Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
Elder Faunce at Plymouth Rock
By Caroline Frances Orne (1818–1905)A
His hair is white as snow,
His feeble footsteps slow,
And the light in his eyes grown dim.
An old, old man!
Yet they bow with reverence low,
With respect they wait on him.
And in his way they throng:
Greet him with love and pride
The aged and the young.
And the children leave their play
As he passes on his way,
And afar off they follow
This old, old man.
That is lying by the shore;
He hath silent sate him down;
And the young man, whose strong arm
Hath shielded him from harm,
Will not disturb the dream
That his spirit hovers o’er;
And the gathered throng beside him
Group them on the shore.
The old, old man;
While the waves with silvery reach
Go curling up the beach,
Or dash against the rocks in spray,—
The huge rocks bedded deep
At the base of the proud steep,
Where the green ridge of Manomet
Grandly rises far away.
And every distant hill
Its summit veils in soft, misty blue;
Across the wide-spread bay,
Five-and-twenty miles away,
The white cliffs of Cape Cod hang in air,
As some mysterious hand,
Or enchanter’s lifted wand,
Had suspended them, and charmed them there;
And o’er all the waters wide,
And the hills in summer pride,
And the islands in the bay that rise,
And over Saquish-head
And the Gurnet’s breakers dread,
The mild, soft sunlight like a blessing lies.
With the light of bygone days;
His voice is strong and clear,
His form no more is bowed,
He stands erect and proud,
And, dashing from his eye the indignant tear,
He turns him to the crowd that wait expectant near,
And reverent on him gaze;
For they know that he has walked
In all the Pilgrim ways.
“Mark it well!
This rock on which we stand:
For here the honored feet
Of our Fathers’ exiled band
Pressed the land;
And not the wide, wide world,
Not either hemisphere,
Has a spot in its domain
To freedom half so dear.”