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The Song Of The Pilgrims.

April 14, 2010

—Thomas Cogswell Upham.

THE breeze has swelled the whitening sail,
The blue waves curl beneath the gale,
And, bounding with the wave and wind,
We leave old England’s shores behind;
Leave behind our native shore,
Homes, and all we loved before.
 
The deep may dash, the winds may blow,
The storm spread out its wings of woe,
Till sailors’ eyes can see a shroud
Hung in the folds of every cloud;
Still, as long as life shall last,
From that shore we’ll speed us fast.
 
For we would rather never be,
Than dwell where mind cannot be free,
But bows beneath a despot’s rod,
Even where it seeks to worship God.
Blasts of heaven, onward sweep!
Bear us o’er the troubled deep!
 
Oh, see what wonders meet our eyes!
Another land and other skies!
Columbia’s hills have met our view!
Adieu! old England’s shores, adieu!
Here, at length, our feet shall rest,
Hearts be free, and homes be blest.
 
As long as yonder firs shall spread
Their green arms o’er the mountain’s head,
As long as yonder cliffs shall stand,
Where join the ocean and the land,
Shall those cliffs and mountains be
Proud retreats for liberty.
 
Now to the King of kings we’ll raise
Tho paean loud of sacred praise,
More loud than sounds the swelling breeze!
More loud than speak the rolling seas!
Happier lands have met our view!
England’s shores, adieu! adieu!

 

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