A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 the two hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town |
 |
 |
 | A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 |  |
Dishonored be the attempt,
in later days,
To rob the Pilgrim of that well-earned praise,
He bought from those before us, and to trace
The genius that inspired him to a base
And grasping thirst for power. O tell it not,
When speaking of the sternness of their lot
In future times, that our forefathers sought
These cold, inhospitable coasts for aught
But Truth and Freedom! What if they abused
At times this sacred treasure, nor refused
To look on difference of faith as crime?
'Twas but the general error of the time;
Few saw above it—few had reached the creed,
That all good men are Christ's, in truth and deed.
'Twas no ambitious spirit that inspired
Those ocean-drifted exiles;—they desired
No other ends than to possess in peace
A quiet home, just laws, and a release
From the oppressions of their mother-clime.
They knew no meaner hope. A faith sublime
In the deep might of Truth—a patient trust
In God, though he should bow them to the dust,
And above all, the thought that they were free,—
Such was the spirit strong which winged them o'er the sea.
To rob the Pilgrim of that well-earned praise,
11
The genius that inspired him to a base
And grasping thirst for power. O tell it not,
When speaking of the sternness of their lot
In future times, that our forefathers sought
These cold, inhospitable coasts for aught
But Truth and Freedom! What if they abused
At times this sacred treasure, nor refused
To look on difference of faith as crime?
'Twas but the general error of the time;
Few saw above it—few had reached the creed,
That all good men are Christ's, in truth and deed.
'Twas no ambitious spirit that inspired
Those ocean-drifted exiles;—they desired
No other ends than to possess in peace
A quiet home, just laws, and a release
From the oppressions of their mother-clime.
They knew no meaner hope. A faith sublime
In the deep might of Truth—a patient trust
In God, though he should bow them to the dust,
And above all, the thought that they were free,—
Such was the spirit strong which winged them o'er the sea.
| A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 | |