THE MAY-FLOWER.*[1]
A speck amid the ocean,
A laden bark draws near,
Through her rent sails the bleak winds moan,
All heavily and drear;
No light upon the headlands
Illumes her dangerous way,
No pilot-boat all fearless glides
Like sea-bird o'er the spray.
Slow, towards a sterile region,
With pain she seems to steer,
No hoarded treasures in her breast,
To grasping avarice dear;
Yet many a noble galleon,
Where Indian jewels sleep,
Might pave old ocean's glittering floor,
Without a loss so deep.
No broad flag proudly waveth,
No banner from her mast,
But many a princely argosy
Might feel the wrecking blast;
- ↑ * The name of the vessel from which the Pilgrim-fathers first landed at Plymouth, in December, 1620.
