Landing of the Pilgrims

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 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 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 Dorothea Hemans

The Homes of England

THE stately homes of England!

How beautiful they stand,

Amidst their tall ancestral trees,

O'er all the pleasant land!

The deer across the greensward bound

Through shade and sunny gleam,

And the swan glides past them with the sound

On some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England!

Around their hearths by night,

What gladsome looks of household love

Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song,

Or childhood's tale is told,

Or lips move tunefully along

Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England!

How softly on their bowers

Is laid the holy quietness

That breathes from Sabbath hours!

Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime

Floats through their woods at morn;

All other sounds, in that still time,

Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England!

By thousands on her plains

They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,

And round the hamlet fanes.

Through glowing orchards forth they peep

Each from its nook of leaves,

And fearless there the lowly sleep,

As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England!

Long, long, in hut and hall,

May hearts of native proof be reared

To guard each hallowed wall!

And green forever be the groves,

And bright the flowery sod,

Where first the child's glad spirit loves

Its country and its God!

Felicia Dorothea Hemans