Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE PILGRIMS, by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE PILGRIMS, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: How slow yon tiny [or, lonely] vessel ploughs the main!
Last Line: Kneel, and renew the vow they breath'd to god
Subject(s): New England; Pilgrim Fathers


HOW slow yon lonely vessel ploughs the main!
Amid the heavy billows now she seems
A toiling atom; then, from wave to wave
Leaps madly, by the tempest lash'd, or reels
Half wreck'd through gulfs profound.
Moons wax and wane,
But still that patient 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 turn'd her keel to stone,
And seal'd 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,
Maidens of fearless heart, and matrons grave,
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 wild,
Distrusting not the guide who call'd 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 sever'd? Can ye tell what pangs were there,
With 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, famish'd 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,
On duty's sacred altar, the warm blood
Of slain affections, should they rise between
The soul and God.
Oh ye, who proudly boast,
In your free veins, the blood of sires like these,
Guard well their lineaments. Dread lest ye lose
Their likeness in your sons.
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-rock, and where they knelt
Kneel, and renew the vow they breath'd to God





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