And when we sail as Pilgrims’ sons and daughters The spirit’s Mayflower into seas unknown, Driving across the waste of wintry waters The voyage every soul shall make alone, The Pilgrim’s faith, the Pilgrim’s courage grant us; Still shines the truth that for the Pilgrim shone. We are his seed; nor life nor death shall daunt us. The port is Freedom! Pilgrim heart, sail on! LE BARON RUSSELL BRIGGS THE CROSS-CURRENT Through twelve stout generations New England blood I boast; The stubborn pastures bred them, The grim, uncordial coast, Sedate and proud old cities,— Loved well enough by me, Then how should I be yearning To scour the earth and sea. Each of my Yankee forbears Wed a New England mate: They dwelt and did and died here, Nor glimpsed a rosier fate. My clan endured their kindred; But foreigners they loathed, And wandering folk, and minstrels, And gypsies motley-clothed. Then why do patches please me, Fantastic, wild array? Why have I vagrant fancies For lads from far away. My folk were godly Churchmen,— Or paced in Elders’ weeds; But all were grave and pious And hated heathen creeds. Then why are Thor and Wotan To dread forces still? Why does my heart go questing For Pan beyond the hill? My people clutched at freedom.— Though others’ wills they chained,— But made the Law and kept it,— And Beauty, they restrained. Then why am I a rebel To laws of rule and square? Why would I dream and dally, Or, reckless, do and dare? O righteous, solemn Grandsires, O dames, correct and mild, Who bred me of your virtues! Whence comes this changing child?— The thirteenth generation,— Unlucky number this!— My grandma loved a Pirate, And all my faults are his! A gallant, ruffled rover, With beauty-loving eye, He swept Colonial waters Of coarser, bloodier fry. He waved his hat to danger, At Law he shook his fist. Ah, merrily he plundered, He sang and fought and kissed! Though none have found his treasure, And none his part would take,— I bless that thirteenth lady Who chose him for my sake! ABBIE FARWELL BROWN CANDLEMAS O hearken, all ye little weeds That lie beneath the snow, (So low, dear hearts, in poverty so low!) The sun hath risen for royal deeds, A valiant wind the vanguard leads; Now quicken ye, lest unborn seeds Before ye rise and blow. O furry living things, adream On winter’s drowsy breast, (How rest ye there, how softly, safely rest!) Arise and follow where a gleam Of wizard gold unbinds the stream, And all the woodland windings seem With sweet expectance blest. My birds, come back! the hollow sky Is weary for your note. (Sweet-throat, come back! O liquid, mellow throat!) Ere May’s soft minions hereward fly, Shame on ye, Laggards, to deny The brooding breast, the sun-bright eye, The tawny, shining coat! ALICE BROWN SUNRISE ON MANSFIELD MOUNTAIN