On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed;
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore
They, the truehearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums
And the trumpet that sings of fame;
In silence and in fear,
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
They sought a faith's pure shrine!
The soil where they first trod;
They have left unstained what there they found:
Freedom to worship God!