II. IN THE WAKE OF COLUMBUS…

II. IN THE WAKE OF COLUMBUS

The news of Columbus's discoveries soon spread through western Europe, and in May, 1497, John Cabot sailed from Bristol, England, in the Matthew, and discovered what he supposed to be the Chinese coast on June 24. The thrifty Henry VII gave him the sum of £10 as a reward for this achievement. Cabot was the first European since the vikings to set foot on the North American continent.

THE FIRST VOYAGE OF JOHN CABOT

[1497]

"He chases shadows," sneered the British tars. "As well fling nets to catch the golden stars As climb the surges of earth's utmost sea." But for the Venice pilot, meagre, wan, His swarthy sons beside him, life began With that slipt cable, when his dream rode free.

And Henry, on his battle-wrested throne, The Councils done, would speak in musing tone Of Cabot, not the cargo he might bring. "Man's heart, though morsel scant for hungry crow, Is greater than a world can fill, and so Fair fall the shadow-seekers!" quoth the king.

Colonies were planted by the Spaniards in Cuba and Hispaniola, but the New World continued to be for them a land of wonder and mystery. They were quite ready to believe any marvel,--among others, that somewhere to the north lay an island named Bimini, on which was a fountain whose waters gave perpetual youth to all who bathed therein.

THE LEGEND OF WAUKULLA

[1513]

Through darkening pines the cavaliers marched on their sunset way, While crimson in the trade-winds rolled far Appalachee Bay, Above the water-levels rose palmetto crowns like ghosts Of kings primeval; them, behind, the shadowy pines in hosts. "O cacique, brave and trusty guide, Are we not near the spring, The fountain of eternal youth that health to age doth bring?" The cacique sighed, And Indian guide, "The fount is fair, Waukulla!

"But vainly to the blossomed flower will come the autumn rain, And never youth's departed days come back to age again; The future in the spirit lies, the earthly life is brief, 'Tis you that say the fount hath life," so said the Indian chief. "Nay, Indian king; nay, Indian king, Thou knowest well the spring, And thou shalt die if thou dost fail our feet to it to bring." The cacique sighed, And Indian guide, "The spring is bright, Waukulla!"

Then said the guide, "O men of Spain, a wondrous fountain flows From deep abodes of gods below, and health on men bestows. Blue are its deeps and green its walls, and from its waters gleam The water-stars, and from it runs the pure Waukulla's stream. But men of Spain, but men of Spain, 'Tis you who say that spring Eternal youth and happiness to men again will bring." The cacique sighed, And Indian guide, "The fount is clear, Waukulla!"

"March on, the land enchanted is; march on, ye men of Spain; Who would not taste the bliss of youth and all its hopes again. Enchanted is the land; behold! enchanted is the air; The very heaven is domed with gold; there's beauty everywhere!" So said De Leon. "Cavaliers, We're marching to the spring, The fountain of eternal youth that health to age will bring!" The cacique sighed, And Indian guide, "The fount is pure, Waukulla!"

Beneath the pines, beneath the yews, the deep magnolia shades, The clear Waukulla swift pursues its way through floral glades; Beneath the pines, beneath the yews, beneath night's falling shade, Beneath the low and dusky moon still marched the cavalcade. "The river widens," said the men; "Are we not near the spring, The fountain of eternal youth that health to age doth bring?" The cacique sighed, And Indian guide, "The spring is near, Waukulla!"

"The fount is fair and bright and clear, and pure its waters run; Waukulla, lovely in the moon and beauteous in the sun. But vainly to the blossomed flower will come the autumn rain, And never youth's departed days come back to man again. O men of Spain! O men of Spain! 'Tis you that say the spring Eternal youth and happiness to withered years will bring!" The cacique sighed, And Indian guide, "The fount is deep, Waukulla!"

The river to a grotto led, as to a god's abode; There lay the fountain bright with stars; stars in its waters flowed; The mighty live-oaks round it rose, in ancient mosses clad; De Leon's heart beat high for joy; the cavaliers were glad, "O men of Spain! O men of Spain! This surely is the spring, The fountain fair that health and joy to faces old doth bring!" The cacique sighed, And Indian guide, "The spring is old, Waukulla!"

"Avalla, O my trusty friend that we this day should see! Strip off thy doublet and descend the glowing fount with me!" "The saints! I will," Avalla said. "Already young I feel, And younger than my sons shall I return to old Castile." Then plunged De Leon in the spring And then Avalla old, Then slowly rose each wrinkled face above the waters cold. The cacique sighed, And Indian guide, "The fount is false, Waukulla!"

O vainly to the blossomed flower will come the autumn rain, And never youth's departed days come back to man again; The crowns Castilian could not bring the withered stalk a leaf, But came a sabre flash that morn, and fell the Indian chief. Another sabre flash, and then The guide beside him lay, And red the clear Waukulla ran toward Appalachee Bay. Then from the dead The Spaniards fled, And cursed the spring, Waukulla.

"Like comrades life was left behind, the years shall o'er me roll, For all the hopes that man can find lies hidden in the soul. Ye white sails lift, and drift again across the southern main; There wait for me, there wait us all, the hollow tombs of Spain!" Beneath the liquid stars the sails Arose and went their way, And bore the gray-haired cavaliers from Appalachee Bay. The young chief slept, The maiden wept, Beside the bright Waukulla.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

In 1512 Juan Ponce de Leon received a grant to discover and settle this fabulous island. He sailed from Porto Rico in search of it in March, 1513, and found an island but no fountain. Pushing on, he discovered the mainland March 27, and, on April 2, landed and took possession of the country for the King of Spain, calling it Florida.

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

A DREAM OF PONCE DE LEON

[1513]

I

A story of Ponce de Leon, A voyager, withered and old, Who came to the sunny Antilles, In quest of a country of gold. He was wafted past islands of spices, As bright as the Emerald seas, Where all the forests seem singing, So thick were the birds on the trees; The sea was as clear as the azure, And so deep and so pure was the sky That the jasper-walled city seemed shining Just out of the reach of the eye. By day his light canvas he shifted, And rounded strange harbors and bars; By night, on the full tides he drifted, 'Neath the low-hanging lamps of the stars. Near the glimmering gates of the sunset, In the twilight empurpled and dim, The sailors uplifted their voices, And sang to the Virgin a hymn. "Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor, At the close of the rounded refrain; "Thank the Lord, the Almighty, who blesses The ocean-swept banner of Spain! The shadowy world is behind us, The shining Cèpango, before; Each morning the sun rises brighter On ocean, and island, and shore. And still shall our spirits grow lighter, As prospects more glowing enfold; Then on, merry men! to Cèpango, To the west, and the regions of gold!"

II

There came to De Leon, the sailor, Some Indian sages, who told Of a region so bright that the waters Were sprinkled with islands of gold. And they added: "The leafy Bimini, A fair land of grottos and bowers, Is there; and a wonderful fountain Upsprings from its gardens of flowers. That fountain gives life to the dying, And youth to the aged restores; They flourish in beauty eternal, Who set but their foot on its shores!" Then answered De Leon, the sailor: "I am withered, and wrinkled, and old; I would rather discover that fountain Than a country of diamonds and gold."

III

Away sailed De Leon, the sailor; Away with a wonderful glee, Till the birds were more rare in the azure, The dolphins more rare in the sea. Away from the shady Bahamas, Over waters no sailor had seen, Till again on his wondering vision, Rose clustering islands of green. Still onward he sped till the breezes Were laden with odors, and lo! A country embedded with flowers, A country with rivers aglow! More bright than the sunny Antilles, More fair than the shady Azores. "Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor As feasted his eye on the shores, "We have come to a region, my brothers, More lovely than earth, of a truth; And here is the life-giving fountain,-- The beautiful Fountain of Youth."

IV

Then landed De Leon, the sailor, Unfurled his old banner, and sung; But he felt very wrinkled and withered, All around was so fresh and so young. The palms, ever-verdant, were blooming, Their blossoms e'en margined the seas; O'er the streams of the forests bright flowers Hung deep from the branches of trees. "Praise the Lord!" sung De Leon, the sailor; His heart was with rapture aflame; And he said: "Be the name of this region By Florida given to fame. 'Tis a fair, a delectable country. More lovely than earth, of a truth; I soon shall partake of the fountain,-- The beautiful Fountain of Youth!"

V

But wandered De Leon, the sailor, In search of that fountain in vain; No waters were there to restore him To freshness and beauty again. And his anchor he lifted, and murmured, As the tears gathered fast in his eye, "I must leave this fair land of the flowers, Go back o'er the ocean, and die." Then back by the dreary Tortugas, And back by the shady Azores, He was borne on the storm-smitten waters To the calm of his own native shores. And that he grew older and older, His footsteps enfeebled gave proof, Still he thirsted in dreams for the fountain, The beautiful Fountain of Youth.

* * * * *

VI

One day the old sailor lay dying On the shores of a tropical isle, And his heart was enkindled with rapture, And his face lighted up with a smile. He thought of the sunny Antilles, He thought of the shady Azores, He thought of the dreamy Bahamas, He thought of fair Florida's shores. And, when in his mind he passed over His wonderful travels of old, He thought of the heavenly country, Of the city of jasper and gold. "Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor, "Thank the Lord for the light of the truth, I now am approaching the fountain, The beautiful Fountain of Youth."

VII

The cabin was silent: at twilight They heard the birds singing a psalm, And the wind of the ocean low sighing Through groves of the orange and palm. The sailor still lay on his pallet, 'Neath the low-hanging vines of the roof; His soul had gone forth to discover The beautiful Fountain of Youth.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

In March, 1521, De Leon led a large party to Florida and attempted to plant a colony there, but they were driven away by the Indians. De Leon himself was wounded in the thigh by an arrow. The wound was unskillfully treated, and the old adventurer died of it in Cuba shortly afterwards.

PONCE DE LEON

[1521]

You that crossed the ocean old, Not from greed of Inca's gold, But to search by vale and mount, Wood and rock, the wizard fount Where Time's harm is well undone,-- Here's to Ponce de Leon, And your liegemen every one! Surely, still beneath the sun, In some region further west, You live on and have your rest, While the world goes spinning round, And the sky hears the resound Of a thousand shrill new fames, Which your jovial silence shames! Strength and joy your days endow, Youth's eyes glow beneath your brow; Wars and vigils are forgot, And the Scytheman threats you not. Tell us, of your knightly grace, Tell us, left you not some trace Leading to that wellspring true Where old souls their age renew?

EDITH M. THOMAS.

The Spaniards, meanwhile, had pushed on across the Caribbean Sea and founded Darien, whither, in 1510, came one Vasco Nuñez Balboa. He made numerous explorations, and, learning from the Indians that there was a great sea to the south, determined to search for it. He started from Darien September 1, 1513, and on the 25th reached the top of a mountain from which he first saw the Pacific. He gained the shore four days later, and, wading into the water, took possession of it for the King of Spain.

BALBOA

[September 25, 1513]

With restless step of discontent, Day after day he fretting went Along the old accustomed ways That led to easeful length of days.

But far beyond the fragrant shade Of orange groves his glances strayed To where the white horizon line Caught from the sea its silvery shine.

He knew the taste of that salt spray, He knew the wind that blew that way; Ah, once again to mount and ride Upon that pulsing ocean tide,--

To find new lands of virgin gold, To wrest them from the savage hold, To conquer with the sword and brain Fresh fields and fair for royal Spain!

This was the dream of wild desire That set his gallant heart on fire, And stirred with feverish discontent That soul for nobler issues meant.

Sometimes his children's laughter brought A thrill that checked his restless thought; Sometimes a voice more tender yet Would soothe the fever and the fret.

Thus day by day, until one day Came news that in the harbor lay A ship bound outward to explore The treasures of that western shore,

Which bold adventurers as yet Had failed to conquer or forget; "Yet where they failed, and failing died, My will shall conquer!" Balboa cried.

But when on Darien's shore he stept, And fast and far his vision swept, He saw before him, white and still, The Andes mocking at his will.

Then like a flint he set his face; Let others falter from their place, His hand and foot, his sturdy soul Should seek and gain that distant goal!

With speech like this he fired the land, And gathered to his bold command A troop of twenty score or more, To follow where he led before.

They followed him day after day O'er burning lands where ambushed lay The waiting savage in his lair, And fever poisoned all the air.

