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Thy silent and secluded hours
Thro' many a lonely day,
With spirit far away ;
Who fought on Syrian plains,
These fill no minstrel strains.
A still, sad life was thine !--long years
With tasks unguerdon’d fraught,
Vigils of anxious thought ;
Alms to the pilgrim given--
In that lone path to heaven!
THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM
FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND.
Look now abroad-another race has fillid
Those populous borders—wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilld; The land is full of harvests and green meads.
The breaking waves dash'd high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches toss'd ;
And the heavy night hung dark,
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moor’d their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted came;
And the trumpet that sings of fame :
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear ;
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard and the sea !
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free.
The ocean-eagle soar'd
From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd
This was their welcome home!
There were men with hoary hair,
Amidst that pilgrim band ;-
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar ?
Bright jewels of the mine?
They sought a faith's pure shrine !
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod!
Freedom to worship God.
And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Aside forever ;-it may be a sound
A flower—a leaf-the ocean-which may wound-
The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken
Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore,
From some bright former state, our own no more ;