ves of pride.
But the snow-white sail, that she gave to the gale
When the heavens looked 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Is seen, and then withdrawn.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 dressed,
Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
The earliest ray of the golden day,
On that hallowed 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 noon's broad light;
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead,
With the 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.

STANZAS FOR THE TIMES.

Words by J.G. Whittier. Music by G.W.C.

[Music]

Is this the land our fathers loved,
The freedom which they toiled to win?
Is this the soil whereon they moved?
Are these the graves they slumber in?
Are we the sons by whom are borne,
The mantles which the dead have won?

And shall we crouch above these graves,
With craven soul and fettered lip?
Yoke in with marked and branded slaves,
And tremble at the driver's whip?
Bend to the earth our pliant knees,
And speak--but as our masters please?

Shall outraged Nature cease to feel?
Shall Mercy's tears no longer flow?
Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel--
The dungeon's gloom--th' assassin's blow,
Turn back the spirit roused to save
The Truth--our Country--and the Slave?

Of human skulls that shrine was made,
Round which the priests of Mexico
Before their loathsome idol prayed--
Is Freedom's altar fashioned so?
And must we yield to Freedom's God
As offering meet, the negro's blood?

Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wrought
Which well might shame extremest Hell?
Shall freemen lock th' indignant thought?
Shall Mercy's bosom cease to swell?
Shall Honor bleed?--Shall Truth succumb?
Shall pen, and press, and soul be dumb?

No--by each spot of haunted ground,
Where Freedom weeps her children's