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- 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 roll'd that day,
- When the May_Flower moor'd below,
- When the sea around was black with storms,
- And white was the shore with snow.
- The mists, that wrapp'd 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 look'd 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- Is seen, and then withdrawn.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 hill-side 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 dress'd,
- Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
- The earliest ray of the golden day
- On that hallowed sport 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 shall guard this ice-bound shore,
- Till the waves of the bay, where the May-Flower lay,
- Shall foam and freeze no more.
- John Pierpoint
- STAND! the ground's your own, my braves!
- Will you give it up to slaves?
- Will ye look for greener graves?
- Hope ye mercy still?
- What's the mercy despots feel!
- Hear it in the battle peal!
- Read it on yon bristling steel!
- Ask it--ye who will.
- Fear ye foes who kill for hire!
- Will ye to your homes retire?
- Look behind you! they're afire!
- And, before you, see
- Who have done it!--From the vale
- On they come!--and will ye quail?--
- Leaden rain and iron hail
- Let their welcome be!
- In the God of battles trust!
- Die we may--and die we must:--
- But, O, where can dust to dust
- Be consign'd so well,
- As where heaven its dews shall shed
- On the martyr'd patriot's bed,
- And the rocks shall raise their head,
- Of his deeds to tell!
- John Pierpoint
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