket 77 From "The Courtship of Miles Standish." H. W. Longfellow .... 81 On Her Mother. Anne Bradstreet 93 Two Hundred Years Ago. James Flint 94 Anniversary Stanzas. Anonymous 97 Albany Hymn, 1820. Anonymous 99 Ode for 22d December. Samuel Davis 100 Albany Hymn, 1S20. Anonymous 102 Haverhill Hymn, 1820. Anonymous 103 A Fragment. J. B. Lowell 104 The First Thanksgiving. /. N. Tarbox 105 The First Thanksgiving Day. Margaret J. Preston 108 Ode, John Pierpont 112 Contents. vii Hymn. William P. Lunt 114 The Twenty-second of December. William Cullen Bryant 116 Original Hymn. Thacldeus Mason Harris 117 The Price of a Little Pilgrim. Margaret J.Preston 118 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. Felicia Hemans 121 New England. J. G. Percival 123 The First Proclamation of Miles Stand- ish. Margaret J. Preston 125 The Pilgrims* Day. Anonymous 128 Ode. Bufus Dawes 129 The Pilgrim Fathers: an Ode. Charles Spragae 1.32 The Pilgrim Mothers. E. IF. Bobbins 13i3 Song of the Pilgrims. T. C. Upham 141 The Mayflower. Lord Houghton 142 Hymn. Samuel Deane 144 St. Botolph's Chimes. Margaret J. Preston.. 145 Anniversary Hymn. William S. Bussell 148 The Men of Plymouth. William B. Tappan. 149 For Forefathers' Day. Leonard Bacon 150 Ode. Samuel Oilman 151 Burial Hill. John Milton Holmes 153 The Pilgrim's Vision. Oliver Wendell Holmes 154 Hymn for 22d December. Anonymous 160 Burial Hill. Bay Palmer 161 The Mayflower. John G. Whittier 162 viii Contents. Fast Day Sport. Margaret J. Preston 164 The Puritan Maiden's May-day. Margaret J. Preston 167 Forefathers' Day. /. N. Tarbox 169 The Pilgrims. Sylvia Brown 177 Memory of our Fathers. Flint 179 The Mayflower on Xew England's Coast. Charles Hall 180 Memorial Hymn. Bay Palmer 182 Forefathers' Day. John D. Long 1S4 Hymn for 21 December, 1870. Nathaniel Spooner 186 Hymn. William T. Davis 1S7 Dedication of Hitchcock Library. I. N. Tarbox 188 The Boys' Redoubt. Margaret J, Preston 190 Forefathers' Day. Albert Bryant 193 The Spirit of Forefathers' Day. Annie A. Preston 194 Our Fathers. J. N. Tarbox 197 Forefathers' Day, 1883. Bay Palmer 198 Forefathers' Day. I. N. Tarbox 203 The Pilgrim Forefathers. H. II. 204 December 21st, 1620-1870. /. JV. Tarbox 207 Elder Fauxce at Plymouth Rock. Caro- line Prances Orne 211 First Landing of the Pilgrims. Bobert Sonthey 214 ARRIVAL AT CAPE COD. WILLIAM BRADFORD'S ACCOUNT. BEING thus arrived in a good harbor and brought safe to land, they fell upon their knees & blessed ye God of heaven, who bad brought them over ye vast & furious ocean, and delivered them from ye periles & miser- ies thereof, againe to set their feete on ye firme & stable earth, their proper elemente. And no marvell if they were thus joyefull, seeing wise Seneca was so affected with sail- ing a few miles on ye coast of his owne Italy; as he affirmed, that he had rather remaine twentie years on his way by land, than pass by sea to any place in a short time ; so tedious & dreadfull was ye same unto him. But hear I can not but stay and make a pause and stand half amased at this poore peoples presente condition ; and so I thinke will the reader too, when he well considers ye same. Being thus passed ye vast ocean, and a sea of troubles before in their preparation (as may be remembered by yt which wente before), they had now no friends to wellcome them, nor inns to entertaine or refresh their weatherbeaten bodys, no houses, or much less townes to repaire too, to seeke for succoure. It is recorded in Scripture as a mercie to ye apostle & his shipwrecked company, yt the barbarians shewed them no smale kindnes in refreshing them, but those savage barbarians, when they mette with them (as after will appeare) were readier to fill their sides full of arrows than otherwise. And for ye season, it was winter, and they that know ye winters of yt countrie know them 10 Arrival at Cape Cod. to be sharp & violent & subject to cruel & fierce storms, deangerous to travill to known places, but much more to serch an unknown coast. Besids, what could they see but a hidious & desolate wildernes full of wild beasts & wild men? and what multituds ther might be of them they knew not. Neither could they, as it were, goe up to ye tope of Pisgah, to vew from this wildernes a more goodly cuntrie to feed their hops; for which way soever they turned their eys (save upward to ye heavens) they could have little solace or content in respecte to any outward objects. For sumer being done, all things stand upon them with a weatherbeaten face; and ye whole cuntrie, full of woods & thickets, represented a wild & savage view. If they looked behind them, ther was ye mighty ocean which they had passed, and was now as maine barr and goulfe to separate them from all ye civill parts of ye world. If it be said they had a ship to succoure them, it is trew, but what heard they daly from ye Mr & company? but yt with Speade they should looke out a place with their shallop, wher they would be at some neare distance, for ye season was shuch, as he would not stirr from thence till a safe harbor was dis- covered by them wher they would, and he might goe with- out danger ; and that victells consumed apace, but he must & would keep sufficient for them selves & their returne. Yea, it was muttered by some that if they gott not a place in time, they would turne them & and their goods ashore & leave them. Let it also be considred what weakc hopes of supply . 1640.) PURITAN AND HIS LITTLE DAUGHTER SPEAK ON THEIR CHURCHWARD WAY. f~\ father, I wish I could go to church ^^ As we did in the dear old times, When we waited to hear the Sunday cheer Of St. Botolph's morning chimes ! 146 Songs of the Pilgrims, 'T was lovely to walk through the leafy lanes In the beautiful English May ; And I marvel now, as I think of it, how You ever could come away. I want to go back to my oaken seat, Where the great round oriel shed Its crimsons and blues and golden hues, All over my hands and head. As I watched their glory, the service seemed So holj 7 and rich and bright ! How tender the glow beside this snow, All sheeted and dead and white ! And the carbines, father ; they only hung, At home, in the great oak hall ; Here, we take them abroad to the house of God, Yet shiver with fear, for all ! Oh, to mix with the crowd in the dear old street, In safety and warmth and ease ! Oh, to wait for the swells of St. Botolph's bells, In Boston beyond the seas ! Nay, daughter ! . It irks my heart to hear Thee hanker as those of old, With tears on thy cheeks, for Egyptian leeks, Because thou art scared and cold. St. Botolph's Chimes. 147 Why, where is the hero-spirit, child? Thy mother forsook her Devon For an exile here, with a trust as clear As if she were going to heaven ! Yea, over thy face the oriel's glint Might shimmer with warming glow ; But for me the touch of the priestly clutch Was chiller than Shawmut's snow ! I 'm willing to fight for leave to pray, And wade with my carbine slung On my shoulder, and so all chimes forego St. Botolph hath ever i*ung, To carry thee thus to church to-day, As stoutly my strong arm can, And order my faith as my conscience saith, A free and a fearless man ! But, sweetheart, patiently thou must wait, For I dream of an end of pains, In which thou shalt walk in tender talk, Through better than English lanes, With comrades as kind as ever strayed Beside thee o'er Lincoln leas, Or listened betimes to St. Botolph's chimes, In Boston beyond the seas ! — Margaret J. Preston. 