Classic Poem

WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION AT PLYMOUTH, DEC . 22 1829.

Sacred to the noble dead!
Mortals laid in earth's dark bed
Spirits to their Maker sped
Long may this day be!

O'er a bleak and wintry main
In the howling hurricane
Came that fearless pilgrim train
Seeking to be free.

Not with trumpet, not with drum
As the kings to battle come;
Not with conquest's martial hum
Came that Father-band.

But to worship, and to pray
In their own plain simple way
With devoted hearts came they
To the unknown land.

Death and danger thickened then
Round the path of those brave men;
Gloomy hill, and lonely glen
Held the savage foe.

When the moonless, midnight cloud
Wrapt their camp as in a shroud,
Then the Indian shaft rang loud
From the Indian bow.

In dismay that raging horde,
Fled before the Pilgrim sword;
Back unto their hills they poured;
Fleet and fast they fled.

Therefore, Brethren, as the wing
Of each fleeting year, doth bring
This bright season, let us sing
" Glory to the dead!"

Children round a parent's bier!
Let us often gather here;
Coming as each passing year
Silently departs.

And though Time hath all effaced
Dust, in kindred dust long placed
Yet their names and deeds are traced
In their children's hearts.