Page:Poems of Mrs. Frances B.M. Brotherson.djvu/25

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THE HYMN OF THE PILGRIMS.


It rose amid the forest aisles,
  'T was borne upon the breeze,
That high, free anthem! blending deep
  With nature's harmonies.
It circled round the great white throne,
  A tribute to the Power,
Whose hand has steered their gallant bark
  In danger's darkest hour.

It rose amid the forest aisles,
  It floated to the sky,
The full heart's melody—whose tones
  Were never born to die.
And tears bedewed full many a cheek,
  While joy lit up the eye,
As thus, with lips of praise, they might
  A tyrant power defy.