What had she in those dreary hours,
    Within her ice-rimmed bay,
In common with the wild-wood flowers,
    The first sweet smiles of May?

Yet, “God be praised!” the Pilgrim said,
    Who saw the blossoms peer
Above the brown leaves, dry anal dead
    “Behold our Mayflower here!”

“God wills it: here our rest shall be
    Our years of wandering o’er;
For us the Mayflower of the sea,
    Shall spread her sails no more.”

O sacred flowers of faith and hope,
    As sweetly now as then
Ye bloom on many a birchen slope,
    In many a pine-dark glen.

Behind the sea-wall’s rugged length,
    Unchanged, your, leaves unfold
Like love behind the manly strength
    Of the brave hearts of old.

So live the fathers in their sons,
    Their sturdy faith be ours,
And ours the love that overruns
    Its rocky strength with flowers.

The Pilgrim’s wild and wintry day
    Its shadow round us draws;
The Mayflower of his stormy bay,
    Our Freedom’s struggling cause.

But warmer suns ere long shall bring
    To life the frozen sod;
And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring
    Afresh the flowers of God!