Ode.

Antique Thanksgiving Dinner postcard.

ODE. by Rufus Dawes

Sons of New England sires!
Why do your altar-fires
Flame up on high;
Why from your festal board
Wakes the loud anthem, poured
Joyous with one accord,
Winged for the sky?

Not for the voice that spoke
Triumph when Britain's yoke
Burst with your chains;
Not for the heroes brave,
Bleeding by Charles' wave,
Not for the patriot's grave,
Wake ye your strains;

But for the Pilgrim-band,
They who from Leyden's land
Dared the rough sea;
Braving the ocean vast,
Scorning the wintry blast,
So they might find, at last,
Room for the free.

Hark, how the thunder peals!
See, how the brave ship reels,
Whirled in the brine!
Courage! the God that wears
Storm-robes, the good man spares:
Pilgrim! He hears your prayers,
Joy to your line!

Nobly the Mayflower bows
While the dark wave she ploughs
On to the West;
Till from the tempest's shock'
Proudly she lands her flock,
Where, on old Plymouth-rock,
Freedom found rest.

Lo! from yon starry sphere
Spirits in light appear,
Glorious, but few.
Pilgrims! we see you now;
Fathers! to you we bow;
Hear, then, your children's vow,
Still to be true. 

Join, brothers, heart and hand,
Sons of the Pilgrim-band!
Swear now to be
All that your fathers sought,
All that their virtue wrought,
So shall your sons be taught
How to be free!