William Cullen Bryant

The Twenty-second of December

Wild was the day; the wintry sea
    Moaned sadly on New-England's strand,
When first the thoughtful and the free,
    Our fathers, trod the desert land.

They little thought how pure a light,
    With years, should gather round that day;
How love should keep their memories bright,
    How wide a realm their sons should sway.

Green are their bays; but greener still
    Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed,
And regions, now untrod, shall thrill
    With reverence when their names are breathed.

Till where the sun, with softer fires,
    Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep,
The children of the pilgrim sires
    This hallowed day like us shall keep.