But like a sweeping wind of flame A conqueror through all he came; The savage fell beneath his hand, Or led him on to seek the land

That richer yet for golden gain Stretched out beyond the mountain chain. Steep after steep of rough ascent They followed, followed, worn and spent,

Until at length they came to where The last peak lifted near and fair; Then Balboa turned and waved aside His panting troops. "Rest here," he cried,

"And wait for me." And with a tread Of trembling haste, he quickly sped Along the trackless height, alone To seek, to reach, his mountain throne.

Step after step he mounted swift; The wind blew down a cloudy drift; From some strange source he seemed to hear The music of another sphere.

Step after step; the cloud-winds blew Their blinding mists, then through and through Sun-cleft, they broke, and all alone He stood upon his mountain throne.

Before him spread no paltry lands, To wrest with spoils from savage hands; But, fresh and fair, an unknown world Of mighty sea and shore unfurled

Its wondrous scroll beneath the skies. Ah, what to this the flimsy prize Of gold and lands for which he came With hot ambition's sordid aim!

Silent he stood with streaming eyes In that first moment of surprise, Then on the mountain-top he bent, This conqueror of a continent,

In wordless ecstasy of prayer,-- Forgetting in that moment there, With Nature's God brought face to face, All vainer dreams of pomp and place.

Thus to the world a world was given. Where lesser men had vainly striven, And striving died,--this gallant soul, Divinely guided, reached the goal.

NORA PERRY.

In 1518 a great expedition, under Hernando Cortez, sailed from Cuba in search of a land of marvellous wealth which was said to exist somewhere north of Darien. The result was the discovery of Mexico, which the Spaniards subdued with indescribable cruelties.

WITH CORTEZ IN MEXICO

[1519]

"Mater á Dios, preserve us And give us the Mexican gold, Viva España forever!" Light-hearted, treacherous, bold, With clashing of drums and of cymbals, With clatter of hoofs and of arms, Into the Tezcucan city, Over the Tezcucan farms; In through the hordes of Aztecs, Past glitter of city and lake, Brave for death or for conquest, And the Mother of God's sweet sake.

Perchance from distant Granada, Perchance from the Danube's far blue, He had fought with Moor and Saracen, Where the death hail of battle-fields flew. Down through the smoke and the battle, Trolling an old Moorish song, Chanting an Ave or Pater, To whiten the red of his wrong, Dreaming of Seville, Toledo, And dark, soft catholic eyes, Light-hearted, reckless, and daring, He rides under Mexican skies.

Child of valor and fortune, Nurtured to ride and to strike, Fearless in defeat or in conquest, Of man and of devil alike; Out through the clamor of battle, Up through rivers of blood, "Viva España forever! God and the bold Brotherhood! Strike for the memories left us, Strike for the lives that we keep, Strike for the present and future, In the name of our comrades who sleep; Strike! for Jesus' sweet Mother, For the arms and the vows that we hold; Strike for fortune and lover, God, and the Mexican gold!"

* * * * *

At morning gay, careless in battle, With love on his lips, in his eyes; At even stretched pallid and silent, Out under Mexican skies. And far in some old Spanish city, Two dark eyes wait patient and long For a lover who sailed to the westward, Trolling an old Moorish song.

W. W. CAMPBELL.

Shortly afterwards, Pizarro completed the conquest of Peru. Heavily-laden treasure-ships were sent homeward across the Atlantic, and at last the Spanish lust of gold seemed in a fair way to be satisfied.

THE LUST OF GOLD

From "The West Indies"

Rapacious Spain Follow'd her hero's triumphs o'er the main, Her hardy sons in fields of battle tried, Where Moor and Christian desperately died. A rabid race, fanatically bold, And steel'd to cruelty by lust of gold, Traversed the waves, the unknown world explored, The cross their standard, but their faith the sword; Their steps were graves; o'er prostrate realms they trod; They worshipp'd Mammon while they vow'd to God.

Let nobler bards in loftier numbers tell How Cortez conquer'd, Montezuma fell; How fierce Pizarro's ruffian arm o'erthrew The sun's resplendent empire in Peru; How, like a prophet, old Las Casas stood, And raised his voice against a sea of blood, Whose chilling waves recoil'd while he foretold His country's ruin by avenging gold. --That gold, for which unpitied Indians fell, That gold, at once the snare and scourge of hell, Thenceforth by righteous Heaven was doom'd to shed Unmingled curses on the spoiler's head; For gold the Spaniard cast his soul away,-- His gold and he were every nation's prey.

But themes like these would ask an angel-lyre, Language of light and sentiment of fire; Give me to sing, in melancholy strains, Of Charib martyrdoms and Negro chains; One race by tyrants rooted from the earth, One doom'd to slavery by the taint of birth!

* * * * *

Dreadful as hurricanes, athwart the main Rush'd the fell legions of invading Spain; With fraud and force, with false and fatal breath (Submission bondage, and resistance death), They swept the isles. In vain the simple race Kneel'd to the iron sceptre of their grace, Or with weak arms their fiery vengeance braved; They came, they saw, they conquer'd, they enslaved, And they destroy'd;--the generous heart they broke, They crush'd the timid neck beneath the yoke; Where'er to battle march'd their fell array, The sword of conquest plough'd resistless way; Where'er from cruel toil they sought repose, Around the fires of devastation rose. The Indian, as he turn'd his head in flight, Beheld his cottage flaming through the night, And, midst the shrieks of murder on the wind, Heard the mute bloodhound's death-step close behind.

The conflict o'er, the valiant in their graves, The wretched remnant dwindled into slaves; Condemn'd in pestilential cells to pine, Delving for gold amidst the gloomy mine. The sufferer, sick of life-protracting breath, Inhaled with joy the fire-damp blast of death: --Condemn'd to fell the mountain palm on high, That cast its shadow from the evening sky, Ere the tree trembled to his feeble stroke, The woodman languish'd, and his heart-strings broke; --Condemn'd in torrid noon, with palsied hand, To urge the slow plough o'er the obdurate land, The laborer, smitten by the sun's quick ray, A corpse along the unfinish'd furrow lay. O'erwhelm'd at length with ignominious toil, Mingling their barren ashes with the soil, Down to the dust the Charib people pass'd, Like autumn foliage withering in the blast: The whole race sunk beneath the oppressor's rod, And left a blank among the works of God.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

Although Pope Alexander VI had, in 1493, issued a bull dividing the New World between Spain and Portugal, neither France nor England paid any heed to it. One of France's most active corsairs was Giovanni da Verazzano. In 1524 he crossed the Atlantic, and, sighting the coast at Cape Fear, turned northward, discovered the Hudson, landed at Rhode Island, and kept on, perhaps, as far as Newfoundland.

VERAZZANO

AT RHODES AND RHODE ISLAND

[1524]

In the tides of the warm south wind it lay, And its grapes turned wine in the fires of noon, And its roses blossomed from May to May, And their fragrance lingered from June to June.

There dwelt old heroes at Ilium famed, There, bards reclusive, of olden odes; And so fair were the fields of roses, they named The bright sea-garden the Isle of Rhodes.

Fair temples graced each blossoming field, And columned halls in gems arrayed; Night shaded the sea with her jewelled shield, And sweet the lyres of Orpheus played.

The Helios spanned the sea: its flame Drew hither the ships of Pelion's pines, And twice a thousand statues of fame Stood mute in twice a thousand shrines.

And her mariners went, and her mariners came, And sang on the seas the olden odes, And at night they remembered the Helios' flame, And at morn the sweet fields of the roses of Rhodes.

From the palm land's shade to the land of pines, A Florentine crossed the Western Sea; He sought new lands and golden mines, And he sailed 'neath the flag of the Fleur-de-lis.

He saw at last in the sunset's gold, A wonderful island so fair to view That it seemed like the Island of Roses old That his eyes in his wondering boyhood knew.

'Twas summer time, and the glad birds sung In the hush of noon in the solitudes; From the oak's broad arms the green vines hung; Sweet odors blew from the resinous woods.

He rounded the shores of the summer sea, And he said as his feet the white sands pressed, And he planted the flag of the Fleur-de-lis: "I have come to the Island of Rhodes in the West.

"While the mariners go, and the mariners come, And sing on lone waters the olden odes Of the Grecian seas and the ports of Rome, They will ever think of the roses of Rhodes."

To the isle of the West he gave the name Of the isle he had loved in the Grecian sea; And the Florentine went away as he came, 'Neath the silver flag of the Fleur-de-lis.

O fair Rhode Island, thy guest was true, He felt the spirit of beauteous things; The sea-wet roses were faint and few, But memory made them the gardens of kings.

The Florentine corsair sailed once more, Out into the West o'er a rainy sea, In search of another wonderful shore For the crown of France and the Fleur-de-lis.

But returned no more the Florentine brave To the courtly knights of fair Rochelle; 'Neath the lilies of France he found a grave, And not 'neath the roses he loved so well.

But the lessons of beauty his fond heart bore From the gardens of God were never lost; And the fairest name of the Eastern shore Bears the fairest isle of the Western coast.

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

The Spaniards still dreamed of a great empire somewhere in Florida, and in 1528 Pánfilo de Narvaez set out with an expedition in search of it. Only four members of the party got back to Cuba alive, the others having been killed or captured by the Indians. Among those captured and enslaved was Juan Ortiz. He was rescued by De Soto nearly ten years later.

ORTIZ

[1528]

"Go bring the captive, he shall die," He said, with faltering breath; "Him stretch upon a scaffold high, And light the fire of death!" The young Creeks danced the captive round, And sang the Song of Doom,-- "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky, Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

They brought the fagots for the flame, The braves and maids together, When came the princess--sweet her name: The Red Flamingo Feather. Then danced the Creeks the scaffold round, And sang the Song of Doom,-- "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky, Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

In shaded plumes of silver gray, The young Creeks danced together, But she danced not with them that day, The Red Flamingo Feather. Wild sped the feet the scaffold round, Wild rose the Song of Doom,-- "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky, Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

They stretched the stranger from the sea, Above the fagots lighted,-- Ortiz,--a courtly man was he, With deeds heroic knighted. And sped the feet the scaffold round, And rose the Song of Doom,-- "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky, Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

The white smoke rose, the braves were gay, The war drums beat together, But sad in heart and face that day Was Red Flamingo Feather. They streaked with flames the dusky air, They streaked the Song of Doom,-- "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky, Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

"Dance, dance, my girl, the torches gleam, Dance, dance, the gray plumes gather, Dance, dance, my girl, the war-hawks scream, Dance, Red Flamingo Feather!" More swiftly now the torches sped, Amid the Dance of Doom,-- "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky, Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

She knelt upon the green moss there, And clasped her father's knees: "My heart is weak, O father, spare The wanderer from the seas!" Like madness now swept on the dance, And rose the Song of Doom,-- "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky, Ye wings of the warrior's plume!"

"Grand were the men who sailed away, And he is young and brave; 'Tis small in heart the weak to slay, 'Tis great in heart to save." He saw the torches sweep the air, He heard the Song of Doom,-- "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky, Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

"My girl, I know thy heart would spare The wanderer from the sea." "The man is fair, and I am fair, And thou art great," said she. The dance of fire went on and on, And on the Song of Doom,-- "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky, Fly, wings of the warrior's plume!"

The dark chief felt his pride abate: "I will the wanderer spare, My Bird of Peace, since I am great, And he, like thee, is fair!" They dropped the torches, stopped the dance, And died the Song of Doom,-- "Fly, fly, ye hawks, in the open sky, Away with the warrior's plume!"

HEZEKIAH BUTTERWORTH.

In 1538 Hernando de Soto was appointed governor of Cuba and Florida, with orders to explore and settle the latter country. He landed at Tampa Bay with nearly a thousand men and started into the interior. He was forced to fight his way across the country against the tribes of the Creek confederacy, and in October, 1540, had a desperate battle with them at a palisaded village called Maubila, at the mouth of the Alabama River.

THE FALL OF MAUBILA

[October 18, 1540]

Hearken the stirring story The soldier has to tell, Of fierce and bloody battle, Contested long and well. Ere walled Maubila, stoutly held, Before our forces fell.

Now many years have circled Since that October day, When proudly to Maubila De Soto took his way, With men-at-arms and cavaliers In terrible array.

Oh, never sight more goodly In any land was seen; And never better soldiers Than those he led have been, More prompt to handle arquebus, Or wield their sabres keen.

The sun was at meridian, His hottest rays fell down Alike on soldier's corselet And on the friar's gown; The breeze was hushed as on we rode Right proudly to the town.

First came the bold De Soto, In all his manly pride, The gallant Don Diego, His nephew, by his side; A yard behind Juan Ortiz rode, Interpreter and guide.

