To this far nook the Christian Exiles fled,
Each fettering tie of earthly texture breaking;
Wealth, country, kindred, cheerfully forsaking,
For that good cause in which their fathers bled.
By Faith supported and by Freedom led,
A fruitful field amidst the desert making,
They dwelt secure when kings and priests were quaking,
And taught the waste to yield them wine and bread.
And is their worth forgot? their spirit gone?
Now, in the breach of wickedness forthbreaking,
At the lone watchman's warning call awaking,
To lift the faithful standard is there none?
Yes—still 'mong the dry bones there is a shaking,
And a faint glimmering still where former lustre shone.
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