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.