148 Songs of (he Pilgrims. ANNIVERSARY HYMN.i Tune : St. Martins. T O ! where of old the fathers dwelt, -^-^ From home and temples dear, And oft in prayer devoutly knelt, Their children would appear. And round thine altar, God of grace ! With reverent homage stand, Through ages past thy love to trace In this our favored land. By faith inspired with steadfast mind, To shun oppression's rage, The Pilgrims here their steps inclined, Bright heralds of their aoe. No golden mines their visions lured, No conqueror's pride was theirs ; The soul's pure worship once secured, Repays their generous cares. Here Freedom's sacred altars rose, Reared by the Pilgrim sires ; We '11 guard them still from threatening foes, And light anew their fires. 1 For the celebration 22 December, 1834. The Men of Plymouth. 149 Great God ! thine all-pervading sway, Each passing age controls. Oh, may thy grace illume our day, And ever cheer our souls ! — William S. Russell. THE MEN OF PLYMOUTH. i rp HESE are the iron men that broke -^- Ground, where the Indian's war-fire curled ; These spurned the princely, priestly yoke, These are the fathers of a world. O men of God's own image, say ! Can glorious men thus pass away ? No, never ! Send expansive sight ! From Labrador to Carib's Sea — That vision, so sublime and bright, Of regions teeming with the free, Shows but the influence of these men Who sought the sands of Plymouth then. 1 An extract from a loader poem. 1S36. 150 Songs of the Pilgrims. No, never ! Each traditional spot Tells where they wept, or sank to rest ; Yet were such silent, or forgot The place their Pilgrim footsteps pressed, Their names should live, nor Time would mock The record of the Plymouth Rock. — William B. Tappan. FOR FOREFATHERS' DAY. Tune : Old Hundred. f~\ God ! beneath thy guiding hand, ^^ Our exiled fathers crossed the sea ; And when they trod the wintry strand, With prayer and psalm they worshiped thee. Thou heard'st, well pleased, the song, the prayer, Thy blessing came ; and still its power Shall onward to all ages bear The memory of that holy hour. Ode. 151 What change ! Through pathless wilds no more The fierce and naked savage roams ; Sweet praise, along the cultured shore, Breaks from ten thousand happy homes. Lands, freedom, truth, and faith in God Came with those exiles o'er the waves ; And where their Pilgrim feet have trod, The God the}' trusted guards their graves. And here thy name, O God of love ! Their children's children shall adore, Till these eternal hills remove, And spring adorns the earth no more. — Leonard Bacon. ODE. 1\JEW ENGLAND ! receive the heart's trib- -^-^ ute that comes * From thine own Pilgrim sons far away. More fondly than ever our thoughts turn to thee, Upon this thine old festival day. We would rescue with social observance and song, 152 Songs of the Pilgrims. Awhile from oblivion's grave, The loved scenes of our youth, and those bless- ings recall Which our country and forefathers s;ave. Can distance efface, or can time ever dim Remembrances crowding like these? They have grown with our growth, and have ministered strength, As the roots send up life to the trees. Then be honored the day when the Mayflower came, And honored the charge that she bore, The stern, the religious, the glorious men, Whom she set on our rough native shore. New England, advance in thine onward career, With thine inborn, all-conquering will : Still triumph o'er nature's unkindiiest form By thine energy, patience, and skill. Thou shalt grow to thy height as thou ever hast grown, O'er the storms of ephemeral strife, And thy spirit, undying, shall cease not to be The deej} germ of a continent's life. — Samuel Oilman. Burial Hill. 153 BURIAL HILL. 1 rpHEY in storms of dark December, -^- Scions of a martyr stock, Praised the Lord for all his mercies, Kneeling there upon the rock. Praised him while the blast was roaring, While the surges smote the strand ; Praised him while their hearts were yearning With their love for fatherland. In the wilds of death they wrestled, Seeking what by faith they saw ; c ' Little matter what they died on — Beds of down, or locks of straw." Little recked they pain or peril, Ocean wave or scaffold block, They who bore the name of Pilgrim, They who built upon the rock. For afar they caught a vision — Morning merging into noon ; Snow-wreaths melting into blossoms, Dark December changed to June. John Milton Holmes. 1 From a longer poem. 1865. 154 Songs of the Pilgrims. THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 1 TN the hour of twilight shadows, "*- The Puritan looked out ; He thought of the " bloody savages 5 That lurked all round about Of Wituwamut's pictured knife, And Pecksvot's whooping shout ; For the baby's flesh was tender, Though his father's arms were stout. His home was a freezing cabin, Too bare for the hungry rat ; Its roof was thatched with ragged grass, And bald enough of that. The hole that served for casement Was glazed with an ancient hat ; And the ice was gently thawing From the log whereon he sat. Along the dreary landscape, His eyes went to and fro ; The trees all clad in icicles, The streams that did not flow. 1 For the Plymouth celebration, 22 December, 1846. The Pilgrim's Vision. 155 A sudden thought flashed o'er him — A dream of long ago — He smote his leathern jerkin, And murmured, " Even so ! " " Come hither, God-be-glorified, And sit upon my knee ; Behold the dream unfolding, Whereof I spake to thee By the winter's hearth, in Leyden, And on the stormy sea ; True is the dream's beginning, So may its ending be ! "I saw in the naked forest, Our scattered remnant cast ; A screen of shivering branches Between them and the blast ; The snow was falling round them, The dying fell as fast ; I looked to see them perish, When, lo ! the vision passed. u Again mine eyes were opened, The feeble had waxed strong ; The babes had grown to sturdy men, The remnant was a throng. 156 Songs of the Pilgrims. By shadowed lake and winding stream, And all the shores along, The howling demons quaked to hear The Christian's godly song. "They slept, the village fathers, By river, lake, and shore ; When, far adown the steep of time, The vision rose once more. I saw, along the winter snow, A spectral column pour ; And, high above their broken ranks, A tattered flag they bore. " Their leader rode before them, Of bearing calm and high ; The light of heaven's own kindling Throned in his awful eye. These were a nation's champions, Her dread appeal to try ; God for the right ! I faltered, And lo ! the train passed by. "Once more, the strife was ended, The solemn issue tried ; The Lord of hosts, his mighty arm Had helped our Israel's side. The Pilgrim's Vision. 157 Gray stone and grassy hillock Told where the martyrs died ; And peace was in the borders Of Victory's chosen bride. " A crash, as when some swollen cloud Cracks o'er the tangled trees ! With side to side, and spar to spar, Whose smoking decks are these ? I know St. George's blood-red cross, Thou Mistress of the seas, Bat who is she whose streaming bars Roll out before the breeze ? u Ah, well her iron ribs are knit, Whose thunders try to quell The bellowing throats, the blazing lips That pealed the Armada's knell ! The mist was cleared, a wreath of stars Rose o'er the crimsoned swell, And wavering from its haughty peak, The cross of England fell ! Ci Oh, trembling Faith! though dark the morn, A heavenly torch is thine ; While feebler races melt away And paler orbs decline, 158 Songs of the Pilgrims. Shall still the fiery pillar's ray Along thy pathway shine, To light the chosen tribe that sought This Western Palestine. "I see the living tide roll on, It crowns with flaming towers The icy cape of Labrador, The Spaniard's ' land of flowers.' It streams beyond the splintered ridge That parts the Northern shores, From Eastern rock to sunset wave The continent is ours ! " He ceased, the grim old Puritan, Then softly bent to cheer The Pilgrim child whose wasting face Was meekly turned to hear ; And drew his toil-worn sleeve across, To brush the manly tear From cheeks that never changed in woe, And never blanched in fear. The weary Pilgrim slumbers, His resting-place unknown ; His hands were crossed, his lids were closed, The dust was o'er him strewn. The Pilgrim's Vision. 