Baltasar de Gallegos, Impetuous, fierce and hot; Francisco de Figarro, Since by an arrow shot; And slender Juan de Guzman, who In battle faltered not.

Luis Bravo de Xeres, That gallant cavalier; Alonzo de Carmono, Whose spirit knew no fear; The marquis of Astorga, and Vasquez, the cannoneer.

Andres de Vasconcellos, Juan Cales, young and fair, Roma de Cardenoso, Him of the yellow hair-- Rode gallant in their bravery, Straight to the public square.

And there, in sombre garments, Were monks of Cuba four, Fray Juan de Gallegos, And other priests a score, Who sacramental bread and wine And holy relics bore.

And next eight hundred soldiers In closest order come, Some with Biscayan lances, With arquebuses some, Timing their tread to martial notes Of trump and fife and drum.

Loud sang the gay Mobilians, Light danced their daughters brown; Sweet sounded pleasant music Through all the swarming town; But 'mid the joy one sullen brow Was lowering with a frown.

The haughty Tuscaloosa, The sovereign of the land, With moody face, and thoughtful, Rode at our chief's right hand, And cast from time to time a glance Of hatred at the band.

And when that gay procession Made halt to take a rest, And eagerly the people To see the strangers prest, The frowning King, in wrathful tones, De Soto thus addressed:

"To bonds and to dishonor By faithless friends trepanned, For days beside you, Spaniard, The ruler of the land Has ridden as a prisoner, Subject to your command.

"He was not born the fetters Of baser men to wear, And tells you this, De Soto, Hard though it be to bear-- Let those beware the panther's rage Who follow to his lair.

"Back to your isle of Cuba! Slink to your den again, And tell your robber sovereign, The mighty lord of Spain, Whoso would strive this land to win Shall find his efforts vain.

"And, save it be your purpose Within my realm to die, Let not your forces linger Our deadly anger nigh, Lest food for vultures and for wolves Your mangled forms should lie."

Then, spurning courtly offers He left our chieftain's side, And crossing the enclosure With quick and lengthened stride, He passed within his palace gates, And there our wrath defied.

Now came up Charamilla, Who led our troop of spies, And said unto our captain, With tones that showed surprise, "A mighty force within the town, In wait to crush us, lies.

"The babes and elder women Were sent at break of day Into the forest yonder, Five leagues or more away: Within yon huts ten thousand men Wait eager for the fray."

"What say ye now, my comrades?" De Soto asked his men; "Shall we, before these traitors, Go backward, baffled, then; Or, sword in hand, attack the foe Who crouches in his den?"

Before their loud responses Had died upon the ear, A savage stood before them, Who said, in accents clear, "Ho! robbers base and coward thieves! Assassin Spaniards, hear!

"No longer shall our sovereign, Born noble, great, and free, Be led beside your master, A shameful sight to see, While weapons here to strike you down Or hands to grasp them be."

As spoke the brawny savage, Full wroth our comrades grew-- Baltasar de Gallegos His heavy weapon drew, And dealt the boaster such a stroke As clove his body through.

Then rushed the swart Mobilians Like hornets from their nest; Against our bristling lances Was bared each savage breast; With arrow-head and club and stone, Upon our band they prest.

"Retreat in steady order! But slay them as ye go!" Exclaimed the brave De Soto, And with each word a blow That sent a savage soul to doom He dealt upon the foe.

"Strike well who would our honor From spot or tarnish save! Strike down the haughty Pagan, The infidel and slave! Saint Mary Mother sits above, And smiles upon the brave.

"Strike! all my gallant comrades! Strike! gentlemen of Spain! Upon the traitor wretches Your deadly anger rain, Or never to your native land Return in pride again!"

Then hosts of angry foemen We fiercely held at bay, Through living walls of Pagans We cut our bloody way; And though by thousands round they swarmed, We kept our firm array.

At length they feared to follow; We stood upon the plain, And dressed our shattered column; When, slacking bridle rein, De Soto, wounded as he was, Led to the charge again.

For now our gallant horsemen Their steeds again had found, That had been fastly tethered Unto the trees around, Though some of these, by arrows slain, Lay stretched upon the ground.

And as the riders mounted, The foe, in joyous tones, Gave vent to shouts of triumph, And hurled a shower of stones; But soon the shouts were changed to wails, The cries of joy to moans.

Down on the scared Mobilians The furious rush was led; Down fell the howling victims Beneath the horses' tread; The angered chargers trod alike On dying and on dead.

Back to the wooden ramparts, With cut and thrust and blow, We drove the panting savage, The very walls below, Till those above upon our heads Huge rocks began to throw.

Whenever we retreated The swarming foemen came-- Their wild and matchless courage Put even ours to shame-- Rushing upon our lances' points, And arquebuses' flame.

Three weary hours we fought them, And often each gave way; Three weary hours, uncertain The fortune of the day; And ever where they fiercest fought De Soto led the fray.

Baltasar de Gallegos Right well displayed his might; His sword fell ever fatal, Death rode its flash of light; And where his horse's head was turned The foe gave way in fright.

At length before our daring The Pagans had to yield, And in their stout enclosure They sought to find a shield, And left us, wearied with our toil, The masters of the field.

Now worn and spent and weary, Our force was scattered round, Some seeking for their comrades, Some seated on the ground, When sudden fell upon our ears A single trumpet's sound.

"Up! ready make for storming!" That speaks Moscoso near; He comes with stainless sabre, He comes with spotless spear; But stains of blood and spots of gore Await his weapons here.

Soon, formed in four divisions, Around the order goes-- "To front with battle-axes! No moment for repose. At signal of an arquebus, Rain on the gates your blows."

Not long that fearful crashing, The gates in splinters fall; And some, though sorely wounded, Climb o'er the crowded wall: No rampart's height can keep them back, No danger can appall.

Then redly rained the carnage-- None asked for quarter there; Men fought with all the fury Born of a wild despair; And shrieks and groans and yells of hate Were mingled in the air.

Four times they backward beat us, Four times our force returned; We quenched in bloody torrents The fire that in us burned; We slew who fought, and those who knelt With stroke of sword we spurned.

And what are these new forces, With long, black, streaming hair? They are the singing maidens Who met us in the square; And now they spring upon our ranks Like she-wolves from their lair.

Their sex no shield to save them, Their youth no weapon stayed; De Soto with his falchion A lane amid them made, And in the skulls of blooming girls Sank battle-axe and blade.

Forth came a wingèd arrow, And struck our leader's thigh; The man who sent it shouted, And looked to see him die; The wound but made the tide of rage Run twice as fierce and high.

Then came our stout camp-master, "The night is coming down; Already twilight darkness Is casting shadows brown; We would not lack for light on strife If once we burned the town."

With that we fired the houses; The ranks before us broke; The fugitives we followed, And dealt them many a stroke, While round us rose the crackling flame, And o'er us hung the smoke.

And what with flames around them, And what with smoke o'erhead, And what with cuts of sabre, And what with horses' tread, And what with lance and arquebus, The town was filled with dead.

Six thousand of the foemen Upon that day were slain, Including those who fought us Outside upon the plain-- Six thousand of the foemen fell, And eighty-two of Spain.

Not one of us unwounded Came from the fearful fray; And when the fight was over And scattered round we lay, Some sixteen hundred wounds we bore As tokens of the day.

And through that weary darkness, And all that dreary night, We lay in bitter anguish, But never mourned our plight, Although we watched with eagerness To see the morning light.

And when the early dawning Had marked the sky with red, We saw the Moloch incense Rise slowly overhead From smoking ruins and the heaps Of charred and mangled dead.

I knew the slain were Pagans, While we in Christ were free, And yet it seemed that moment A spirit said to me: "Henceforth be doomed while life remains This sight of fear to see."

And ever since that dawning Which chased the night away, I wake to see the corses That thus before me lay: And this is why in cloistered cell I wait my latter day.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

Early in 1540 a great expedition under Francisco de Coronado started northward from Mexico in search of the Seven Cities of Cibola, of whose glories and riches many stories had been told. The cities were really the pueblos of the Zuñis, and the ballad tells the story of the march.

QUIVÍRA

[1540-1541]

Francisco Coronado rode forth with all his train, Eight hundred savage bowmen, three hundred spears of Spain, To seek the rumored glory that pathless deserts hold-- The city of Quivíra whose walls are rich with gold.

Oh, gay they rode with plume on crest and gilded spur at heel, With gonfalon of Aragon and banner of Castile! While High Emprise and Joyous Youth, twin marshals of the throng, Awoke Sonora's mountain peaks with trumpet-note and song.

Beside that brilliant army, beloved of serf and lord, There walked as brave a soldier as ever smote with sword, Though nought of knightly harness his russet gown revealed-- The cross he bore as weapon, the missal was his shield.

But rugged oaths were changed to prayers, and angry hearts grew tame, And fainting spirits waxed in faith where Fray Padilla came; And brawny spearmen bowed their heads to kiss the helpful hand Of him who spake the simple truth that brave men understand.

What pen may paint their daring--those doughty cavaliers! The cities of the Zuñi were humbled by their spears. Wild Arizona's barrens grew pallid in the glow Of blades that won Granada and conquered Mexico.

They fared by lofty Acoma; their rally-call was blown Where Colorado rushes down through God-hewn walls of stone; Still, North and East, where deserts spread, and treeless prairies rolled, A Fairy City lured them on with pinnacles of gold.

Through all their weary marches toward that flitting goal They turned to Fray Padilla for aid of heart and soul. He bound the wounds that lance-thrust and flinty arrow made; He cheered the sick and failing; above the dead he prayed.

Two thousand miles of war and woe behind their banners lay: And sadly fever, drought and toil had lessened their array, When came a message fraught with hope to all the steadfast band: "Good tidings from the northward, friends! Quivíra lies at hand!"

How joyously they spurred them! How sadly drew the rein! There shone no golden palace, there blazed no jewelled fane. Rude tents of hide of bison, dog-guarded, met their view-- A squalid Indian village; the lodges of the Sioux!

Then Coronado bowed his head. He spake unto his men: "Our quest is vain, true hearts of Spain! Now ride we home again. And would to God that I might give that phantom city's pride In ransom for the gallant souls that here have sunk and died!"

Back, back to Compostela the wayworn handful bore; But sturdy Fray Padilla took up the quest once more. His soul still longed for conquest, though not by lance and sword; He burned to show the Heathen the pathway to the Lord.

Again he trudged the flinty hills and dazzling desert sands, And few were they that walked with him, and weaponless their hands-- But and the trusty man-at-arms, Docampo, rode him near Like Great Heart, guarding Christian's way through wastes of Doubt and Fear.

Where still in silken harvests the prairie-lilies toss, Among the dark Quivíras Padilla reared his cross. Within its sacred shadow the warriors of the Kaw In wonder heard the Gospel of Love and Peace and Law.

They gloried in their Brown-robed Priest; and oft in twilight's gold The warriors grouped, a silent ring, to hear the tale he told, While round the gentle man-at-arms their lithe-limbed children played And shot their arrows at his shield and rode his guarded blade.

When thrice the silver crescent had filled its curving shell, The Friar rose at dawning and spake his flock farewell: "--And if your Brothers northward be cruel, as ye say, My Master bids me seek them--and dare I answer 'Nay'?"

Again he strode the path of thorns; but ere the evening star A savage cohort swept the plain in paint and plumes of war. Then Fray Padilla spake to them whose hearts were most his own: "My children, bear the tidings home--let me die here alone."

He knelt upon the prairie, begirt by yelling Sioux.-- "Forgive them, oh, my Father! they know not what they do!" The twanging bow-strings answered. Before his eyes, unrolled The City of Quivíra whose streets are paved with gold.

ARTHUR GUITERMAN.

The Spaniards were not the only people who searched in vain for fabulous cities. South of Cape Breton lay a country which the early French explorers named Norembega, and there was supposed to exist, somewhere within its boundaries, a magnificent city of the same name. Roberval and Jacques Cartier spent a number of years after 1541 seeking it, and in 1604 Champlain explored the Penobscot River, on whose banks it was supposed to be situated, but found no trace of it, nor any evidence of civilization except a cross, very old and mossy, in the woods.

NOREMBEGA

[c. 1543]

The winding way the serpent takes The mystic water took, From where, to count its beaded lakes, The forest sped its brook.

A narrow space 'twixt shore and shore, For sun or stars to fall, While evermore, behind, before, Closed in the forest wall.

The dim wood hiding underneath Wan flowers without a name; Life tangled with decay and death, League after league the same.

Unbroken over swamp and hill The rounding shadow lay, Save where the river cut at will A pathway to the day.

