THE MAYFLOWER RIDING AT ANCHOR.

53

Then from their houses in haste came forth the Pilgrims

of Plymouth,

Men and women and children, all hurrying down to the

sea-shore,

Eager, with tearful eyes, to say farewell to the Mayflower,

Homeward bound o'er the sea, and leaving them here in

THE RETURN OF THE MAYFLOWER.

After remaining one hundred and ten days in Plymouth harbour, this historical and gallant little ship returned to England in April, 1621; and, notwithstanding their reduction by death, their sufferings, perils, and privations, all the surviving Pilgrims remained at their posts; not one re-embarked.

O STRONG hearts and true! not one went back in the Mayflower!

No, not one looked back, who had set his hand to this ploughing!

Soon were heard on board the shouts and songs of the sailors

Heaving the windlass round, and hoisting the ponderous anchor.

Then the yards were braced, and all sails set to the west-wind,

Blowing steady and strong; and the Mayflower sailed from the harbour,

Rounded the point of the Gurnet, and leaving far to the southward

Island and cape of sand, and the "Field of the First Encounter,"*

So called from the encounter with the Indians on the first landing of the Pilgrims.

THE RETURN OF THE MAYFLOWER.

55

Took the wind on her quarter, and stood for the open Atlantic,

Borne on the send of the sea, and the swelling hearts of the Pilgrims.

Long in silence they watched the receding sail of the vessel,

Much endeared to them all, as something living and human;

Then, as if filled with the spirit, and wrapt in a vision prophetic,

Baring his hoary head, the excellent Elder of Plymouth, Said, "Let us pray!" and they prayed, and thanked the Lord and took courage.

Mournfully sobbed the waves at the base of the rock, and above them.

Bowed and whispered the wheat on the "Hill of Death,"* and their kindred

Seemed to awake in their graves, and to join in the prayer that they uttered.

Sun-illumined and white, on the eastern verge of the

ocean

Gleamed the departing sail, like a marble slab in a graveyard;

Buried beneath it lay, for ever, all hope of escaping.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

* COLE'S HILL, where the Pilgrims who died in the first winter were buried. Their graves were smoothed lest the Indians should observe them and learn the extent of the mortality which had taken place. No traces now remain of these graves.

ROBINSON OF LEYDEN.

HE sleeps not here; in hope and prayer
His wandering flock had gone before;
But he, the shepherd, might not share
Their sorrows on the wintry shore.
Before the Speedwell's anchor swung,

Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was spread, While round his feet the Pilgrims clung, The pastor spake, and thus he said:"Men, brethren, sisters, children dear! God calls you hence from over sea; Ye may not build by Haarlem Meer, Nor yet along the Zuyder-Zee.

Yet go to bear the saving word

To tribes unnamed and shores untrod;

Heed well the lessons ye have heard

From those old teachers taught of God.

"Yet think not unto them was lent

All light for all the coming days,

And Heaven's eternal wisdom spent
In making straight the ancient ways.

"The living fountain overflows

For every flock, for every lamb;
Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose

With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam."

ROBINSON OF LEYDEN.

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He spake with lingering, long embrace,
With tears of love and partings fond,
They floated down the creeping Maas,

Along the isle of Ysselmond.

They passed the frowning towers of Briel,
The "Hook of Holland's" shelf of sand,
And grated soon with lifting keel

The sullen shores of Fatherland.

No home for these !-too well they knew
The mitred king behind his throne;
The sails were set, the pennons flew,

And westward ho! for worlds unknown.
-And these were they who gave us birth,
The Pilgrims of the sunset wave,
Who won for us this virgin earth;

And freedom with the soil they gave.

The pastor slumbers by the Rhine,-
In alien earth the exiles lie,—
Their nameless graves our holiest shrine,
His words our noblest battle-cry!
Still cry them, and the world shall hear,
Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea!
Ye have not built by Haarlem Meer,
Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.