Well worthy to be magnified are they Who, with sad hearts, of friends and country took A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook, And hallowed ground in which their fathers lay; Then to the new-found World explored their way, That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to brook Ritual restraints, within some sheltering nook Her Lord might worship and his word obey In freedom. Men they were who could not bend; Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for guide A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified; Blest while their Spirits from the woods ascend Along a Galaxy that knows no end, But in His glory who for Sinners died. II From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled To Wilds where both were utterly unknown; But not to them had Providence foreshown What benefits are missed, what evils bred, In worship neither raised nor limited Save by Self-will. Lo! from that distant shore, For Rite and Ordinance, Piety is led Back to the Land those Pilgrims left of yore, Led by her own free choice. So Truth and Love By Conscience governed do their steps retrace.-- Fathers! your Virtues, such the power of grace, Their spirit, in your Children, thus approve. Transcendent over time, unbound by place, Concord and Charity in circles move. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. When Charles I came to the throne, in 1625, with the expressed determination to harry the Puritans out of England, the latter decided to seek an asylum in the New World. In 1628 John Endicott and a few others secured a patent from the New England Council for a trading-company, the grant including a strip of land across the continent from a line three miles north of the Merrimac to another three miles south of the Charles. It was into this colony, known as Massachusetts, that the older colony of Plymouth was finally absorbed. THE PILGRIM FATHERS The Pilgrim Fathers,--where are they? The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore; Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day When the Mayflower moored below; When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep Still brood upon the tide; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale, When the heavens looked dark, is gone,-- As an angel's wing through an opening cloud Is seen, and then withdrawn. The pilgrim exile,--sainted name! The hill whose icy brow Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hillside and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head,-- But the Pilgrim! where is he?