Beside that track of air and light, Weak as a child unweaned, At shut of day a Christian knight Upon his henchman leaned.

The embers of the sunset's fires Along the clouds burned down; "I see," he said, "the domes and spires Of Norembega town."

"Alack! the domes, O master mine, Are golden clouds on high; Yon spire is but the branchless pine That cuts the evening sky."

"Oh, hush and hark! What sounds are these But chants and holy hymns?" "Thou hear'st the breeze that stirs the trees Through all their leafy limbs."

"Is it a chapel bell that fills The air with its low tone?" "Thou hear'st the tinkle of the rills, The insect's vesper drone."

"The Christ be praised!--He sets for me A blessed cross in sight!" "Now, nay, 'tis but yon blasted tree With two gaunt arms outright!"

"Be it wind so sad or tree so stark, It mattereth not, my knave; Methinks to funeral hymns I hark, The cross is for my grave!

"My life is sped; I shall not see My home-set sails again; The sweetest eyes of Normandie Shall watch for me in vain.

"Yet onward still to ear and eye The baffling marvel calls; I fain would look before I die On Norembega's walls.

"So, haply, it shall be thy part At Christian feet to lay The mystery of the desert's heart My dead hand plucked away.

"Leave me an hour of rest; go thou And look from yonder heights; Perchance the valley even now Is starred with city lights."

The henchman climbed the nearest hill, He saw nor tower nor town, But, through the drear woods, lone and still, The river rolling down.

He heard the stealthy feet of things Whose shapes he could not see, A flutter as of evil wings, The fall of a dead tree.

The pines stood black against the moon, A sword of fire beyond; He heard the wolf howl, and the loon Laugh from his reedy pond.

He turned him back; "O master dear, We are but men misled; And thou hast sought a city here To find a grave instead."

"As God shall will! what matters where A true man's cross may stand, So Heaven be o'er it here as there In pleasant Norman land?

"These woods, perchance, no secret hide Of lordly tower and hall; Yon river in its wanderings wide Has washed no city wall;

"Yet mirrored in the sullen stream The holy stars are given: Is Norembega, then, a dream Whose waking is in Heaven?

"No builded wonder of these lands My weary eyes shall see; A city never made with hands Alone awaiteth me--

"'Urbs Syon mystica;' I see Its mansions passing fair, 'Condita coelo;' let me be, Dear Lord, a dweller there!"

Above the dying exile hung The vision of the bard, As faltered on his failing tongue The song of good Bernard.

The henchman dug at dawn a grave Beneath the hemlocks brown, And to the desert's keeping gave The lord of fief and town.

Years after, when the Sieur Champlain Sailed up the unknown stream, And Norembega proved again A shadow and a dream,

He found the Norman's nameless grave Within the hemlock's shade, And, stretching wide its arms to save, The sign that God had made,

The cross-boughed tree that marked the spot And made it holy ground: He needs the earthly city not Who hath the heavenly found.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Until the middle of the sixteenth century, Spain was the only nation which had succeeded in establishing colonies in the New World. In 1583 Sir Humphrey Gilbert secured permission from Queen Elizabeth to set out on a voyage of discovery and colonization, for the glory of England. He landed at St. John's, Newfoundland, August 5, and established there the first English colony in North America. Then he sailed away to explore further, and met the fate described in the poem. The colony proved a failure.

SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT

[1583]

Southward with fleet of ice Sailed the corsair Death; Wild and fast blew the blast, And the east-wind was his breath.

His lordly ships of ice Glisten in the sun; On each side, like pennons wide, Flashing crystal streamlets run.

His sails of white sea-mist Dripped with silver rain; But where he passed there were cast Leaden shadows o'er the main.

Eastward from Campobello Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed; Three days or more seaward he bore, Then, alas! the land-wind failed.

Alas! the land-wind failed, And ice-cold grew the night; And nevermore, on sea or shore, Should Sir Humphrey see the light.

He sat upon the deck, The Book was in his hand; "Do not fear! Heaven is as near," He said, "by water as by land!"

In the first watch of the night, Without a signal's sound, Out of the sea, mysteriously, The fleet of Death rose all around.

The moon and the evening star Were hanging in the shrouds; Every mast, as it passed, Seemed to rake the passing clouds.

They grappled with their prize, At midnight black and cold! As of a rock was the shock; Heavily the ground-swell rolled.

Southward through day and dark, They drift in close embrace, With mist and rain, o'er the open main; Yet there seems no change of place.

Southward, forever southward, They drift through dark and day; And like a dream, in the Gulf-Stream Sinking, vanish all away.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

With the destruction of the Armada in 1588, Spain's sea power was so shattered that the Atlantic ceased to be a battleground. English sailors could come and go with a fair degree of safety, and before long the American coast was alive with these daring and adventurous voyagers.

THE FIRST AMERICAN SAILORS

_Five fearless knights of the first renown In Elizabeth's great array, From Plymouth in Devon sailed up and down-- American sailors they; Who went to the West, For they all knew best Where the silver was gray As a moonlit night, And the gold as bright As a midsummer day-- A-sailing away Through the salt sea spray, The first American sailors._

Sir HUMPHREY GILBERT, he was ONE And Devon was heaven to him, He loved the sea as he loved the sun _And hated the Don as the Devil's limb-- Hated him up to the brim_: In Holland the Spanish hide he tanned, He roughed and routed their braggart band, And God was with him on sea and land; Newfoundland knew him, and all that coast For he was one of America's host-- And now there is nothing but English speech For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach, From near the Equator away to the Pole; While the billows beat and the oceans roll On the Three Americas.

Sir FRANCIS DRAKE, and he was TWO And Devon was heaven to him, He loved in his heart the waters blue _And hated the Don as the Devil's limb-- Hated him up to the brim_! At Cadiz he singed the King's black beard, The Armada met him and fled afeard, Great Philip's golden fleece he sheared; Oregon knew him, and all that coast, For he was one of America's host-- And now there is nothing but English speech For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach, From California away to the Pole; While the billows beat and the oceans roll On the Three Americas.

Sir WALTER RALEIGH, he was THREE And Devon was heaven to him, There was nothing he loved so well as the sea-- _He hated the Don as the Devil's limb-- Hated him up to the brim_! He settled full many a Spanish score, Full many's the banner his bullets tore On English, American, Spanish shore; Guiana knew him, and all that coast, For he was one of America's host-- And now there is nothing but English speech For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach, From Guiana northward to the Pole; While the billows beat and the oceans roll On the Three Americas.

Sir RICHARD GRENVILLE, he was FOUR And Devon was heaven to him, He loved the waves and their windy roar _And hated the Don as the Devil's limb-- Hated him up to the brim_! He whipped him on land and mocked him at sea, He laughed to scorn his sovereignty, And with the Revenge beat his fifty-three; Virginia knew him, and all that coast, For he was one of America's host-- And now there is nothing but English speech For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach, From the Old Dominion away to the Pole; While the billows beat and the oceans roll On the Three Americas.

And Sir JOHN HAWKINS, he was FIVE And Devon was heaven to him, He worshipped the water while he was alive _And hated the Don as the Devil's limb-- Hated him up to the brim_! He chased him over the Spanish Main, He scoffed and defied the navies of Spain-- His cities he ravished again and again; The Gulf it knew him, and all that coast, For he was one of America's host-- And now there is nothing but English speech For leagues and leagues, and reach on reach, From the Rio Grandè away to the Pole; While the billows beat and the oceans roll On the Three Americas.

_Five fearless knights have filled gallant graves This many and many a day, Some under the willows, some under the waves-- American sailors they; And still in the West Is their valor blest, Where a banner bright With the ocean's blue And the red wrack's hue And the spoondrift's white Is smiling to-day Through the salt sea spray Upon American sailors._

WALLACE RICE.

III. THE SETTLEMENT OF VIRGINIA

England laid claim to the continent of North America by virtue of the discoveries of John Cabot in 1497, but little effort was made toward colonization until 1584, when an expedition sent out by Sir Walter Raleigh explored Albemarle Sound and the adjacent coast, and brought back so glowing a description of the country that Elizabeth named the whole region Virginia, in honor of her maidenhood. An abortive attempt to settle Roanoke Island was made in 1585, and in 1587 another expedition under John White landed there. White returned to England in the fall to represent the needs of the settlement, leaving behind him his daughter and little granddaughter,--Virginia Dare, the first white child born in America. He promised to return within a year, but was intercepted by Spaniards, and it was not until August, 1590, that he again dropped anchor off the island. When he went ashore next day, not a trace of the colonists could be found, nor was their fate ever certainly discovered.

THE MYSTERY OF CRO-A-TÀN

I

[August 27, 1587]

The home-bound ship stood out to sea, And on the island's marge, Sir Richard waited restlessly To step into the barge.

"The Governor tarrieth long," he chode, "As he were loth to go: With food before, and want behind, There should be haste, I trow."

Even as he spake, the Governor came:-- "Nay, fret not, for the men Have held me back with frantic let, To have them home again.

"The women weep;--'Ay, ay, the ship Will come again' (he saith), 'Before the May;--Before the May We shall have starved to death!'

"I've sworn return by God's dear leave, I've vowed by court and crown, Nor yet appeased them. Comrade, thou, Mayhap, canst soothe them down."

Sir Richard loosed his helm, and stretched Impatient hands abroad:-- "Have ye no trust in man?" he cried, "Have ye no faith in God?

"Your Governor goes, as needs he must, To bear through royal grace, Hither, such food-supply, that want May never blench a face.

"Of freest choice ye willed to leave What so ye had of ease; For neither stress of liege nor law Hath forced you over seas.

"Your Governor leaves fair hostages As costliest pledge of care,-- His daughter yonder, and her child, The child Virginia Dare!

"Come hither, little sweetheart! Lo! Thou'lt be the first, I ween, To bend the knee, and send through me Thy birthland's virgin fealty Unto its Virgin Queen.

"And now, good folk, for my commands: If ye are fain to roam Beyond this island's narrow bounds, To seek elsewhere a home,--

"Upon some pine-tree's smoothen trunk Score deep the Indian name Of tribe or village where ye haunt, That we may read the same.

"And if ye leave your haven here Through dire distress or loss, Cut deep within the wood above The symbol of the cross.

"And now on my good blade, I swear, And seal it with this sign, That if the fleet that sails to-day Return not hither by the May, The fault shall not be mine!"

II

[August 15, 1590]

The breath of spring was on the sea; Anon the Governor stepped His good ship's deck right merrily,-- His promise had been kept.

"See, see! the coast-line comes in view!" He heard the mariners shout,-- "We'll drop our anchors in the Sound Before a star is out!"

"Now God be praised!" he inly breathed, "Who saves from all that harms; The morrow morn my pretty ones Will rest within my arms."

At dawn of day they moored their ship, And dared the breakers' roar: What meant it? not a man was there To welcome them ashore!

They sprang to find the cabins rude; The quick green sedge had thrown Its knotted web o'er every door, And climbed the chimney-stone.

The spring was choked with winter's leaves, And feebly gurgled on; And from the pathway, strewn with wrack, All trace of feet was gone.

Their fingers thrid the matted grass, If there, perchance, a mound Unseen might heave the broken turf; But not a grave was found.

They beat the tangled cypress swamp, If haply in despair They might have strayed into its glade: But found no vestige there.

"The pine! the pine!" the Governor groaned; And there each staring man Read in a maze, one single word, Deep carven,--CRO-A-TÀN!

But cut above, no cross, no sign, No symbol of distress; Naught else beside that mystic line Within the wilderness!

And where and what was "CRO-A-TÀN"? But not an answer came; And none of all who read it there Had ever heard the name.

The Governor drew his jerkin sleeve Across his misty eyes; "Some land, maybe, of savagery Beyond the coast that lies;

"And skulking there the wily foe In ambush may have lain: God's mercy! Could such sweetest heads Lie scalped among the slain?

"O daughter! daughter! with the thought My harrowed brain is wild! Up with the anchors! I must find The mother and the child!"

They scoured the mainland near and far: The search no tidings brought; Till mid a forest's dusky tribe They heard the name they sought.

The kindly natives came with gifts Of corn and slaughtered deer; What room for savage treachery Or foul suspicion here?

Unhindered of a chief or brave, They searched the wigwam through; But neither lance nor helm nor spear, Nor shred of child's nor woman's gear, Could furnish forth a clue.

How could a hundred souls be caught Straight out of life, nor find Device through which to mark their fate, Or leave some hint behind?

