Excerpt from The Pilgrim Spirit: A Pageant in Celebration of the Tercentenary of the Landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth, Massachusetts, December 21, 1620

As the Pageant begins, there is a fanfare of trumpets passing to a hymn-like chord. From the canopied rock a rich, powerful voice speaks. The speaker is unseen.

I, the rock of Plymouth, speak to you, Americans.

Here I rested in the ooze
From the ages primordial.
Men came and went: Norsemen,
Seamen of England, voyagers of France, Dutch adventurers,
Over and round me
The Indians worked, played, lived.
I was a rock of millions along the shore,
Waiting, - for what?
Came pestilence, sweeping the Indians from the land.
Not one remaining here at Patuxet, Accomack.
Cap St. Louis, New England, as the Indian, the French,
Prince Charles of England, called this spot.
Around me the cleared fields waiting,
The bay swarming with fish,
The woods full of game, all waiting.
I, too, waiting, for what?
In England, growing, the spirit of man,
Freed by his Bible, read in his home,
Studied with passion.
Out of the Church of England - a Puritan.

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