159 The drifting soil, the moldering leaf, Along the sod were blown, His mound has melted into earth, His memory lives alone. So let it live unfading, The memory of the dead, Long as the pale anemone Springs where their tears were shed, Or raining in the summer's wind, In flakes of burning red, The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves The turf where once they bled ! Yea, wiien the frowning bulwarks That guard this holy strand Have sunk beneath the trampling surge In beds of sparkling sand, While in the waste of ocean One hoarv rock shall stand, i Be this its latest legend : Here was the Pilgrim's land. — Oliver Wendell Holmes. 160 Songs of the Pilgrims. HYMN FOE 22d DECEMBER. Tune : Lyons. A ROCK in the wilderness welcomed our -*--*- sires, From bondage far over the dark rolling sea ; On that holy altar they kindled the fires, Jehovah, which glow in our bosoms for thee ! Thy blessings descended in sunshine and shower, Or rose from the soil that was sown by thy hand ; The mountain and valley rejoiced in thy power, And heaven encircled and smiled on the land. The Pilgrims of old an example have given Of mild resignation, devotion, and love, Which beams like the star in the blue vault of heaven, A beacon-light hung in the mansions above. In church and cathedral we kneel in our prayer, Their temple and chapel were valley and hill ; But God is the same in the aisle or the air, And he is the Rock that we lean upon still. — Author Unknown. Burial Hill. 161 BURIAL HILL. 1 A H ! then all tenderly we thought, U-\- w e thought with pride and wonder, How — Freedom's price divinely taught — They stood unflinching yonder ; Though wintry dullness reigned around, And wintry winds were howling, Though only savage man was found, And savage beasts were prowling. Anew we felt their hopes and fears, When want and sickness wasted ; As through the lingering weary years, Of sorrow's cup they tasted. Grand souls ! that with heroic will The waves of trouble breasted ; Not e'en did women falter, till Beneath that turf they rested. For God, for truth, for man, they bore Loss, exile, grief, and danger ; As Christ, the Lord they loved, of yore Accepted earth's low manger. 1 A portion of a longer poem. 1865. 162 Songs of the Pilgrims. And there above their sacred dust Whose names shall never perish, We vowed their faith, a holy trust For all mankind, to cherish. God. who heard'st our prayer and song 'Neath heaven's high dome ascending, Bid us in thine own might be strong, For that pure faith contending. Oh, wake, ye sons of Pilgrim sires ! Go. live in power and beauty The life sublime their faith inspires ; Its watchword — God and duty ! — Say Palmer. THE MAYFLOWER. O AD Mayflower ! watched by winter stars ^ And nursed by winter gales, With petals of the sleeted spars, And leaves of frozen sails ! The Mayflower. 163 What had she in those dreary hours, Within her ice-rimmed bay, In common with the wildwood flowers, The first sweet smiles of May? Yet " God be praised ! " the Pilgrim said, Who saw the blossoms peer Above the brown leaves, dry and dead, " Behold our Mayflower here ! " " God wills it, here our rest shall be, Our years of wandering o'er, For us the Mayflower of the sea Shall spread her sails no more." O sacred flowers of faith and hope, As sweetly now as then Ye bloom on many a birchen slope, In many a pine-dark glen. Behind the sea-wall's rugged length, Unchanged, your leaves unfold Like love behind the manly strength Of the brave hearts of old. So live the fathers in their sons, Their sturdy faith be ours, And ours the love that overruns Its rocky strength with flowers. 164 Songs of the Pilgrims. The Pilgrims' wild and wintry day Its shadow round us draws ; The Mayflower of his stormy bay, Our Freedom's struggling cause. But warmer suns erelong shall bring To life the frozen sod ; And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring Afresh the flowers of God ! — John G. Wliittier. FAST DAY SPORT. (A.D. 1648.) GHAME, shame upon ye, godless lads, ^ To take your matchlocks down, And to the forest hie for game, When all the folk in town Were gathered in the meeting-house, In Sabbath garb arrayed, To fast and pray this solemn day, As Governor Winthrop bade ! Fast Day Sport. 165 Ye think, perchance, I failed to mark Some empty places there ; Nay, nay, I do my duty, lads, Though ye may mock and stare. I ween, despite your many smirks, When all is said and done, Ye '11 think the hare ye dangle there Was hardly worth the fun. I've copied fair your names, young sirs, Trespass, — one shilling nine, — And governor's grandsons though ye be, I wot ye '11 pay the fine ; It should be doubled for the sin Of such example set ; I 'm sorely sad a Boston lad So strangely could forget. Ye did not? ha ! the bold offence Was a deliberate one ? Ye meant to scout the Fast day, when Ye went with dog and gun ? Out on such worldly lawlessness ! Ye well deserve to be Left in the lurch with king and church In Suffolk by the sea ! 166 Songs of the Pilgrims, It ought to make the crimson shame Your braggart faces flood, When ye remember that your veins Are warm with AVinthrop blood ! Now had ye been Sir Harry's chicks, To do and dare with such Pert looks as send my hair on end, I had not cared so much. But Governor Winthrop's grandsons ! heigh ! How godless folk will prate ! He can not make his household keep The Fast day of the state ! Nay, do I hear aright? ye say He gave ye leave to go To-day and track (alack ! alack !) The rabbits through the snow ? Ye look so roguish, scarce I think Ye mean the word ye spake ; But since ye 've dared with bold affront The righteous law to break, Though evei* the governor's self forgot His bounden duty, mine Is clear ; ye '11 pay this very day Each farthing of your fine. — Margaret J, Preston. The Puritan Maiden's May-day, 167 THE PURITAN MAIDEN'S MAY-DAY. (A.D. 1686.) A H, well-a-day ! the grandams say ■^ . That they had merry times When they were young, and gayly rung The May-day morning chimes. Before the dark was gone, the lark Had left her grassy nest, And, soaring high, set all the sky Athrob from East to West ! The hawthorn bloom with rich perfume Was whitening English lanes, The dewy air was every-where Alive with May-day strains ; And laughing girls with tangled curls, And eyes that gleamed and glanced, And ruddy boys with mirth and noise Around the May-pole danced. Ah me ! the sight of such delight, The joy, the whirl, the din, Such merriment, such glad content — How could it be a sin ? 168 Songs of the Pilgrims, When children crowned the May-pole round With daisies from the sod, What was it, pray, but their child's way Of giving thanks to God ? The wild bee sups from buttercups The honey at the brim ; May I not take their buds and make A posy up for him ? If, as I pass knee-deep through grass This May-day cool and bright, And see away on Boston Bay The lines of shimmering light, I gather there great bunches fair Of mayflower as I roam, And with them round my forehead crowned, Go ladened with them home ; And then, if Bess and I should dress A May-pole with our wreath, And just for play, this holiday, Should dare to dance beneath, My father's brow would frown enow : " Child ! why hast thou a mind For popish clays and Romish ways, And lusts we 've left behind? " Forefathers' Day. 169 Our grandam says that her May-days, With mirth and song and flowers, And lilt of rhymes and village chimes, Were happier far than ours. If, as I ween, upon the green She danced with merry din, Yet lived to be the saint I see, How can I count it sin ? — Margaret J. Preston. FOREFATHERS' DAY. 1 rpHE wandering sun, ranging through south - -*- ern skies, Has touched his wintry solstice. O'er the north Fall the chill shadows, and the sick]y days, Tale -faced and wan, are quickly lost in night. From the cold heavens, through lonely midnight hours, The glittering stars look down on fields of ice, On plains and mountains wrapped in robes of snow. 1 Read at Boston Congregational Club Festival, December, 18S0. 