(For John Bunker)

The roar of the world is in my ears.
Thank God for the roar of the world!
Thank God for the mighty tide of fears
Against me always hurled!

Thank God for the bitter and ceaseless strife,
And the sting of His chastening rod!
Thank God for the stress and the pain of life,
And Oh, thank God for God!

“Praise ye the Lord!” The psalm to-day
   Still rises on our ears,
Borne from the hills of Boston Bay
   Through five times fifty years,
When Winthrop’s fleet from Yarmouth crept
   Out to the open main,
And through the widening waters swept,
   In April sun and rain.
      “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”
         The leader shouted, “pray;”
      And prayer arose from all the ships
         As faded Yarmouth Bay.

They passed the Scilly Isles that day,
   And May-days came, and June,
And thrice upon the ocean lay
   The full orb of the moon.
And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay,
   Ere England sunk from view,
While yet the rippling Solent lay
   In April skies of blue,
      “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”
         Each morn was shouted, “pray;”
      And prayer arose from all the ships,
         As first in Yarmouth Bay;

Blew warm the breeze o’er Western seas,
   Through Maytime morns, and June,
Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals,
   Low ’neath the summer moon;
And as Cape Ann arose to view,
   And Norman’s Woe they passed,
The wood-doves came the white mists through,
   And circled round each mast.
      “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”
         Then called the leader, “pray;”
      And prayer arose from all the ships,
         As first in Yarmouth Bay.

Above the sea the hill-tops fair—
   God’s towers—began to rise,
And odors rare breathe through the air,
   Like balms of Paradise.
Through burning skies the ospreys flew,
   And near the pine-cooled shores
Danced airy boat and thin canoe,
   To flash of sunlit oars.
      “Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,”
         The leader shouted, “pray!”
      Then prayer arose, and all the ships
         Sailed into Boston Bay.

The white wings folded, anchors down,
   The sea-worn fleet in line,
Fair rose the hills where Boston town
   Should rise from clouds of pine;
Fair was the harbor, summit-walled,
   And placid lay the sea.
“Praise ye the Lord,” the leader called;
   “Praise ye the Lord,” spake he.
      “Give thanks to God with fervent lips,
         Give thanks to God to-day,”
      The anthem rose from all the ships,
         Safe moored in Boston Bay.
   
   “Praise ye the Lord!” Primeval woods
   First heard the ancient song,
And summer hills and solitudes
   The echoes rolled along.
The Red Cross flag of England blew
   Above the fleet that day,
While Shawmut’s triple peaks in view
   In amber hazes lay.
      “Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
         Praise ye the Lord to-day,”
      The anthem rose from all the ships
         Safe moored in Boston Bay.

The Arabella leads the song—
   The Mayflower sings below,
That erst the Pilgrims bore along
   The Plymouth reefs of snow.
Oh! never be that psalm forgot
   That rose o’er Boston Bay,
When Winthrop sang, and Endicott,
   And Saltonstall, that day:
      “Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
         Praise ye the Lord to-day;”
      And praise arose from all the ships,
         Like prayers in Yarmouth Bay.

That psalm our fathers sang we sing,
   That psalm of peace and wars,
While o’er our heads unfolds its wing
   The flag of forty stars.
And while the nation finds a tongue
   For nobler gifts to pray,
’T will ever sing the song they sung
   That first Thanksgiving Day:
      “Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
         Praise ye the Lord to-day;”
      So rose the song from all the ships,
         Safe moored in Boston Bay.

Our fathers’ prayers have changed to psalms,
   As David’s treasures old
Turned, on the Temple’s giant arms,
   To lily-work of gold.
Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth’s tide,
   Ho! ships of Boston Bay,
Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide
   To this Thanksgiving Day!
      We pray to God with fervent lips,
         We praise the Lord to-day,
      As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships,
         But psalms from Boston Bay.

My God, I thank Thee who hast made
   The earth so bright;
So full of splendor and of joy,
   Beauty and light;
So many glorious things are here,
   Noble and right!

I thank Thee, too, that Thou hast made
   Joy to abound;
So many gentle thoughts and deeds
   Circling us round,
That in the darkest spot of earth
   Some love is found.

I thank Thee more that all our joy
   Is touched with pain;
That shadows fall on brightest hours;
   That thorns remain;
So that earth’s bliss may be our guide,
   And not our chain.

I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast kept
   The best in store;
We have enough, yet not too much
   To long for more:
A yearning for a deeper peace,
   Not known before.

I thank Thee, Lord, that here our souls,
   Though amply blest,
Can never find, although they seek,
   A perfect rest,—
Nor ever shall, until they lean
   On Jesus’ breast!

   We give Thee thanks, O Lord!
Not for the armed legions, marching in their might,
Not for the glory of the well-earned fight
   Where brave men slay their brothers also brave;
But for the millions of Thy sons who work—
And do Thy task with joy,—and never shirk,
   And deem the idle man a burdened slave:
      For these, O Lord, our thanks!

   We give Thee thanks, O Lord!
Not for the turrets of our men-of-war—
The monstrous guns, and deadly steel they pour
   To crush our foes and make them bow the knee;
But for the homely sailors of Thy deep,
The tireless fisher-folk who banish sleep
   And lure a living from the miser sea:
      For these, O Lord, our thanks!

   We give Thee thanks, O Lord!
Not for the mighty men who pile up gold,
Not for the phantom millions, bought and sold,
   And all the arrogance of pomp and greed;
But for the pioneers who plow the field,
Make deserts blossom, and the mountain yield
   Its hidden treasures for man’s daily need:
      For these, O Lord, our thanks!

   We give Thee thanks, O Lord!
Not for the palaces that wealth has grown,
Where ease is worshipped—duty dimly known,
   And pleasure leads her dance the flowery way;
But for the quiet homes where love is queen
And life is more than baubles, touched and seen,
   And old folks bless us, and dear children play:
      For these, O Lord, our thanks!

Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse p. 400
ed. D. H. S. Nicholson and A. H. E. Lee