The Pilgrims

hey came—a life-devouring band—In winter o’er the sea;Tearless they left their fatherland,Home of their infancy.And when they battled to be free,’Twas not for us and ours alone:Millions may trace their destinyTo the wild beach they trod upon.

The brave on Bunker’s Hill who stood,And fearless fought and died,Felt in their veins the pilgrims’ blood,Their spirit, and their pride.That day’s last sunbeam was their last,That well-fought field their death-bed scene;But ’twas that battle’s bugle-blastThat bade the march of mind begin.

It sounded o’er the Atlantic waves:“One struggle more, and thenHearts that are now to tyrants slaves,May beat like hearts of men.

The pilgrims’ names may then be heard,In other tongues a battle-word—The gathering war-cry of the free;And other nations, from their sleepOf bondage waking, long may keep,Like us, the pilgrims’ jubilee.”