170 Songs of the Pilgrims. Along the headlands of our rock-bound coast Tlie wild waves roll, and the hoarse murmurs break, Telling the lonely dwellers by the sea Of far-off winds and storms and tossing barks. Now is the midnight of our northern year. Nature has laid aside her flowery robes, And clothed herself in soberest attire. All sights and sounds, in earth and air and heaven, Recall those stern historic days of old When our brave Pilgrim sires, battling with waves, Struggling with icy winds and adverse fate, Made their rude entry on these western shores. Now, in our well-filled homes, by genial fires, We read the tale, — tell o'er the honored names, Those grand and simple names that can not die, And proudly trace our ancient lineage. We read the critics too, those sharp-eye;l men, Who search all precious ointments through and through, Not for the ointment's sake, to prove its worth, But, if so be, to find out and report Some smallest fly that may have lodged therein. Forefathers' Day. 171 Our Pilgrim critics are an ancient brood, Hovering about the rock from age to age, With nods portentous and with croaking voice. 'T is well to read these critics, well to know Their inmost thought, and follow where they lead. Guided by them and walking in their light, Let us now re-construct our Pilgrim sires, And show what men our fathers should have been. The Pilgrim Father should have been a man Who had no private prejudice to smother, Built on a large, expansive, liberal plan, To whom one thing were good as any other ; Who, had he lived, back when the race began, Would not have minded when Cain killed his brother ; A man so very round and full and pious As to be free from every shade of bias. He should have patronized with equal zeal Every adventurous and random rover ; Have freely shared his dear-bought common weal With every renegade that might come over ; 172 Songs of the Pilgrims, Ready to grant each wanderer's appeal, Whether he came from Holland, Dublin. Dover ; A man who held it strict impartiality Xot to distinguish virtue from rascality. Once here, our Pilgrim's first and foremost thought Ought to have been to please his Indian neigh- bor ; What though the cunning, lazy savage sought To gain his living without care or labor ; Still, our good Pilgrim ought not to have brought To this new world his musket and his saber ; It surely was not generous and good To frighten these poor children of the wood. They were the dwellers on this western soil Centuries before the Mayflower went a-cruis- ing; If they preferred to live exempt from toil, AVho had the right to hinder them from choos- ing? Or, if they forced their wives to slave and moil, Beating or killing any one refusing, The Pilgrim Father was a stranger here, What arrogance in him to interfere ! Forefathers' Day. 173 He should have landed on this western shore With less of Bible, and with more of science ; Bible is good, but had he pondered o'er What science taught, and made that his reli- ance, He could have reared, from his exhaustless store, An empire grand, to bid the world defiance ; Great pity that with chances so prodigious He should have been a trifle too religious. Given, just scientific lore enough Simply to analyze that famous bowlder Called Plymouth Rock, where " breaking waves dashed " — rough — That rock which thrills with awe each new beholder ; Given, the mica, quartz, and other stuff Employed and used by the primeval molder To forge, by aid of underground caloric, That marvelous rock now grown to be historic ; Given, the power to tell, like modern sages, Somewhere within five hundred thousand years How old that bowlder is, and what the stages By which it journeyed to these Plymouth piers, 174 Songs of the Pilgrims. To trace its starting-point in by-gone ages. And show how easy every thing appears, — Items like these are solid information. Well fitted to build up a mighty nation. Bat we go prating on about this rock. Its mental, moral, and religious uses : We treat it like some huge aesthetic block, "Whose very name to boundless good conduces : We feel a kind of sentimental shock When any scoffer offers his abuses : From sixteen hundred twenty to this day. The rock has served in this peculiar way. Here endeth the first lesson. Turn the page And we may find all freshly spread before us The counter-charges of a later age. Which may. by contrast, comfort and restore us; Critics in war with critics will engage Long as the centuries go rolling o'er us : If we could tarry till their strife were ended. Our Pilgrim sires would surely be defended. These counter-charges which we have in hand Seem, in their contrasts, just a little funny. The Pilgrims, now. are not a pious band : Thev came, it seems, intent on making monev. Forefathers' Day. 175 They fancied that this rough New England land Might prove to them a land of milk and honey ; And so they ventured o'er a stormy ocean To pay at Mammon's shrine their pure devotion. They were a wandering clan that could not rest Or live contented in their own condition ; And when they left their ancient English nest, They only showed their restless disposition ; Ready to journey east or journey west Upon their money-making expedition, They tried old Holland, and, ignobly failing, Away to Plymouth Rock they went a-sailing. But know ye well, O critics, ye spend your strength for nought ; All harmless fall the weapons your cunning hands have wrought ; The men ye seek to injure have reached a height sublime, Whereon they sit secure against the accidents of time : The rolling years have tried them, the centuries have passed, And clothed them with a glory that shall forever last. 176 Songs of the Pilgrims. The wandering birds that fly afar are wise to know their hour ; Seeking the fields of upper air and thwarting human power, They voyage on unguided by compass or by chart Along these clear and azure heights, safe from the hunter's dart ; A law they know not moves them straight to their distant nest, Unerringly they journey and find their promised rest. So the old patriarchs journeyed, moved by the call of God, Earth's wanderers, unknowing the pathway which they trod : And so the Pilgrims journeyed, leaving their native land, Going they knew not whither by some divine command ; With faith and loving patience they trod their weary way, And so their names stand glorified before our eyes to-day. The Pilgrims. 177 The best and purest wisdom is wisdom of the heart Untouched by human cunning, unstained by earthly art ; He that by craft will save his life shall lose it at the end ; He that will lose his life shall find an everlasting friend : God has his chosen children, his favorites on the earth, Raised oat of toil and sorrow by an immortal birth. — Increase N. Tarbox. THE PILGRIMS. /~\NCE a handful, brave and daring ^-^ As young eagles from their nest, Sought for human right and freedom Over ocean's foaming crest. Giving friendship, love, and kindred. All the sacred worth of tears, Giving God their faith as treasure, Stored for all the coming years. 