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Is seen, and then withdrawn.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 hallow'd 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 the noon's broad light;
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With their 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 Mayflower lay,
Shall foam and freeze no more.
* * * * *
=_James G. Percival, 1786-1856.
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