Had winter's ocean inland rolled An eagre's deadly spray, That overwhelmed the island's breadth And swept them all away?

In vain, in vain, their heart-sick search! No tidings reached them more; No record save that silent word Upon that silent shore.

The mystery rests a mystery still, Unsolved of mortal man: Sphinx-like untold, the ages hold The tale of CRO-A-TÀN!

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

In April, 1606, James I sanctioned the formation of two Virginia colonies, and the first colony set sail on the following New Year's day--three vessels, with one hundred and five men, under command of Christopher Newport. Twelve weeks later, they landed at a place they named "Point Comfort," and proceeded up a great river which they named the King's and afterwards the James. On May 13, 1607, the colonists landed on a low peninsula fifty miles up the river, and Captain Newport selected this, against many protests, as the site for the settlement. They christened the place Jamestown. Captains Newport, Gosnold, Smith, and Sickelmore were named as the resident council for the colony, but time soon proved Smith the ablest man in the company, and the leadership fell to him.

JOHN SMITH'S APPROACH TO JAMESTOWN

[May 13, 1607]

I pause not now to speak of Raleigh's dreams, Though they might give a loftier bard fit themes: I pause not now to tell of Ocracock, Where Saxon spray broke on the red-brown rock; Nor of my native river which glides down Through scenes where rose a happy Indian town; But, leaving these and Chesapeake's broad bay, Resume my story in the month of May, Where England's cross--St. George's ensign--flowed Where ne'er before emblazoned banner glowed; Where English breasts throbbed fast as English eyes Looked o'er the waters with a glad surprise,-- Looked gladly out upon the varied scene Where stretched the woods in all their pomp of green; Flinging great shadows, beautiful and vast As e'er upon Arcadian lake were cast. Turn where they would, in what direction rove, They found some bay, or wild, romantic cove, On which they coasted through those forests dim, Wherein they heard the never-ceasing hymn That swelled from all the tall, majestic pines,-- Fit choristers of Nature's sylvan shrines.

For though no priest their solitudes had trod, The trees were vocal in their praise of God. And then, when, capes and jutting headlands past, The sails were furled against each idle mast, They saw the sunset in its pomp descend, And sky and water gloriously contend For gorgeousness of colors, red and gold, And tints of amethyst together rolled, Making a scene of splendor and of rest As vanquished day lit camp-fires in the West. And when the light grew faint on wave and strand, New beauties woke in this enchanted land, For through heaven's lattice-work of crimson bars Like angels looked the bright eternal stars, And then, when gathered tints of purplish brown, A golden sickle, reaping darkness down, The new moon shone above the lofty trees, Which made low music in the evening breeze,-- The breeze which floating blandly from the shore The perfumed breath of flowering jasmine bore; For smiling Spring had kissed its clustering vines, And breathed her fragrance on the lofty pines.

JAMES BARRON HOPE.

Captain Smith proved himself an energetic and effective leader, and led numerous expeditions into the country in search of food. On one of these, in December, 1607, he was taken prisoner and was conducted to the camp of Powhatan, over-king of the tribes from the Atlantic coast to the "falls of the river." According to the story he sent to England a few months later, he was well treated, and was sent back to Jamestown with an escort. Eight years afterwards, when writing an account of Powhatan's younger daughter, Pocahontas, who was then in England, for the entertainment of Queen Anne, he embellished this plain and probably truthful tale with the romantic incidents so long received as history.

POCAHONTAS

[January 5, 1608]

Wearied arm and broken sword Wage in vain the desperate fight; Round him press a countless horde, He is but a single knight. Hark! a cry of triumph shrill Through the wilderness resounds, As, with twenty bleeding wounds, Sinks the warrior, fighting still.

Now they heap the funeral pyre, And the torch of death they light; Ah! 'tis hard to die by fire! Who will shield the captive knight? Round the stake with fiendish cry Wheel and dance the savage crowd, Cold the victim's mien and proud, And his breast is bared to die.

Who will shield the fearless heart? Who avert the murderous blade? From the throng with sudden start See, there springs an Indian maid. Quick she stands before the knight: "Loose the chain, unbind the ring! I am daughter of the king, And I claim the Indian right!"

Dauntlessly aside she flings Lifted axe and thirsty knife, Fondly to his heart she clings, And her bosom guards his life! In the woods of Powhatan, Still 'tis told by Indian fires How a daughter of their sires Saved a captive Englishman.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

The way in which the Pocahontas incident has been handled by the poets is an interesting and joyous study. These stanzas of Morris's are too delicious to be omitted.

POCAHONTAS

Upon the barren sand A single captive stood; Around him came, with bow and brand, The red men of the wood. Like him of old, his doom he hears, Rock-bound on ocean's brim-- The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears, And breathed a prayer for him.

Above his head in air The savage war-club swung: The frantic girl, in wild despair, Her arms about him flung. Then shook the warriors of the shade, Like leaves on aspen limb, Subdued by that heroic maid Who breathed a prayer for him!

"Unbind him!" gasped the chief: "It is your king's decree!" He kiss'd away the tears of grief, And set the captive free! 'Tis ever thus, when in life's storm Hope's star to man grows dim, An angel kneels, in woman's form, And breathes a prayer for him.

GEORGE POPE MORRIS.

The colony did not flourish as had been hoped, and in May, 1609, the King granted a new charter with larger powers and privileges, and a new company was formed, of which Sir Thomas Gates, Lord De La Warr, and Sir George Somers were made the officers. A large expedition sailed from England June 2, 1609, in charge of Gates, Somers, and Captain Newport, who were on the Sea Venture. During a violent hurricane, their ship was separated from the rest of the fleet and cast ashore upon the Bermudas, whose beauties were so eloquently sung by Andrew Marvell.

BERMUDAS

Where the remote Bermudas ride In the ocean's bosom unespied, From a small boat, that rowed along, The listening winds received this song:

"What should we do but sing His praise, That led us through the watery maze, Unto an isle so long unknown, And yet far kinder than our own? Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, That lift the deep upon their backs, He lands us on a grassy stage, Safe from the storms, and prelates' rage. He gave us this eternal Spring Which here enamels every thing, And sends the fowls to us in care, On daily visits through the air; He hangs in shades the orange bright, Like golden lamps in a green night, And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows; He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet; But apples plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by His hand From Lebanon He stores the land, And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergris on shore; He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast, And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound His name. Oh! let our voice His praise exalt, Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique Bay."

Thus sung they, in the English boat, A holy and a cheerful note: And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time.

ANDREW MARVELL.

The passengers and crew of the Sea Venture managed to get to land, and finally built two pinnaces, in which they reached Virginia May 24, 1610. They found the colonists in a desolate and miserable condition, and only the timely arrival of Lord De La Warr in the following month (June 9, 1610), with fresh supplies and colonists, prevented them from burning the town and sailing back to England. Among the passengers on the Sea Venture was one Richard Rich. He shared in all the adventures and hardships of the voyage, and finally got back to England in the fall of 1610. On October 1 he published an account of the voyage, called "Newes from Virginia," the first poem written by a visitor to America.

NEWES FROM VIRGINIA

[September, 1610]

It is no idle fabulous tale, nor is it fayned newes: For Truth herself is heere arriv'd, because you should not muse. With her both Gates and Newport come, to tell Report doth lye, Which did divulge unto the world, that they at sea did dye.

Tis true that eleaven months and more, these gallant worthy wights War in the shippe Sea-venture nam'd depriv'd Virginia's sight. And bravely did they glyde the maine, till Neptune gan to frowne, As if a courser proudly backt would throwe his ryder downe.

The seas did rage, the windes did blowe, distressèd were they then; Their ship did leake, her tacklings breake, in daunger were her men. But heaven was pylotte in this storme, and to an iland nere, Bermoothawes call'd, conducted then, which did abate their feare.

But yet these worthies forcèd were, opprest with weather againe, To runne their ship betweene two rockes, where she doth still remaine. And then on shoare the iland came, inhabited by hogges, Some foule and tortoyses there were, they only had one dogge.

To kill these swyne, to yeild them foode that little had to eate, Their store was spent, and all things scant, alas! they wanted meate. A thousand hogges that dogge did kill, their hunger to sustaine, And with such foode did in that ile two and forty weekes remaine.

And there two gallant pynases did build of seader-tree; The brave Deliverance one was call'd; of seaventy tonne was shee. The other Patience had to name, her burthen thirty tonne; Two only of their men which there pale death did overcome.

And for the losse of these two soules, which were accounted deere, A son and daughter then was borne, and were baptizèd there. The two and forty weekes being past, they hoyst sayle and away; Their ships with hogges well freighted were, their harts with mickle joy.

And so unto Virginia came, where these brave soldiers finde The English-men opprest with greife and discontent in minde. They seem'd distracted and forlorne, for those two worthyes losse, Yet at their home returne they joy'd, among'st them some were crosse.

And in the mid'st of discontent came noble Delaware; He heard the greifes on either part, and sett them free from care. He comforts them and cheeres their hearts, that they abound with joy; He feedes them full and feedes their souls with Gods word every day.

A discreet counsell he creates of men of worthy fame, That noble Gates leiftenant was the admirall had to name. The worthy Sir George Somers knight, and others of commaund; Maister Georg Pearcy, which is brother unto Northumberland.

Sir Fardinando Wayneman Knight, and others of good fame, That noble lord his company, which to Virginia came, And landed there; his number was one hundred seaventy; then Ad to the rest, and they make full foure hundred able men.

Where they unto their labour fall, as men that meane to thrive; Let's pray that heaven may blesse them all, and keep them long alive. Those men that vagrants liv'd with us, have there deserved well; Their governour writes in their praise, as divers letters tel.

And to th' adventurers thus he writes be not dismayed at all, For scandall cannot doe us wrong, God will not let us fall. Let England knowe our willingnesse, for that our worke is goode; Wee hope to plant a nation, where none before hath stood.

To glorifie the lord tis done; and to no other end; He that would crosse so good a work, to God can be no friend. There is no feare of hunger here for corne much store here growes, Much fish the gallant rivers yeild, tis truth without suppose.

Great store of fowle, of venison, of grapes and mulberries, Of chestnuts, walnuts, and such like, of fruits and strawberries, There is indeed no want at all, but some, condiciond ill, That wish the worke should not goe on with words doe seeme to kill.

And for an instance of their store, the noble Delaware Hath for the present hither sent, to testify his care In mannaging so good a worke, to gallant ships, by name, The Blessing and the Hercules, well fraught, and in the same

Two ships, as these commodities, furres, sturgeon, caviare, Black walnut-tree, and some deale boards, with such they laden are; Some pearle, some wainscot and clapboards, with some sassafras wood, And iron promist, for tis true their mynes are very good.

Then maugre scandall, false report, or any opposition, Th' adventurers doe thus devulge to men of good condition, That he that wants shall have reliefe, be he of honest minde, Apparel, coyne, or any thing, to such they will be kinde.

To such as to Virginia do purpose to repaire; And when that they shall hither come, each man shall have his share. Day wages for the laborer, and for his more content, A house and garden plot shall have; besides, tis further ment

That every man shall have a part, and not thereof denaid, Of generall profit, as if that he twelve pounds ten shillings paid; And he that in Virginia shall copper coyne receive, For hyer or commodities, and will the country leave

Upon delivery of such coyne unto the Governour, Shall by exchange at his returne be by their treasurer Paid him in London at first sight, no man shall cause to grieve, For tis their generall will and wish that every man should live.

The number of adventurers, that are for this plantation, Are full eight hundred worthy men, some noble, all of fashion. Good, discreete, their worke is good, and as they have begun, May Heaven assist them in their worke, and thus our newes is done.

RICHARD RICH.

Lord Delaware's stay in Virginia marked the turning-point in the fortunes of the colony. New settlements were made, tobacco culture was begun, and Virginia seemed at last fairly started on the road to prosperity.

TO THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE

[1611]

You brave heroic minds, Worthy your country's name, That honor still pursue, Go and subdue, Whilst loitering hinds Lurk here at home, with shame.

Britons, you stay too long: Quickly aboard bestow you, And with a merry gale Swell your stretch'd sail, With vows as strong As the winds that blow you.

Your course securely steer, West and by south forth keep! Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals, When Eolus scowls, You need not fear, So absolute the deep.

And cheerfully at sea, Success you still entice, To get the pearl and gold, And ours to hold Virginia, Earth's only paradise.

Where nature hath in store Fowl, venison, and fish, And the fruitful'st soil, Without your toil, Three harvests more, All greater than your wish.

And the ambitious vine Crowns with his purple mass The cedar reaching high To kiss the sky, The cypress, pine, And useful sassafras.

To whom the Golden Age Still nature's laws doth give, No other cares attend, But them to defend From winter's rage, That long there doth not live.

When as the luscious smell Of that delicious land, Above the seas that flows, The clear wind throws, Your hearts to swell Approaching the dear strand;

In kenning of the shore (Thanks to God first given) O you the happiest men, Be frolic then! Let cannons roar, Frighting the wide heaven;

And in regions far Such heroes bring ye forth As those from whom we came, And plant our name Under that star Not known unto our North;

And as there plenty grows Of laurel everywhere,-- Apollo's sacred tree,-- You it may see, A poet's brows To crown, that may sing there.

Thy Voyages attend Industrious Hackluit, Whose reading shall inflame Men to seek fame, And much commend To after-times thy wit.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

Among the planters at Jamestown was John Rolfe, a zealous Christian, who became interested in Pocahontas. Finally, either captivated by her grace and beauty as the romancists believe, or in spite of personal scruples and "for the good of the colony," as Hamor wrote, he proposed marriage. The Princess was willing, her father consented, though he refused to be present at the ceremony (April 5, 1614), and the bride was given away by her uncle Opachisco. They had one son, Thomas Rolfe, whose descendants are still living in Virginia.

THE MARRIAGE OF POCAHONTAS

[April 5, 1614]

That balmy eve, within a trellised bower, Rudely constructed on the sounding shore, Her plighted troth the forest maiden gave Ere sought the skiff that bore them o'er the wave To the dark home-bound ship, whose restless sway Rocked to the winds and waves, impatient of delay.

* * * * *

Short was the word that pledged triumphant love; That vow, that claims its registry above. And low the cadence of that hymn of praise Whose hallowed incense rose, as rose its lays; And few the worshippers 'neath that pure cope Which emblems to the soul eternal hope.

One native maiden waited the command Of the young Princess of Virginia's strand; And that dark youth, the Page of Cedar Isle, Who wept her woes, and shared her sad exile, With his loved bride, who owned the royal blood, And near the forest Queen majestically stood.

Some others bent beside the rural shrine In adoration to the Power divine; When at the altar knelt, with minds serene, The gallant Soldier and the dark-browed Queen.

These, for the love they bore her guileless youth, Paid the high fealty of the warm heart's truth; And with its homage satisfied, gone o'er Each vision bright that graced their natal shore.

Those, with forebodings dread and brimful eyes, Bade holy angels guard the destinies Of one on whom had fallen the chrism of light With unction pure; the youthful neophyte Of that fair clime where millions yet unborn Shall raise the choral hymn from eve till morn.

MRS. M. M. WEBSTER.

In 1616 Pocahontas was taken to England, where she was received with marked attention by the Queen and court. She renewed her acquaintance with Captain John Smith, who was busy weaving fairy tales about her, had her portrait painted and led a fashionable life generally. It did not agree with her, she developed consumption, and died at Gravesend, March 27, 1617.

THE LAST MEETING OF POCAHONTAS AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN

[June, 1616]

In a stately hall at Brentford, when the English June was green, Sat the Indian Princess, summoned that her graces might be seen, For the rumor of her beauty filled the ear of court and Queen.

There for audience as she waited, with half-scornful, silent air All undazzled by the splendor gleaming round her everywhere, Dight in broidered hose and doublet, came a courtier down the stair.

As with striding step he hasted, burdened with the Queen's command, Loud he cried, in tones that tingled, "Welcome, welcome, to my land!" But a tremor seized the Princess, and she drooped upon her hand.

"What! no word, my Sparkling-Water? must I come on bended knee? I were slain within the forest, I were dead beyond the sea; On the banks of wild Pamunkey, I had perished but for thee.

"Ah, I keep a heart right loyal, that can never more forget! I can hear the rush, the breathing; I can see the eyelids wet; I can feel the sudden tightening of thine arms about me yet.

"Nay, look up. Thy father's daughter never feared the face of man, Shrank not from the forest darkness when her doe-like footsteps ran To my cabin, bringing tidings of the craft of Powhatan."

With extended arms, entreating, stood the stalwart Captain there, While the courtiers press around her, and the passing pages stare; But no sign gave Pocahontas underneath her veil of hair.

All her lithe and willowy figure quivered like an aspen-leaf, And she crouched as if she shrivelled, frost-touched by some sudden grief, Turning only on her husband, Rolfe, one glance, sharp, searching, brief.

At the Captain's haughty gesture, back the curious courtiers fell, And with soothest word and accent he besought that she would tell Why she turned away, nor greeted him whom she had served so well.

But for two long hours the Princess dumbly sate and bowed her head, Moveless as the statue near her. When at last she spake, she said: "White man's tongue is false. It told me--told me--that my brave was dead.

"And I lay upon my deer-skins all one moon of falling leaves (Who hath care for song or corn-dance, when the voice within her grieves?), Looking westward where the souls go, up the path the sunset weaves.

"Call me 'child' now. It is over. On my husband's arm I lean; Never shadow, Nenemoosa, our twain hearts shall come between; Take my hand, and let us follow the great Captain to his Queen."

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

In 1676 the colony was shaken by a struggle which presaged that other one which was to occur just a century later. An Indian war had broken out along the frontier, but Governor Berkeley disbanded the forces gathered to repress it. Whereupon a young man named Nathaniel Bacon gathered a force of his own, marched against the Indians, and was proclaimed a rebel and traitor by the royal governor, who had collected at Jamestown a force of nearly a thousand men. Bacon, after a campaign in which the hostile Indians were practically wiped out of existence, marched back to Jamestown and besieged the place. After a sally in which he was repulsed, Berkeley sailed away and left the town to its fate. Bacon entered it next morning (September 19, 1676), and, deciding that he could not hold it, set fire to it that evening. It was totally destroyed.

THE BURNING OF JAMESTOWN

[September 19, 1676]

Mad Berkeley believed, with his gay cavaliers, And the ruffians he brought from the Accomac shore, He could ruffle our spirit by rousing our fears, And lord it again as he lorded before: It was--"Traitors, be dumb!" And--"Surrender, ye scum!" And that Bacon, our leader, was rebel, he swore.

A rebel? Not he! He was true to the throne; For the King, at a word, he would lay down his life; But to listen unmoved to the piteous moan When the redskin was plying the hatchet and knife, And shrink from the fray, Was not the man's way-- It was Berkeley, not Bacon, who stirred up the strife.

On the outer plantations the savages burst, And scattered around desolation and woe; And Berkeley, possessed by some spirit accurst, Forbade us to deal for our kinsfolk a blow; Though when, weapons in hand, We made our demand, He sullenly suffered our forces to go.

Then while we were doing our work for the crown, And risking our lives in the perilous fight, He sent lying messengers out, up and down, To denounce us as outlaws--mere malice and spite; Then from Accomac's shore Brought a thousand or more, Who swaggered the country around, day and night.

Returning in triumph, instead of reward For the marches we made and the battles we won, There were threats of the fetters or bullet or sword-- Were these a fair guerdon for what we had done? When this madman abhorred Appealed to the sword, And our leader said "fight!" did he think we would run?

Battle-scarred, and a handful of men as we were, We feared not to combat with lord or with lown, So we took the old wretch at his word--that was fair; But he dared not come out from his hold in the town Where he lay with his men, Like a wolf in his den; And in siege of the place we sat steadily down.

He made a fierce sally,--his force was so strong He thought the mere numbers would put us to flight,-- But we met in close column his ruffianly throng, And smote it so sore that we filled him with fright; Then while ready we lay For the storming next day, He embarked in his ships, and escaped in the night.

The place was our own; could we hold it? why, no! Not if Berkeley should gather more force and return; But one course was left us to baffle the foe-- The birds would not come if the nest we should burn; So the red, crackling fire Climbed to roof-top and spire, A lesson for black-hearted Berkeley to learn.

That our torches destroyed what our fathers had raised On that beautiful isle, is it matter of blame? That the houses we dwelt in, the church where they praised The God of our Fathers, we gave to the flame? That we smiled when there lay Smoking ruins next day, And nothing was left of the town but its name?

We won; but we lost when brave Nicholas died; The spirit that nerved us was gone from us then; And Berkeley came back in his arrogant pride To give to the gallows the best of our men; But while the grass grows And the clear water flows, The town shall not rise from its ashes again.

So, you come for your victim! I'm ready; but, pray, Ere I go, some good fellow a full goblet bring. Thanks, comrade! Now hear the last words I shall say With the last drink I take. Here's a health to the King, Who reigns o'er a land Where, against his command, The rogues rule and ruin, while honest men swing.

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

Jamestown soon avenged itself. Before Bacon left the place he was ill with fever, and on the first day of October, at the house of a friend in Gloucester County, he "surrendered up that fort he was no longer able to keep, into the hands of the grim and all-conquering Captain, Death." His death was celebrated in a poem which is perhaps the most brilliant example of sustained poetic art produced in Colonial America. It was written "by his man," of whom absolutely nothing is known.

BACON'S EPITAPH, MADE BY HIS MAN

[October 1, 1676]

Death, why so cruel? What! no other way To manifest thy spleen, but thus to slay Our hopes of safety, liberty, our all, Which, through thy tyranny, with him must fall To its late chaos? Had thy rigid force Been dealt by retail, and not thus in gross, Grief had been silent. Now we must complain, Since thou, in him, hast more than thousands slain, Whose lives and safeties did so much depend On him their life, with him their lives must end. If 't be a sin to think Death brib'd can be We must be guilty; say 'twas bribery Guided the fatal shaft. Virginia's foes, To whom for secret crimes just vengeance owes Deservèd plagues, dreading their just desert, Corrupted Death by Paracelsian art Him to destroy; whose well-tried courage such, Their heartless hearts, nor arms, nor strength could touch. Who now must heal those wounds, or stop that blood The Heathen made, and drew into a flood? Who is't must plead our cause? nor trump, nor drum, Nor Deputation; these, alas! are dumb And cannot speak. Our arms (though ne'er so strong) Will want the aid of his commanding tongue, Which conquer'd more than Cæsar. He o'erthrew Only the outward frame; this could subdue The rugged works of nature. Souls replete With dull chill cold, he'd animate with heat Drawn forth of reason's limbec. In a word, Mars and Minerva both in him concurred For arts, for arms, whose pen and sword alike As Cato's did, may admiration strike Into his foes; while they confess withal It was their guilt styl'd him a criminal. Only this difference does from truth proceed: They in the guilt, he in the name must bleed. While none shall dare his obsequies to sing In deserv'd measures; until time shall bring Truth crown'd with freedom, and from danger free To sound his praises to posterity. Here let him rest; while we this truth report, He's gone from hence unto a higher Court To plead his cause, where he by this doth know Whether to Cæsar he was friend or foe.

Jamestown never recovered from the blow which Bacon dealt it. The location was so unhealthy that it could not attract new settlers, and though some of the houses which had been burned were subsequently rebuilt, the town's day of greatness was past. The seat of government was removed to Williamsburg, and the old settlement dropped gradually to decay.

ODE TO JAMESTOWN

Old cradle of an infant world, In which a nestling empire lay, Struggling awhile, ere she unfurled Her gallant wing and soared away; All hail! thou birthplace of the glowing west, Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruined nest!

What solemn recollections throng, What touching visions rise, As, wandering these old stones among, I backward turn mine eyes, And see the shadows of the dead flit round, Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound.

The wonders of an age combined In one short moment memory supplies; They throng upon my wakened mind, As time's dark curtains rise. The volume of a hundred buried years, Condensed in one bright sheet, appears.

I hear the angry ocean rave, I see the lonely little bark Scudding along the crested wave, Freighted like old Noah's ark, As o'er the drownèd earth 'twas hurled, With the forefathers of another world.

I see the train of exiles stand, Amid the desert, desolate, The fathers of my native land, The daring pioneers of fate, Who braved the perils of the sea and earth, And gave a boundless empire birth.

I see the sovereign Indian range His woodland empire, free as air; I see the gloomy forest change, The shadowy earth laid bare; And where the red man chased the bounding deer, The smiling labors of the white appear.

I see the haughty warrior gaze In wonder or in scorn, As the pale faces sweat to raise Their scanty fields of corn, While he, the monarch of the boundless wood, By sport, or hair-brained rapine, wins his food.

A moment, and the pageant's gone; The red men are no more; The pale-faced strangers stand alone Upon the river's shore; And the proud wood-king, who their arts disdained, Finds but a bloody grave where once he reigned.