178 So7igs of the Pilgrims. iC God and Freedom," was the watchword Of that noble Pilgrim band, And God led them to that freedom By his own almighty hand. Rocked by cold winds, lashed by billows, Plunging where the white waves seethe, He who rules the tempest guides them, His strong arm is underneath. O'er that ship an angel hovered As the stormy voyage ran ; Caught the tears of suffering woman, Heard the sighs of suffering man. Round that ship a glory lingers, Sailing on from year to year ; Round its masts bright rainbows circle, Caught from every sacred tear. Not the Rock alone is holy, Where their chrismal prayer was made, For the hand of God, in blessing, Over all the land was laid. Though the Pilgrim Fathers slumber, Still their spirits are not dead ; Far beyond the inland rivers Now their children's children tread. Memory of our Fathers. 179 Now a nation calls them blessed, For the freedom which they bought, And the world has been made better For their lesson, nobly taught. Hope, O Christian, through all trials ; Through life's tempests on the way ; Hearts will bless you on the morrow, For your triumphs yesterday. Like the sword of Standish, bearing Only God's grand message, " Peace," Spreading love among the nations Until wars and tumults cease. — Sylvia Broivn. MEMORY OF OUR FATHERS. TN pleasant lands have fallen the lines -*- That bound our goodly heritage, And safe beneath our sheltering vines Our youth is blest, and soothed our age. What thanks, O God, to thee are due, That thou didst plant our fathers here ; And watch and guard them as they grew, A vineyard to the Planter dear. 180 Songs of the Pilgrims. The toils they bore our ease have wrought ; They sowed in tears — in joy we reap ; The birthright they so clearly bought We '11 guard, till we with them shall sleep. Thy kindness to our fathers shown In weal and woe through all the past, Their grateful sons, O God, shall own, While here their name and race shall last. —Flint. THE MAYFLOWER ON NEW ENG- LAND'S COAST. r I TEE Mayflower on New England's coast has -^- furled her tattered sail, And through her chafed and moaning shrouds December's breezes wail ; Yet on their icy deck behold a meek but daunt- less band, Who, for the right to worship God, have left their native land ; And to this dreary wilderness this glorious boon they bring — A church without a bishop, and a state ivithout a king I The Mayflower on New England's Coast. 181 Those daring men, those gentle wives, say, wherefore do they come ? Why rend they all the tender ties of kindred and of home? 'T is heaven assigns their noble work, man's spirit to unbind : They come not for themselves alone, they come for all mankind ; And to the empire of the West this glorious boon they bring — A church without a bishop , and a state without a king I Then prince and prelate, hope no more to bend them to your sway ; Devotion's fire inflames their breasts while free- dom points their way ; And in their brave heart's estimate, 't were bet- ter not to be Than quail beneath a despot where the soul can not be free ; And therefore o'er a wintry wave those exiles come to bring A church without a bishop, and a state without a king ! 182 Songs of the Pilgrims. And still their spirit, in their sons, with freedom walks abroad ; The Bible is our only creed, our only sovereign, God! The hand is raised, the word is spoke, the joyful pledge is given, And boldly on our banner floats, in the free air of heaven, That motto of our sainted sires, and loud we '11 make it ring : A church without a bishop, and a state ivithout a king I — Charles Hall. MEMORIAL HYMN. 1 TT^IRM as the rock beneath their feet, ~^- The saintly Pilgrims stood ; On thee, O God, their trust was stayed, Thy voice their steadfast souls obeyed, And thou didst answer when they prayed Beside the wintry flood ; Didst give them strength in faith sublime To work the noblest work of time ! 1 Written for, and sting at, the memorial celebration in Bos- ton, 21 December, 1870. Memorial Hymn. 183 To-day by centuries we count The slowly measured years ; And lo ! wide o'er a smiling land Fair homes and sacred temples stand ; Where frowned rude wastes and forests grand, A peopled realm appears ; O'er hills and plains, from sea to sea, Sweep thronging millions of the free ! Tears for the days of deadly strife ; Tears for the young and brave, Who, fired by freedom's battle-cry, Flung broad her banner to the sky, Content on gory fields to lie, That they her home might save ; That chains from every hand might fall, And love's wide arms encircle all ! As thou didst hear, O faithful God, The prayer our fathers said, So hear us while, like them, to thee We for our children bend the knee ; Let them to distant ages be As if the Pilgrims, dead, In them did wake and live again ; Their shields the shields of mighty men ! 184 Songs of the Pilgrims. O Christ ! be thine the Pilgrims' land ! Reign thou from shore to shore ; Here let thy Church, beneath thy sway, Grow fairer till her bridal clay, When thou shalt come in glad array — Her Lord — as mountains o'er, In splendor robed, the morning sun Ascends his flaming course to run ! Praise God ! praise him who changeth not ! Our fathers' God and ours ; To thee our thankful praise we bring, Ancient of days ! Our glorious king ! Let earth and heaven together sing A^ith all their raptured powers, Till listening stars shall catch the strain, And shout the chorus back again ! — Ray Palmer. FOREFATHERS' DAY. 1 A LMIGHTY God ! to thee we raise -*--*- Our hymn of thankfulness and praise, Within the hollow of whose hand The Pilgrim sought his promised land ! 1 For the celebration of 1882. Forefathers' Day. 185 Not the rich pastures of the vine, Flowing with honey, milk, and wine, But bleak shores sought by storm and sea, Their rude, sole welcome — Thou art free! With corn he wooed the sullen soil, But more with learning, home, and toil ; Till now no vineyard of the sun Blooms like the wilderness he won. Inspired by faith, in purpose great, He steadfast set his Church and State, Made them to stand 'gainst flood and shock, For both he built upon the rock. One taught — to God and conscience true — More light to seek the right to do ; The other broadened to the span Of man's equality with man. Children of fathers such as he, Be ours the true nobility ! Lords of the realm, they served its growth ; To serve be still the freeman's oath. — John D. Long. 186 Songs of the Pilgrims. HYMN FOR 21 DECEMBER, 1870. n REAT God of all! in humble, grateful ^-^ prayer We come before thee now on bended knee, And thank thee that thou didst our fathers spare From the wild dangers of a wintry sea. We thank thee that, when dangers greater far Encompassed them, that brave hearts might appall, Thou didst support them, and didst let the star Of hope shine on their hearts and strengthen all. And we, their children, on this joyous clay, No longer peril-driven or tempest-tossed, Approach thy throne in thankfulness, and pray Our fathers' bright examples be not lost. May we, like them, have strength and courage given, Bear bravely up e'en though we feel the rod ; Know that a life wed spent leads on to heaven, And duties' paths are but the paths to God. — Nathaniel Spooner. Hymn. 187 HYMN. 1 npO Thee, God ! whose guiding hand -*- Our fathers led across the sea, And brought them to this barren shore, Where they might freely worship thee ; To thee, O God ! whose arm sustained Their footsteps in this desert land, Where sickness lurked and death assailed, And foes beset on every hand ; To thee, O God ! we lift our eyes ; To thee our grateful voices raise, And, kneeling at thy gracious throne, Devoutly join in hymns of praise. Our fathers' God ! incline thine ear, And listen to our heartfelt prayer ; Surround us with thy heavenly grace, And guard us with thy constant care. Our fathers' God ! in thee we '11 trust ; Sheltered by thee from every harm, We '11 follow where thy hand shall guide, And lean on thy sustaining arm. — William T. Davis. 1 Sung at Plymouth at the 250th anniversary, 21 December, 1870. 