 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
The Pilgrims.—Mrs. Sigourney.
How slow yon tiny vessel ploughs the main!Amid the heavy billows now she seems
A toiling atom,—then from wave to wave
Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed,—or reels,
Half wrecked, through gulfs profound.
—Moons wax and wane,
But still that lonely traveller treads the deep.—
I see an ice-bound coast, toward which she steers
With such a tardy movement, that it seems
Stern Winter's hand hath turned her keel to stone,
And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds.—
They land!—They land!—not like the Genoese,
With glittering sword and gaudy train, and eye
Kindling with golden fancies.—Forth they come
From their long prison,—hardy forms, that brave
The world's unkindness,—men of hoary hair,
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Who hush the wailing infant with a glance.—
Bleak Nature's desolation wraps them round,
Eternal forests, and unyielding earth,
And savage men, who through the thickets peer
With vengeful arrow.—What could lure their steps
To this drear desert?—Ask of him who left
His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds,
Distrusting not the Guide who called him forth,
Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed
Should be as Ocean's sands.—
But yon lone bark
Hath spread her parting sail.—
They crowd the strand,
Those few, lone pilgrims.—Can ye scan the wo
That wrings their bosoms, as the last frail link
Binding to man, and habitable earth,
Is severed?—Can ye tell what pangs were there,
What keen regrets, what sickness of the heart,
What yearnings o'er their forfeit land of birth,
Their distant, dear ones?—
Long, with straining eye,
They watch the lessening speck.—Heard ye no shriek
Of anguish, when that bitter loneliness
Sank down into their bosoms?—No! they turn
Back to their dreary, famished huts, and pray!—
Pray,—and the ills that haunt this transient life
Fade into air.—Up in each girded breast
There sprang a rooted and mysterious strength,—
A loftiness,—to face a world in arms,—
To strip the pomp from sceptres,—and to lay
Upon the sacred altar the warm blood
Of slain affections, when they rise between
The soul and God.—
And can ye deem it strange
That from their planting such a branch should bloom
As nations envy?—Would a germ, embalmed
With prayer's pure tear-drops, strike no deeper root
Than that which mad ambition's hand doth strew
Upon the winds, to reap the winds again?
Hid by its veil of waters from the hand
Of greedy Europe, their bold vine spread forth
In giant strength.—
Its early clusters, crushed
In England's wine-press, gave the tyrant host
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In your free veins the blood of sires like these,
Lose not their lineaments.—Should Mammon cling
Too close around your heart,—or wealth beget
That bloated luxury which eats the core
From manly virtue,—or the tempting world
Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul,
Turn ye to Plymouth's beach,—and on that rock
Kneel in their foot-prints, and renew the vow
They breathed to God.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |