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PILGRIM'S VISION

      IN the hour of twilight shadows

       The Pilgrim sire looked out;

       He thought of the "bloudy Salvages"

       That lurked all round about,

       Of Wituwamet's pictured knife

       And Pecksuot's whooping shout;

       For the baby's limbs were feeble,

       Though his father's arms were stout.

      His home was a freezing cabin,

       Too bare for the hungry rat;

       Its roof was thatched with ragged grass,

       And bald enough of that;

       The hole that served for casement

       Was glazed with an ancient hat,

       And the ice was gently thawing

       From the log whereon he sat.

      Along the dreary landscape

       His eyes went to and fro,

      The trees all clad in icicles,

       The streams that did not flow;

       A sudden thought flashed o'er him—

       A dream of long ago—

       He smote his leathern jerkin,

       And murmured, "Even so!"

      "Come hither, God-be-Glorified,

       And sit upon my knee;

       Behold the dream unfolding,

       Whereof I spake to thee

       By the winter's hearth in Leyden

       And on the stormy sea.

       True is the dream's beginning—

       So may its ending be!

      "I saw in the naked forest

       Our scattered remnant cast,

       A screen of shivering branches

       Between them and the blast;

       The snow was falling round them,

       The dying fell as fast;

       I looked to see them perish,

       When lo, the vision passed.

      "Again mine eyes were opened;—

       The feeble had waxed strong,

       The babes had grown to sturdy men,

       The remnant was a throng;

       By shadowed lake and winding stream,

       And all the shores along,

       The howling demons quaked to hear

       The Christian's godly song.

      "They slept, the village fathers,

       By river, lake, and shore,

       When far adown the steep of Time

       The vision rose once more

       I saw along the winter snow

       A spectral column pour,

       And high above their broken ranks

       A tattered flag they bore.

      "Their Leader rode before them,

       Of bearing calm and high,

       The light of Heaven's own kindling

       Throned in his awful eye;

       These were a Nation's champions

       Her dread appeal to try.

       God for the right! I faltered,

       And lo, the train passed by.

      "Once more;—the strife is ended,

       The solemn issue tried,

       The Lord of Hosts, his mighty arm

       Has helped our Israel's side;

       Gray stone and grassy hillock

       Tell where our martyrs died,

       But peaceful smiles the harvest,

       And stainless flows the tide.

      "A crash, as when some swollen cloud

       Cracks o'er the tangled trees

       With side to side, and spar to spar,

       Whose smoking decks are these?

       I know Saint George's blood-red cross,

       Thou Mistress of the Seas,

       But what is she whose streaming bars

       Roll out before the breeze?

      "Ah, well her iron ribs are knit,

       Whose thunders strive to quell

       The bellowing throats, the blazing lips,

       That pealed the Armada's knell!

       The mist was cleared—a wreath of stars

       Rose o'er the crimsoned swell,

       And, wavering from its haughty peak,

       The cross of England fell!

      "O trembling Faith! though dark the morn,

       A heavenly torch is thine;

       While feebler races melt away,

       And paler orbs decline,

       Still shall the fiery pillar's ray

       Along thy pathway shine,

       To light the chosen tribe that sought

       This Western Palestine.

      "I see the living tide roll on;

       It crowns with flaming towers

       The icy capes of Labrador,

       The Spaniard's 'land of flowers'!

       It streams beyond the splintered ridge

       That parts the northern showers;

       From eastern rock to sunset wave

       The Continent is ours!"

      He ceased, the grim old soldier-saint,

       Then softly bent to cheer

       The Pilgrim-child, whose wasting face

       Was meekly turned to hear;

       And drew his toil-worn sleeve across

       To brush the manly tear

       From cheeks that never changed in woe,

       And never blanched in fear.

      The weary Pilgrim slumbers,

       His resting-place unknown;

       His hands were crossed, his lips were closed,

       The dust was o'er him strown;

       The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf,

       Along the sod were blown;

       His mound has melted into earth,

       His memory lives alone.

      So let it live unfading,

       The memory of the dead,

       Long as the pale anemone

       Springs where their tears were shed,

       Or, raining in the summer's wind

       In flakes of burning red,

       The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves

       The turf where once they bled!

      Yea, when the frowning bulwarks

       That guard this holy strand

       Have sunk beneath the trampling surge

       In beds of sparkling sand,

       While in the waste of ocean

      

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