188 Songs of the Pilgrims. DEDICATION OF HITCHCOCK LIBRARY. (December 21, 1874.) I. /^ OD of oar Pilgrim sires, to thee ^^ All might and majesty belong ; Before thy face we bow the knee, And lift aloud our grateful song. By thy strong arm the Pilgrim band AVere kept in all their stormy way Until they trod this goodly land And gave to us this happy day. We bring our gift before thy throne, This labor which our hands have wrought, And consecrate to thee alone This treasure-house of sacred thought. Choicer than gold though thrice refined, Or all the gems that ocean rolls, Are these fair riches of the mind, This garnered wealth of holv souls. God of our sires, still let that grace, That strength, which made the fathers bold Descend upon the Pilgrim race, As coming years shall be unrolled. Dedication of Hitchcock Library. 189 ii. We sing our gladsome hymn of praise, And bless our fathers' God, While we recount the former days, And trace the pathway trod. How many hearts this hope has filled, The living and the dead ! How many hands have wrought to build This temple where we tread ! But one our warmest praise demands, His gift we here recall, By whom this finished structure stands, Whose name adorns our hall. He gave, and passed from earth away To his unseen employ E'er he could see this crowning day, Or share our festive joy. But here, embalmed, his gift shall last, His substance shall endure ; And as the rolling years go past, His heritage is sure. — Increase N. Tarbox. 190 Songs of the Pilgrims. THE BOYS' REDOUBT. (October, 1775.) T~N continental buff-and-blue, -^ AVith lappets richly laced, Beneath the shade the elm-trees made, A martial figure paced. Along the sluggish Charles's banks He bent at length his way, Just as the gun, at set of sun, Went booming o'er the bay. His soul was racked with doubt and strife, Despondence gloomed his eye ; He needs must bear his weight of care Out to the open sky. The breeze that flapped his soldier's cloak. The woods so broad and dim, The tides whose sway no bonds could stay, All seemed so free to him ! Yet the young nation that had wrung, Beyond the angry seas, From savage grace a refuge-place To pray as they might please, The Boys' Redoubt. 191 Must it be hounded from its haunts ? Be fettered at the stake ? Be forced again to wear the chain It risked its all to break ? His step grew heavier with the thought, His lips less firm were set ; It could not be that such as he Must yield ! and yet — and yet — How could they even hope to win A single fight in lack Of every thing, while England's king- Had Europe at his back? Thus musing sad beside the Charles, He saw the Cambridge boys, An eager band, pile up the sand With roar of riot noise. ct Ha ! lads, what do you here?" he said, Arrested by their shout. " What do we here? why, give us cheer ; We 're building a redoubt ! " Who knows how soon Lord Howe may come, And all his lion cubs, With growls and snarls, straight up the Charles, In his old British tubs ? 192 Songs of the Pilgrims. " And creeping from them in the dark, As quiet as a mouse, Now what if they should snatch away, Right out of Vassal House t; Our new-made chief, before a man Has leave to fire a gun ? That ends it ! for there '11 be no war Without a Washington ! " Our fathers' hands are filled with work ; Besides, they 're grieving still For Warren and the gallant band That fell at Bunker Hill. "So we will help them as we can ; You wear the burT-and-blue ; Yet we aver that we 're ready, sir. To fight as well as you. " May be you 're on the general's staff ; Then say we Cambridge boys Will yell and shout from our redoubt With such a savage noise tc That all the vessels in the bay Will hear the wild uproar And swear again that Prescott's men Are lining all the shore ! " Forefathers' Day. 193 44 Brave lads ! " the soldier said, and raised The cap that hid his brow ; 44 Some day, some day, I '11 surely pay The debt I owe you now ! "Your high, heroic, mettled hearts, Your faith that wavers not, To me are more than cannon's store, Or tons of shell and shot. 14 What people ever fails to gain The patriot's dearest prize, When 4 die or win ' is blazing in The very children's eyes ? Cw No need to bear the general word Of tasks so rich in cheer ; He makes his due salute to you — You see the General here 1 " — Margaret J. Preston. FOREFATHERS' DAY. /~\N this low rock beside the bay, ^^ With lonely woods and waters round, The steps once heard at break of day Fill every village with their sound. 194 Songs of the Pilgrims. Again we tell how great the deed Of those who here their journey stayed, And, building cabins for their need, Foundations of an empire laid. We see again, to these wild shores, Their vessel sail the path of light, And hail the morning's golden floors Above the winter and the night. In God their dwelling-place they made ; They toiled supremely him to please ; So, ever in their toil they prayed, And built this nation on their knees. — Albert Bryant. THE SPIRIT OF FOREFATHERS' DAY. FAITH ROBINSON. fTTHEY called her Faith, this winsome baby J- girl, With soft blue eyes and cheek of rose and pearl, Born in old Holland, where the Pilgrims stayed Until the Mayflower frail her anchor weighed For the strange country far across the sea, Where faith in God taught them their home should be. The Spirit of Forefathers' Day. 105 " Faith is a comfort, both in word and deed, A gift from heaven ; " in this they all agreed. " Whether on sea or land, she has the grace Of golden sunshine in a gloomy place." The years flew by, and Faith grew brave and tall, A comfort still was this sweet maid to all. Whate'er perplexed them she was wont to say : " The Bible tells us in such times to pray." One year no rain fell. All the fields were dry. " The corn and grass and sheep will surely die, And when the winter comes, ah, sorry day ! " " Why, grandsire dear, the people all must pray. " I '11 call them now, from house to house I '11 go ; They '11 come, I'm sure, if we but let them know At four o'clock, on Deacon Fuller's hill, We '11 pray for rain enough to turn the mill ; For some there are now almost out of bread." These were the words the little maiden said. The people came ; the sky was hot and clear, No breath of rain nor sign of cloud was near ; They climbed the hill with faces worn and sad ; Faith followed singing like a birdling glad. To her granddame and mother straight she came. 196 Songs of the Pilgrims. U I went," said she, 44 to fetch these for the rain," — She 'd brought a cloak, and blankets two had she, — 44 These are for you, the cloak will cover me." 44 Faith is a comfort ! " all the women said. "Such faith!" the elder sighed and bowed his head. The people lingered long upon their knees With prayers and sobs. A shiver stirred the trees, The air grew cool, the sun was clouded in. 44 The want of faith in us is deadly sin," The deacon said. 44 Let us not err again ! " Then patter, patter came the welcome rain. That was the spirit of Forefathers' Day. 44 Give it to us," let all the children pray ; 4 "Lord, give us faith and keep us pure and strong, Help us to serve the right, to right the wrong. Oh, make us worthy of those Pilgrim sires Who prayed for us about their first camp-fires, While wintry skies bent o'er them cold and gray." In faith they prayed — that made Forefathers' Day. — Annie A. Preston. Our Fathers. 197 OUR FATHERS. \ ITE own that guiding hand, * * Which, in the years of old, Led to this chosen land Our fathers, firm and bold, Brought them across the stormy sea, To build this empire of the free. They came with faith in God, They came with faith in man ; On this fresh virgin sod To try their untried plan ; To give this realm of freedom birth And shed new light around the earth. Soon as our godly sires These new-found shores had trod, They lit their altar-fires And claimed the land for God ; They filled the forest shades with light, And turned to day the savage night. — Increase N. Tarbox. 