The forest reels beneath the stroke Of sturdy woodman's axe; The earth receives the white man's yoke, And pays her willing tax Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields, And all that nature to blithe labor yields.

Then growing hamlets rear their heads, And gathering crowds expand, Far as my fancy's vision spreads, O'er many a boundless land, Till what was once a world of savage strife Teems with the richest gifts of social life.

Empire to empire swift succeeds, Each happy, great, and free; One empire still another breeds, A giant progeny, Destined their daring race to run, Each to the regions of yon setting sun.

Then, as I turn my thoughts to trace The fount whence these rich waters sprung, I glance towards this lonely place, And find it these rude stones among. Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping round, The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found.

Their names have been forgotten long; The stone, but not a word, remains; They cannot live in deathless song, Nor breathe in pious strains. Yet this sublime obscurity to me More touching is than poet's rhapsody.

They live in millions that now breathe; They live in millions yet unborn, And pious gratitude shall wreathe As bright a crown as e'er was worn, And hang it on the green-leaved bough, That whispers to the nameless dead below.

No one that inspiration drinks, No one that loves his native land, No one that reasons, feels, or thinks, Can mid these lonely ruins stand Without a moistened eye, a grateful tear Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.

The mighty shade now hovers round, Of him whose strange, yet bright career Is written on this sacred ground In letters that no time shall sere; Who in the Old World smote the turbaned crew, And founded Christian empires in the New.

And she! the glorious Indian maid, The tutelary of this land, The angel of the woodland shade, The miracle of God's own hand, Who joined man's heart to woman's softest grace, And thrice redeemed the scourges of her race.

Sister of charity and love, Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide, Dear goddess of the sylvan grove, Flower of the forest, nature's pride, He is no man who does not bend the knee, And she no woman who is not like thee!

Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallowed rock To me shall ever sacred be,-- I care not who my themes may mock, Or sneer at them and me. I envy not the brute who here can stand Without a thrill for his own native land.

And if the recreant crawl her earth, Or breathe Virginia's air, Or in New England claim his birth, From the old pilgrims there, He is a bastard if he dare to mock Old Jamestown's shrine or Plymouth's famous rock.

JAMES KIRKE PAULDING.

In the early part of the eighteenth century, pirates did a thriving trade along the American coast. One of the most redoubtable of these was Captain Teach, better known as "Blackbeard." After a long career of variegated villainy, he was cornered in Pamlico Inlet, in 1718, and killed, together with most of his crew, by a force sent after him by Governor Spottiswood of Virginia. His death was celebrated in a ballad said to have been written by Benjamin Franklin.

THE DOWNFALL OF PIRACY

[November 22, 1718]

Will you hear of a bloody Battle, Lately fought upon the Seas? It will make your Ears to rattle, And your Admiration cease; Have you heard of Teach the Rover, And his Knavery on the Main; How of Gold he was a Lover, How he lov'd all ill-got Gain?

When the Act of Grace appeared, Captain Teach, with all his Men, Unto Carolina steered, Where they kindly us'd him then; There he marry'd to a Lady, And gave her five hundred Pound, But to her he prov'd unsteady, For he soon march'd off the Ground.

And returned, as I tell you, To his Robbery as before, Burning, sinking Ships of value, Filling them with Purple Gore; When he was at Carolina, There the Governor did send To the Governor of Virginia, That he might assistance lend.

Then the Man-of-War's Commander, Two small Sloops he fitted out, Fifty Men he put on board, Sir, Who resolv'd to stand it out; The Lieutenant he commanded Both the Sloops, and you shall hear How, before he landed, He suppress'd them without fear.

Valiant Maynard as he sailed, Soon the Pirate did espy, With his Trumpet he then hailed, And to him they did reply: Captain Teach is our Commander, Maynard said, he is the Man Whom I am resolv'd to hang, Sir, Let him do the best he can.

Teach replyed unto Maynard, You no Quarter here shall see, But be hang'd on the Mainyard, You and all your Company; Maynard said, I none desire Of such Knaves as thee and thine, None I'll give, Teach then replyed, My Boys, give me a Glass of Wine.

He took the Glass, and drank Damnation Unto Maynard and his Crew; To himself and Generation, Then the Glass away he threw; Brave Maynard was resolv'd to have him, Tho' he'd Cannons nine or ten; Teach a broadside quickly gave him, Killing sixteen valiant Men.

Maynard boarded him, and to it They fell with Sword and Pistol too; They had Courage, and did show it, Killing of the Pirate's Crew. Teach and Maynard on the Quarter, Fought it out most manfully, Maynard's Sword did cut him shorter, Losing his head, he there did die.

Every Sailor fought while he, Sir, Power had to wield the Sword, Not a Coward could you see, Sir, Fear was driven from aboard; Wounded Men on both Sides fell, Sir, 'Twas a doleful Sight to see, Nothing could their Courage quell, Sir, O, they fought courageously.

When the bloody Fight was over, We're informed by a Letter writ, Teach's Head was made a Cover, To the Jack Staff of the Ship; Thus they sailed to Virginia, And when they the Story told, How they kill'd the Pirates many, They'd Applause from young and old.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. (?)

On the twenty-second day of February, 1732 (February 12, O. S.), there was born in Westmoreland County, Virginia, a son to Augustine and Mary (Ball) Washington. The baby was christened George, and lived to become the most famous personage in American history.

FROM POTOMAC TO MERRIMAC

[February 11, 1732]

I. POTOMAC SIDE

Do you know how the people of all the land Knew at last that the time was at hand When He should be sent to give command To armies and people, to father and son! How the glad tidings of joy should run Which tell of the birth of Washington?

Three women keep watch of the midnight sky Where Potomac ripples below; They watch till the light in the window hard by The birth of the child shall show. Is it peace? Is it strife? Is it death? Is it life? The light in the window shall show! Weal or woe! We shall know!

The women have builded a signal pile For the birthday's welcome flame, That the light may show for many a mile To tell when the baby came! And south and north The word go forth That the boy is born On that blessèd morn; The boy of deathless fame!

II. SIGNAL FIRES

The watchmen have waited on Capitol Hill And they light the signal flame; And at Baltimore Bay they waited till The welcome tidings came; And then across the starlit night, At the head of Elk the joyful light Told to the Quaker town the story Of new-born life and coming glory! To Trenton Ferry and Brooklyn Height They sent the signal clear and bright, And far away, Before the day, To Kaatskill and Greylock the joyful flame And everywhere the message came, As the signal flew The people knew That the man of men was born!

III. MERRIMAC SIDE, AND AGIOCHOOK

So it is, they say, that the men in the bay, In winter's ice and snow, See the welcome light on Wachusett Height While the Merrimac rolls below. The cheery fire Rose higher and higher, Monadnock and Carrigain catch the flame, And on and on, and on it came, And as men look Far away in the north The word goes forth, To Agiochook. The welcome fire Flashed higher and higher To our mountain ways, And the dome, and Moat and Pequawket blaze!

So the farmers in the Intervale See the light that shall never fail, The beacon light which shines to tell To all the world to say That the boy has been born On that winter's morn By Potomac far away. Whose great command Shall bless that land Whom the land shall bless In joy and distress Forever and a day!

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

IV. THE DUTCH AT NEW AMSTERDAM

On the fourth day of April, 1609, there put out from the port of Amsterdam a little craft of about eighty tons, called the Half Moon. It had been chartered by the Dutch East India Company to search for the Northwest Passage. Its captain was Henry Hudson, and on September 3 he cast anchor inside Sandy Hook.

HENRY HUDSON'S QUEST

[1609]

Out from the harbor of Amsterdam The Half Moon turned her prow to sea; The coast of Norway dropped behind, Yet Northward still kept she Through the drifting fog and the driving snow, Where never before man dared to go: "O Pilot, shall we find the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?" "A waste of ice before us lies--we must turn back," said he.

Westward they steered their tiny bark, Westward through weary weeks they sped, Till the cold gray strand of a stranger-land Loomed through the mist ahead. League after league they hugged the coast, And their Captain never left his post: "O Pilot, see you yet the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?" "I see but the rocks and the barren shore; no strait is there," quoth he.

They sailed to the North--they sailed to the South-- And at last they rounded an arm of sand Which held the sea from a harbor's mouth-- The loveliest in the land; They kept their course across the bay, And the shore before them fell away: "O Pilot, see you not the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?" "Hold the rudder true! Praise Christ Jesu! the strait is here," said he.

Onward they glide with wind and tide, Past marshes gray and crags sun-kist; They skirt the sills of green-clad hills, And meadows white with mist-- But alas! the hope and the brave, brave dream! For rock and shallow bar the stream: "O Pilot, can this be the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?" "Nay, Captain, nay; 'tis not this way; turn back we must," said he.

Full sad was Hudson's heart as he turned The Half Moon's prow to the South once more; He saw no beauty in crag or hill, No beauty in curving shore; For they shut him away from that fabled main He sought his whole life long, in vain: "O Pilot, say, can there be a strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?" "God's crypt is sealed! 'Twill stand revealed in His own good time," quoth he.

BURTON EGBERT STEVENSON.

A few days were spent in exploring the bay, and on September 6 occurred the only fatality that marked the voyage. A seaman named John Colman, with four sailors, was sent out in a small boat to sound the Narrows, and encountered some Indians, who sent a flight of arrows toward the strangers. One of the arrows pierced Colman's throat, killing him.

THE DEATH OF COLMAN

[September 6, 1609]

'Twas Juet spoke--the Half Moon's mate And they who Holland's ship of state Compass'd with wisdom, listening sate:

Discovery's near-extinguished spark Flared up into a blaze, When Man-na-hat-ta's virgin hills, Enriched by Autumn's days, First fell on our impatient sight, And soothed us with a strange delight.

Bidden by fevered trade, our keel Had ploughed unbeaten deeps; From many a perfume-laden isle To the dark land that sleeps Forever in its winter robe, Th' unsocial hermit of the globe.

But we, who sought for China's strand By ocean ways untried, Forgot our mission when we cast Our anchor in a tide That kissed a gem too wondrous fair For any eastern sea to wear!

Entranced, we saw the golden woods Slope gently to the sands; The grassy meads, the oaks that dwarfed Their kin of other lands; And from the shore the balmy wind Blew sweeter than the spice of Ind.

As he whose eyes, though opened wide, Are fixed upon a dream, So Colman--one who long had held Our Hudson's warm esteem-- Gazed on the gorgeous scene, and said, "Ere even's shades are overspread,

"Proudly our flag on yonder height Shall tell of Holland's gain; Proclaiming her to all the earth The sovereign of the main." And quickly from the Half Moon's bow We turned the longboat's yielding prow.

The measured flashing of the oars Broke harshly on the ear; And eye asked eye--for lips were mute-- What Holland hearts should fear; For true it is our hearts were soft, Save his, who held the flag aloft.

And suddenly our unshaped dread Took direful form and sound. For from a near nook's rocky shade, Swift as pursuing hound, A savage shallop sped, to hold From stranger feet that strand of gold.

And rageful cries disturbed the peace That on the waters slept; And Echo whispered on the hills, As though an army crept, With flinty axe and brutal blade, Through the imperforate forest shade.

"What! are ye cravens?" Colman said; For each had shipped his oar. He waved the flag: "For Netherland, Pull for yon jutting shore!" Then prone he fell within the boat, A flinthead arrow through his throat!

And now full many a stealthy skiff Shot out into the bay; And swiftly, sadly, pulled we back To where the Half Moon lay; But he was dead--our master wept-- He smiled, brave heart, as though he slept.

Then to the seaward breeze our sail With woful hearts we threw; And anchored near a sandy strip That looks o'er ocean blue: And there we kissed and buried him, While surges sang his funeral hymn.

And many a pitying glance we gave, And many a prayer we said, As from that grave we turned, and left The dark sea with her dead; For--God of Waves!--none could repress One choking thought--the loneliness!

THOMAS FROST.

Hudson ascended the river to a point a little above the present town of Albany, then turned back and returned to Holland. His report of the rich country he had discovered was received with enthusiasm there, and preparations were begun on an extensive scale to colonize the new country. Dutch voyagers explored all the adjacent coasts, among the most active being Adrian Block.

ADRIAN BLOCK'S SONG

[July, 1615]

Hard aport! Now close to shore sail! Starboard now, and drop your foresail! See, boys, what yon bay discloses, What yon open bay discloses! Where the breeze so gently blows is Heaven's own land of ruddy roses.

