Page:Records of Woman.pdf/269

Rh

Look now abroad—another race has fill'd Those populous borders—wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are till'd;   The land is full of harvests and green meads.

breaking waves dash'd high On a stem and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moor'd their bark On the wild New-England shore.