198 . Songs of the Pilgrims, FOREFATHERS' DAY, 1883. THE EVERLASTING REMEMBRANCE. "TTTHY die ye not? Ye men of God, * * Ye women saintly, who beside Husband and brother fearless trod Where Plymouth Rock the sea defied ! Where'er I turn my eyes, behold Change ruleth all things ; dull decay Treads on the heels of life ; and cold In the still tomb forever laid, The best and loveliest of to-day. The noblest in God's image made, To-morrow straight have passed away ! Where Art has reared her massive towers Storied with names renowned of yore, Crumbled by Time's slow-wasting powers, Lie heaps of moss-grown ruins hoar ; And Thebes and Athens all too well The tale of perished grandeurs tell. Warriors of might and monarchs proud, Before whom trembling nations bowed, Whose dust grand mausoleums keep, In dark oblivion silent sleep, Yet live ye on ; your praises found On reverent lips the world around. Forefathers' Day, 1883. 199 So, as in thoughtful mood I stood Where Burial Hill o'erlooks the tide, Came visions of the great and good Who bravely lived and nobly died ; Who, dauntless, to this lonely strand God's holy ark of freedom bore ; Self-exiled from that motherland Whose shores their eyes should greet no more, Firm as the rock on which they trod, In faith sublime and purpose high, For unborn ages and for God, They dared to suffer and to die. Beneath thy turf, O sacred hill, Their canopy the changeful sky, They sleep while years their circuits fill, And the slow centuries go by ; Nor mind they wintry tempests more, Nor heed the angry ocean's roar ; But ever o'er that peaceful sleep Their faithful watch the angels keep. Illustrious band ! whose future then In God's deep counsels hidden lay, Ye faltered not, but followed, when Through deepest darkness led the way * 200 Songs of the Pilgrims. A way of anguish though it seemed, Yet, heaven inspired, ye hoped ; and dreamed That on, beyond that dismal gloom, Should rise at last a joyous morn, When the waste wilderness should bloom, And children's children, freemen born, Should throng in countless millions o'er The vast expanse from shore to shore ; When, for the savage yell and knife, Should come just laws and cultured life ; And cities rise with spire and dome, The marts of commerce and the home Of men whom loftiest thoughts inspire, Born of religion's heavenly fire ; Where none would quench the sacred flame Of freedom, none consent to bear, On mind or hand enchained, the shame Which only the debased can wear. Oh ! if from these calm skies to-day, The mighty voice of God should say : u Ye sleepers, wake ! To life arise, Ye great in soul ! Ye nobly good ! Stand up as when of old ye stood, And with clear vision lift your eyes ! " Forefathers' Day, 1883. 201 As ye again to life should start, The same in mind, in thought, in heart, As when, o'erborne with ills, ye gave Your wasted bodies to the grave ; Ah ! on those eyes at once awake From death's long sleep, what wonders break ! Behold what then ye dreamed ! Ye wept With sickness, care and sorrow worn, With hopes and fears alternate torn, As near yon Rock your watch ye kept. To-day, as here ye stand, once more Before you the same surf -beat shore, Above" you the same heavens and sun Which saw your glorious work begun ; Ye look, — O bliss without alloy, — Ye weep again, but now for joy ! The griefs that in your Pilgrim years Wrung from the bravest many a sigh ; That wet uplifted eyes with tears, When none could help save God on high, Seem troubled visions of the night That vanished with the morning light. Beyond your dreams, your hopes, your thought, Lo ! what God's faithful love hath wrought ! 202 Songs of the Pilgrims. Before your raptured eyes ye see A refuge for the world's opprest ; A noble empire strong and free, Where the poor exile finds his rest ; Land of all lands most richly blest ! Ye can not die ! Around your names The splendor of true glory flames ; That glory, matchless and sublime, Not bought with blood, not stained with crime, O'er the wide world its radiance throws, And, all undimmed by change or time, On through the ages brighter glows ! As from fresh beds of flowers at morn Perfumes are breathed that fill the air ; That on the genial breezes borne, Bear grateful sweetness every-where, So from this soil ye wet with tears, Where wrestled faith through lingering years, Forces divine have silent sprung, Whose influence, like sweet odors flung O'er distant realms, hath kindly wrought, Hath quickened life and hope and thought, Made glad humanity, and broke Cold tyranny's dread, hateful yoke, Forefathers' Day. 203 With truths by God's own wisdom taught. Goodness and truth, with God allied, As his eternal throne abide ! The glory won by guilt shall fade ; Its proud memorials turn to dust ; But fresh, immortal, undecayed, Shall live the glory of the just ! — Ray Palmer. FOREFATHERS' DAY. PORTUGUESE HYMN. /^\H, strong is our God in the might of his ^S sway, He speaks, and the seas and the tempests obey ; He guides the frail bark on its perilous path, And holds back the surges that break in their wrath. Oh, strong is our God, for he casteth down kings, But broods o'er the humble with sheltering wings ; He shames and dishonors the pride of the throne, But lifts up the lowly and makes them his own. 204 Songs of the Pilgrims. Oh, strong is our God, for this realm of the west He guarded and kept for a refuge and rest, He gave to our fathers these fountains and rills, The wealth of the valleys and strength of the hills. Oh, strong is our God, and what song shall unfold The wonders he wrought for our fathers of old ? Through sorrow and gladness, in sunshine and storm, Their faith still beheld his invisible form. Oh, strong is our God, and the nations are strong That bow in his temples with worship and song ; The fear of the Lord is the strength of the state, And blest are the men at his altars who wait. — Increase N. Tarbox. THE PILGRIM FOREFATHERS. 'HVTEATH hoary moss on crumbling stones -^^ Their names are fading day by day ; The fashions of their lives and speech From sight and sound have passed away. The Pilgrim Forefathers. 205 The shores they found so bleak, so bare, Shine now with riches gay and proud ; And we, light-hearted, dance on ground Where they in anguish wept and bowed. Unto the faith they bought so dear, We pay each day less reverent heed ; And boast, perhaps, that we outgrow The narrowness which marked their creed, A shallow boast of thankless hearts, In evil generation born ; By side of those old Pilgrim men The ages shall hold us in scorn. Find me the men on earth who care Enough for faith or creed to-day, To seek a barren wilderness For simple liberty to pray ; Men who for simple sake of God All titles, riches, would refuse, And in their stead, disgrace and shame And bitter poverty would choose. We find them not. Alas ! the age, In all its light, hath blinder grown ; In all its plenty, starves because It seeks to live by bread alone. 206 Songs of the Pilgrims. We owe them all we have of good : Our sunny skies, our fertile fields ; Our freedom, which to all oppressed A continent of refuge yields. And what we have of ill, of shame, Our broken word, our greed for gold, Our reckless schemes and treacheries, In which men's souls are bought and sold, — All these have come because we left The paths that these forefathers trod ; The simple, single-hearted ways In which they feared and worshiped God. Despise their name and creed who will ! Pity their poverty who dare ! Their lives knew joys, their lives wore crowns We do not know, we can not wear. And if so be that it is saved, Our poor republic, stained and bruised, 'Twill be because we lay again Their corner-stones ivhich ive refused. — H. H. December 21st, 1620-1870. 