| The breaking waves dashed high |
| On a stern and rock-bound coast, |
| And the woods against a stormy sky |
| Their giant branches tossed; |
| |
| And the heavy night hung dark |
| The hills and waters o'er, |
| When a band of exiles moored their bark |
| On the wild New England shore. |
| |
| Not as the conqueror comes, |
| They, the true-hearted, came— |
| Not with the roll of the stirring drums, |
| And the trumpet that sings of fame; |
| |
| Not as the flying come, |
| In silence and in fear; |
| They shook the depths of the desert's gloom |
| With their hymns of lofty cheer. |
| |
| Amidst the storms 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 soared |
| From his nest by the white wave's foam; |
| And the rocking pines of the forest roared— |
| This was their welcome home! |
| |
| There were men with hoary hair |
| Amidst that pilgrim band: |
| Why had they come to wither there |
| Away from their childhood's land? |
| |
| There was woman's fearless eye, |
| Lit by her deep love's truth; |
| There was manhood's brow serenely high, |
| And the fiery heart of youth. |
| |
| What sought they thus afar? |
| Bright jewels of the mine? |
| The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?— |
| They sought a faith's pure shrine. |
| |
| Ay, call it holy ground— |
| The soil where first they trod! |
| They have left unstained what there they found— |
| Freedom to worship God! |
| |
| Felicia Hemans. |
