Henlopen's Cape is the self-same sand,
However the winds do blow,
As when their footprints claimed this land
Three hundred years ago—
The stout Dutchmen, whose sands are we,
Though many have gone away;
There are change and range for them who flee,
And a calm for them who stay.

Old Holland bides in her Netherlands,
More happy, if no more great;
The hour-glass measures our frugal sands,
Which time yon imperial State;
Their hearths we guard for the hosts who stray
And their old gravestones we show;
There are rest and love for them who stay,
As well as for them who go.

Yon heaving sea has a million lost
The Breakwater could not save,
The mountain West has our tempest tossed
Gone wrecked to a stranger's grave;
Here on the Cape, in the rock-locked quay,
Fast land we Colonials know—
There is comfort enough for them who stay
And trial for them who go.

Shine, Lewes light! on the restless waves!
Safe hold her ships, oh, ye stones!
We have treasure left in our father's graves
And flowers for our children's bones.
These title deeds to our wealth we show
As the centuries grow gray—
Happy be ye who like ravens go,
There's a nest for the doves which stay.

Some touch the Pole with their mittened hands
And haste to be first to fame—
We hold the goal on our household bands
And the heartstrings' surer aim.
This is the Pole the Earth rolls to,
O'ershined like the midnight day;
Glory be kind to them who go!
And home in the hearts which stay!