Mayflowers

I fancy in my buried race

Some Puritan, far-off and dim,

Who left in me no other trace

Than love of what was dear to him.

Through richer veins his blood has flowed,

But every spring its pulse I feel

When, in the ruts of Seabrook road,

By the first Mayflower's sod I kneel.

For scarcely could this wild perfume

Enrapture so my soul and sense,

If, quick with that ethereal bloom,

Thrilled not anew the influence

When all his spirit's icy death—

The first long winter's chill despair—

Was blown on by this tender breath,

And vanished in immortal air.