Turn thee to thine own broad waters,
    Labor in thy native earth,
Call salvation's sons and daughters
    From the clime that gave thee birth.

Here are pilgrim-souls benighted,
    Here are evils to be slain,
Graces in their budding blighted,
    Spirits bound in error's chain.

Raise the Gospel's glorious streamer
    Where yon cloud-topp'd forest waves,
Follower of the meek Redeemer
    Serve him 'mid thy fathers' graves.