In every land wherever might holds sway The Pilgrims’ leaven is at work to-day. The Mayflower’s cabin was the chosen womb Of light predestined for the nations’ gloom. God grant that those who tend the sacred flame May worthy prove of their Forefathers’ name. More light has come,--more dangers, too, perplex: New prides, new greeds, our high condition vex. The Fathers fled from feudal lords and made A freehold state; may we not retrograde To lucre-lords and hierarchs of trade. May we, as they did, teach in court and school There must be classes, but no class shall rule: The sea is sweet, and rots not like the pool. Though vast the token of our future glory, Though tongue of man hath not told such a story, Surpassing Plato’s dream, More’s phantasy, still we Have no new principles to keep us free. As Nature works with changeless grain on grain, The truths the Fathers taught we need again. Depart from this, though we may crowd our shelves With codes and precepts for each lapse and flaw, And patch our moral leaks with statute law, We cannot be protected from ourselves! Still must we keep in every stroke and vote The law of conscience that the Pilgrims wrote; Our seal their secret: _Liberty can be;_ _The State is freedom if the Town is free._ The death of nations in their work began; They sowed the seed of federated man. Dead nations were but robber-holds, and we The first battalion of Humanity! All living nations, while our eagles shine, One after one, shall swing into our line; Our freeborn heritage shall be the guide And bloodless order of their regicide; The sea shall join, not limit; mountains stand Dividing farm from farm, not land from land. O People’s Voice! when farthest thrones shall hear; When teachers own; when thoughtful rabbis know; When artist minds in world-wide symbol show; When serfs and soldiers their mute faces raise; When priests on grand cathedral altars praise; When pride and arrogance shall disappear, The Pilgrims’ Vision is accomplished here! LIBERTY LIGHTING THE WORLD[5] Majestic warder by the nation’s gate, Spike-crowned, flame-armed like Agony or Glory, Holding the tablets of some unknown law, With gesture eloquent and mute as Fate,-- We stand about thy feet in solemn awe, Like desert-tribes who seek their sphinx’s story, And question thee in spirit and in speech; What art thou? Whence? What comest thou to teach? What vision hold those introverted eyes Of revolutions framed in centuries? Thy flame--what threat, or guide for sacred way? Thy tablet--what commandment? What Sinai? Lo! as the waves make murmur at thy base, We watch the somber grandeur of thy face, And ask thee--what thou art.