Past the Cormorant we sail, Past the rippling Beaver Tail, Green with summer, red with flowers, Green with summer, fresh with showers, Sweet with song and red with flowers, Is this new-found land of ours!

Roses close above the sand, Roses on the trees on land, I shall take this land for my land, Rosy beach and rosy highland, And I name it Roses Island.

EDWARD EVERETT HALE.

But troubles at home prevented any extensive effort at colonization until 1621, when the States-General chartered the Dutch West India Company, which in 1623 sent Captain Cornelius Jacobsen Mey, with thirty families, to start the colony.

THE PRAISE OF NEW NETHERLAND

With sharpened pen and wit, one tunes his lays, To sing the vanity of fame and praise; His moping thoughts, bewildered in a maze, In darkness wander. What brings disgrace, what constitutes a wrong, These form the burden of the tuneful song: And honor saved, his senses then among The dark holes ponder. For me, it is a nobler thing I sing. New Netherland springs forth my heroine; Where Amstel's folk did erst their people bring, And still they flourish. New Netherland, thou noblest spot of earth, Where Bounteous Heaven ever poureth forth The fulness of His gifts, of greatest worth, Mankind to nourish. Whoe'er to you a judgment fair applies, And knowing, comprehends your qualities, Will justify the man who, to the skies, Extols your glories. Who studies well your natural elements, And with the plumb of science, gains a sense Of all the four: fails not in their defence, Before free juries. Your Air, so clear, so sharp to penetrate, The western breezes softly moderate; And, tempering the heat, they separate It from all moisture. From damp, and mist, and fog, they set it free; From smells of pools, they give it liberty: The struggling stenches made to mount on high, And be at peace there. No deadly pest its purity assails, To spread infection o'er your hills and vales, Save when a guilty race, great sins bewails In expiating. Your Sun, th' original of Fire and heat, The common nutriment of both to eat, Is warm and pure; in plants most delicate, Much sap creating. Nor turf, nor dried manure,--within your doors, Nor coal, extracted from earth's secret stores, Nor sods, uplifted from the barren moors, For fuel given; Which, with foul stench the brain intoxicate, And thus, by the foul gas which they create. The intellects of many, wise and great, Men are out-driven. The forests do, with better means, supply The hearth and house; the stately hickory, Not planted, does the winter fell defy,-- A valiant warden; So closely grained, so rich with fragrant oil, Before its blaze both wet and cold recoil; And sweetest perfumes float around the while, Like 'n Eden's garden. The Water clear and fresh, and pure and sweet, Springs up continually beneath the feet, And everywhere the gushing fountains meet, In brooks o'erflowing, Which animals refresh, both tame and wild; And plants conduce to grow on hill and field; And these to man unnumbered comforts yield, And quickly growing. The Earth in soils of different shades appears, Black, blue and white, and red; its bosom bears Abundant harvests; and, what pleases, spares Not to surrender. No bounds exist to their variety. They nourishment afford most plenteously To creatures which, in turn, man's wants supply And health engender. O fruitful land! heaped up with blessings kind, Whoe'er your several virtues brings to mind,-- Its proper value to each gift assigned, Will soon discover, If ever land perfection have attained, That you in all things have that glory gained; Ungrateful mortal, who, your worth disdained, Would pass you over. In North America, behold your Seat, Where all that heart can wish you satiate, And where oppressed with wealth inordinate, You have the power To bless the people with whate'er they need, The melancholy, from their sorrows lead, The light of heart, exulting pleasures cede, Who never cower. The Ocean laves secure the outer shore, Which, like a dyke, is raised your fields before; And streams, like arteries, all veinèd o'er, The woods refreshing; And rolling down from mountains and the hills, Afford, upon their banks, fit sites for mills; And furnish, what the heart with transport fills, The finest fishing.

JACOB STEENDAM.

Other expeditions followed, but though the colony prospered, the mother country could provide little means of defence, and it was practically at the mercy of the English--the "swine" of Steendam's verses.

THE COMPLAINT OF NEW AMSTERDAM

[1659]

I'm a grandchild of the gods Who on th' Amstel have abodes; Whence their orders forth are sent, Swift for aid and punishment. I, of Amsterdam, was born, Early of her breasts forlorn; From her care so quickly weaned Oft have I my fate bemoaned. From my youth up left alone, Naught save hardship have I known; Dangers have beset my way From the first I saw the day. Think you this a cause for marvel? This will then the thread unravel, And the circumstances trace, Which upon my birth took place. Would you ask for my descent? Long the time was it I spent In the loins of warlike Mars. 'T seems my mother, seized with fears, Prematurely brought me forth. But I now am very loth To inform how this befel; Though 'twas thus, I know full well, Bacchus, too,--it is no dream,-- First beheld the daylight's beam From the thigh of Jupiter. But my reasons go too far. My own matter must I say, And not loiter by the way, E'en though Bacchus oft has proven Friend to me in my misfortune. Now the midwife who received me, Was Bellona; in suspense, she Long did sit in trembling fear, For the travail was severe. From the moment I was born, Indian neighbors made me mourn. They pursued me night and day, While my mother kept away. But my sponsors did supply Better my necessity; They sustained my feeble life; They procured a bounteous wife As my nurse, who did not spare To my lips her paps to bear. This was Ceres; freely she Rendered what has nurtured me. Her most dearly I will prize; She has made my horns to rise; Trained my growth through tender years, 'Midst my burdens and my cares. True both simple 'twas and scant, What I had to feed my want. Oft 'twas naught except Sapawn And the flesh of buck or fawn. When I thus began to grow, No more care did they bestow, Yet my breasts are full and neat, And my hips are firmly set. Neptune shows me his good will; Merc'ry, quick, exerts his skill Me t' adorn with silk and gold; Whence I'm sought by suitors bold. Stricken by my cheek's fresh bloom, By my beauteous youthful form, They attempt to seize the treasure To enjoy their wanton pleasure. They, my orchards too, would plunder, Truly 'tis a special wonder, That a maid with such a portion Does not suffer more misfortune: For, I venture to proclaim, No one can a maiden name Who with richer land is blessed Than th' estate by me possessed. See: two streams my garden bind, From the East and North they wind,-- Rivers pouring in the sea, Rich in fish, beyond degree. Milk and butter: fruits to eat No one can enumerate; Ev'ry vegetable known; Grain the best that e'er was grown. All the blessings man e'er knew, Here does Our Great Giver strew (And a climate ne'er more pure), But for me,--yet immature, Fraught with danger, for the swine Trample down these crops of mine; Up-root, too, my choicest land; Still and dumb, the while, I stand, In the hope, my mother's arm Will protect me from the harm. She can succor my distress. Now my wish, my sole request,-- Is for men to till my land; So I'll not in silence stand. I have lab'rors almost none; Let my household large become; I'll my mother's kitchen furnish With my knick-knacks, with my surplus; With tobacco, furs and grain; So that Prussia she'll disdain.

JACOB STEENDAM, noch vaster.

In spite of this neglect, the new town thrived apace. Friendly relations were established with the settlers at Plymouth, and the colony seemed to be moving steadily toward a golden future. In May, 1647, there arrived from Holland the new director, Peter Stuyvesant. He ruled supreme until 1664, when New Amsterdam surrendered to an English fleet.

PETER STUYVESANT'S NEW YEAR'S CALL

[I. Jan. A. C. 1661]

Where nowadays the Battery lies, New York had just begun, A new-born babe, to rub its eyes, In Sixteen Sixty-One. They christened it Nieuw Amsterdam, Those burghers grave and stately, And so, with schnapps and smoke and psalm, Lived out their lives sedately.

Two windmills topped their wooden wall, On Stadthuys gazing down, On fort, and cabbage-plots, and all The quaintly gabled town; These flapped their wings and shifted backs, As ancient scrolls determine, To scare the savage Hackensacks, Paumanks, and other vermin.

At night the loyal settlers lay Betwixt their feather-beds; In hose and breeches walked by day, And smoked, and wagged their heads. No changeful fashions came from France, The freulen to bewilder, And cost the burgher's purse, perchance, Its every other guilder.

In petticoats of linsey-red, And jackets neatly kept, The vrouws their knitting-needles sped And deftly spun and swept. Few modern-school flirtations there Set wheels of scandal trundling, But youths and maidens did their share Of staid, old-fashioned bundling.

--The New Year opened clear and cold; The snow, a Flemish ell In depth, lay over Beeckman's Wold And Wolfert's frozen well. Each burgher shook his kitchen-doors, Drew on his Holland leather, Then stamped through drifts to do the chores, Beshrewing all such weather.

But--after herring, ham, and kraut-- To all the gathered town The Dominie preached the morning out, In Calvinistic gown; While tough old Peter Stuyvesant Sat pewed in foremost station,-- The potent, sage, and valiant Third Governor of the nation.

Prayer over, at his mansion hall, With cake and courtly smile, He met the people, one and all, In gubernatorial style; Yet missed, though now the day was old, An ancient fellow-feaster,-- Heer Govert Loockermans, that bold Brewer and burgomeester;

Who, in his farmhouse, close without The picket's eastern end, Sat growling at the twinge of gout That kept him from his friend. But Peter strapped his wooden peg, When tea and cake were ended (Meanwhile the sound remaining leg Its high jack-boot defended),

A woolsey cloak about him threw, And swore, by wind and limb, Since Govert kept from Peter's view, Peter would visit him; Then sallied forth, through snow and blast, While many a humbler greeter Stood wondering whereaway so fast Strode bluff Hardkoppig Pieter.

Past quay and cowpath, through a lane Of vats and mounded tans, He puffed along, with might and main, To Govert Loockermans; Once there, his right of entry took, And hailed his ancient crony: "Myn Gód! in dese Manhattoes, Loock, Ve gets more snow as money!"

To which, and after whiffs profound, With doubtful wink and nod, There came at last responsive sound: "Yah, Peter; yah, Myn Gód!" Then goedevrouw Marie sat her guest Beneath the chimney-gable, And courtesied, bustling at her best To spread the New Year's table.

She brought the pure and genial schnapps, That years before had come-- In the "Nieuw Nederlandts," perhaps-- To cheer the settlers' home; The long-stemmed pipes; the fragrant roll Of pressed and crispy Spanish; Then placed the earthen mugs and bowl, Nor long delayed to vanish.

Thereat, with cheery nod and wink, And honors of the day, The trader mixed the Governor's drink As evening sped away. That ancient room! I see it now: The carven nutwood dresser; The drawers, that many a burgher's vrouw Begrudged their rich possessor;

The brace of high-backed leathern chairs, Brass-nailed at every seam; Six others, ranged in equal pairs; The bacon hung abeam; The chimney-front, with porcelain shelft; The hearty wooden fire; The picture, on the steaming delft, Of David and Goliah.

I see the two old Dutchmen sit Like Magog and his mate, And hear them, when their pipes are lit, Discuss affairs of state: The clique that would their sway demean; The pestilent importation Of wooden nutmegs, from the lean And losel Yankee nation.

But when the subtle juniper Assumed its sure command, They drank the buxom loves that were,-- They drank the Motherland; They drank the famous Swedish wars, Stout Peter's special glory, While Govert proudly showed the scars Of Indian contests gory.

Erelong, the berry's power awoke Some music in their brains, And, trumpet-like, through rolling smoke, Rang long-forgotten strains,-- Old Flemish snatches, full of blood, Of phantom ships and battle; And Peter, with his leg of wood, Made floor and casement rattle.

Then round and round the dresser pranced, The chairs began to wheel, And on the board the punch-bowl danced A Netherlandish reel; Till midnight o'er the farmhouse spread Her New Year's skirts of sable, And inch by inch, each puzzled head Dropt down upon the table.

But still to Peter, as he dreamed, The table spread and turned; The chimney-log blazed high, and seemed To circle as it burned; The town into the vision grew From ending to beginning; Fort, wall, and windmill met his view, All widening and spinning.

The cowpaths, leading to the docks, Grew broader, whirling past, And checkered into shining blocks,-- A city fair and vast; Stores, churches, mansions, overspread The metamorphosed island, While not a beaver showed his head From Swamp to Kalchook highland.

Eftsoons the picture passed away; Hours after, Peter woke To see a spectral streak of day Gleam in through fading smoke; Still slept old Govert, snoring on In most melodious numbers; No dreams of Eighteen Sixty-One Commingled with his slumbers.

But Peter, from the farmhouse door, Gazed doubtfully around, Rejoiced to find himself once more On sure and solid ground. The sky was somewhat dark ahead, Wind east, the morning lowery; And on he pushed, a two-miles' tread, To breakfast at his Bouwery.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.