207 DECEMBER 21st, 1620-1870. ~T7"E children of New England, -*- Wherever ye may be, Whether ye keep the ancient homes Down by the ancient sea ; Treading the rocky pathways Your fathers trod before, Hearing the wild Atlantic break Along her stormy shore ; Or if afar ye wander O'er the prairies of the west, Or down the wide Pacific slopes, Your weary footsteps rest : Come, listen to my story, The grand ancestral lay, Which, as the world grows older, Grows newer every day ; Which touches men with pity, And touches men with pride, In the memory of those noble souls, For God who lived and died. 208 Songs of the Pilgrims. This is no play of fancy To catch a listless ear ; No strange and shadowy legend For idle minds to hear ; Xo tale of love and sorrow To rob the eye of sleep. O'er which pale sickly maidens May weep and read and weep. 'T is a tale of faith and patience, And a tale of cruel wrong, When the good to earth were trampled By the haughty and the strong ; The brave, heroic Pilgrims Could find no place of rest Save o'er the stormy ocean, In the forests of the west. Behold these storm-tost Pilgrims On a rough and barren shore ; With the sounding sea behind them, And the wilderness before ; Hungry and cold they house them In their dwellings rude and low, While the night winds howl around them With their drifting clouds of snow. December 21st, 1620-1870. 209 In these nights of care and watching, Long nights unblest with sleep, What strange, fantastic terrors Over the spirits creep ! Out from these unknown forests Come stealing on the ear, Weird and mysterious voices, That chill the soul with fear. Oh, the terrors of that winter, When men sickened day by day, And one by one, as weeks rolled on, They dropped and passed away ! There was no harsh and murmuring voice, No sad, complaining cry, But silently they heard the call And laid them down to die. Meekly as to the slaughter The patient lamb is led, Meekly before the shearers As the sheep bows down her head, So bowed these humble Pilgrims Before the chastening rod, And opened not their mouth to doubt The goodness of their God. 210 Songs of the Pilgrims. Strong men and gentle women, The maiden in her bloom, The little child, the gray-haired sire, Slept in their hill-side tomb ; They were buried there in darkness, And the living smoothed their bed, That the fierce savage might not tell The number of the dead. And when the genial sun came back, And these dark months were o'er, When through the budding forests The soft winds blew once more, Half of their number could not feel Its sweet reviving breath, — They slept upon the burial hill The icy sleep of death. But these days of fiery trial, Of scorn and hate, are o'er, And now these grand old Pilgrim sires Shall live to die no more ; Men kindle at their virtues, They tell with swelling pride The story of those men of old, For God who lived and died. Elder Faunce at Plymouth Bock. 211 And as the years roll onward, Through the ages yet to be, As wider grows and wider This empire of the free, Grander shall grow the story Of those men, true and tried, Those noble and heroic souls, For God who lived and died. — Increase N. Tarbox. ELDER FAUNCE AT PLYMOUTH ROCK. A N old, old man ! -^-^- His hair is white as snow, His feeble footsteps slow, And the light of his eyes grown dim. An old, old man ! Yet they bow with reverence low, With respect they wait on him. They gather at his side, And in his way they throng : Greet him with love and pride The aged and the young. 212 Songs of the Pilgrims. And the children leave their play As he passes on his way, And afar off they follow This old, old man. He has gone down to the rock, He is lying by the shore ; He hath silent sate him down ; And the young man, whose strong arm Hath shielded him from harm, Will not disturb the dream That his spirit hovers o'er ; And the gathered throng beside him Group him on the shore. Long he sits in silence, The old, old man ; While the waves with silvery reach Go curling up the beach, Or dash against the rocks in spray — The huge rocks bedded deep At the base of the proud steep, Where the green ridge of Manomet Grandly rises far away. All the air is still, And every distant hill Its summit veils in soft, misty blue ; Elder Faunce at Plymcuth Rock, 213 Across the wide-spread bay, Five-and-twenty miles away, The white cliffs of Cape Cod hang in air, As some mysterious hand, Or enchanter's lifted wand, Had suspended them, and charmed them there ; And o'er all the waters wide, And the hills in summer pride, And the islands in the bay that rise, And over Saquish Head And the Gurnet's breakers dread, The mild, soft sunlight like a blessing lies. The old man's eyes grow bright With the light of by-gone days ; His voice is strong and clear, His form no more is bowed, He stands erect and proud, And, dashing from his eye the indignant tear, He turns him to the crowd that wait expectant near, And reverent on him gaze ; For they know that he has walked In all the Pilgrim ways. 214 Songs of the Pilgrims. " Mark it well ! " he cries, "Mark it well! This rock on which we stand : For here the honored feet Of our fathers' exiled band Pressed the land ; And not the wide, wide world, Not either hemisphere, Has a spot in its domain To freedom half so clear ! " — Caroline Frances Orne. FIRST LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. T^vAYS pass, winds veer, and favoring skies -*^^ Change like the face of fortune ; storms arise ; Safely, but not within her port desired, The good ship lies. Where the long sandy cape Bends and embraces round, As with a lover's arm, the sheltered sea, A haven she hath found From adverse gales and boisterous billows free. First Landing of the Pilgrims. 215 Now strike your sails, Ye toil-worn mariners, and take your rest Long as the tierce north-west In that wild fit prevails, Tossing the waves uptorn with frantic sway. Keep ye within the bay, Contented to delay Your course till the elemental madness cease, And heaven and ocean are again at peace. How gladly there, Sick of the uncomfortable ocean, The impatient passengers approach the shore ; Escaping from the sense of endless motion, To feel firm earth beneath their feet once more, To breathe again the air With taint of bilge and cordage undefiled, And drink of living springs, if there they may, And with fresh fruits and wholesome food repair Their spirits, weary of the watery way. And oh ! How beautiful The things on earth appear To eyes that far and near For many a week have seen Only the circle of the restless sea ! 216 Songs of the Pilgrims. With what a fresh delight They gaze again on fields and forests green, Hovel, or whatsoe'er May bear the trace of man's industrious hand ! How grateful to their sight The shore of shelving sand, As the light boat moves joyfully to land ! Woods they behold, and huts, and piles of wood, And many a trace of toil, But not green fields or pastures. 'Twas a land Of pines and sand ; Dark pines that from the loose and sparkling soil Rose in their strength aspiring : far and wide They sent their searching roots on every side, And thus, by depth and long extension, found Firm hold and grasp within that treacherous ground : So had they risen and flourished, till the earth, Unstable as its neighboring ocean there, Like an unnatural mother, heaped around Their trunks its wavy furrows white and high, And stifled thus the living things it bore. Half -buried thus they stand, Their summits sere and dry, First Landing of the Pilgrims. 217 Marking like monuments the funeral mound ; As when the masts of some tall vessel show Where, on the fatal shoals, the wreck lies whelmed below. — Robert Southey. C 32 89 ->«■ .♦ y\ vse** /% 4°. 1? ^4» • * •** SP °