  The historical incident related in this poem is recorded in Cheever's "Journal of the Pilgrims." 'T was early morn, the low night-wind Had fled the sun's fierce ray, And sluggishly the leaden waves Rolled over Plymouth Bay. No mist was on the mountain-top, No dew-drop in the vale; The thirsting Summer flowers had died Ere chilled by Autumn's wail. The blighted turf had paved, And o'er the brown and arid fields No golden harvest waved; But calm and blue the cloudless sky Arched over earth and sea, As in their humble house of prayer, The Pilgrims bowed the knee. There gray-haired ministers of God In supplication bent, And artless words from childhood's lips Sought the Omnipotent. There woman's lip and cheek grew pale As on the broad day stole; And manhood's polished brow was damp With fervency of soul. With steady, fervid glare; "O God, our God, be merciful!" Was still the Pilgrims' prayer. They prayed as erst Elijah prayed Before the sons of Baal, When on the waiting sacrifice He called the fiery hail: They prayed as once the prophet prayed On Carmel's summit high, When the little cloud rose from the sea And blackened all the sky. And when around that spireless church The shades of evening fell, The customary song went up With clear and rapturous swell: The chant of Faith sublime, The rude, brown rafters of the roof Rang with a joyous chime. The rain! the rain! the blessed rain! It watered field and height, And filled the fevered atmosphere, With vapor soft and white. Oh! when that Pilgrim band came forth And pressed the humid sod, Shone not each face as Moses' shone When "face to face" with God? |
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