843. C. M. C. Sprague. The Pilgrims. 1 Our fathers, Lord, to seek a spot Where they might kneel to thee, Their own fair heritage forgot, And braved an unknown sea. 2 Here found their pilgrim souls repose Where long the heathen roved; And here their humble anthems rose To bless the Power they loved. 3 They sleep in dust, -- but where they trod, A feeble, fainting band, Glad millions catch the strain, O God, And sound it through the land.
|
|