  AMERICA Oh, who has not heard of the Northmen of yore, How flew, like the sea-bird, their sails from the shore; How westward they stayed not till, breasting the brine, They hailed Narragansett, the land of the vine? Then the war-songs of Rollo, his pennon and glaive, Were heard as they danced by the moon-lighted wave, And their golden-haired wives bore them sons of the soil, While raged with the redskins their feud and turmoil. And who has not seen, mid the summer's gay crowd, That old pillared tower of their fortalice proud, How it stands solid proof of the sea chieftains' reign Ere came with Columbus those galleys of Spain? 'Twas a claim for their kindred: an earnest of sway,— By the stout-hearted Cabot made good in its day,— Of the Cross of St. George on the Chesapeake's tide, Where lovely Virginia arose like a bride. Came the pilgrims with Winthrop; and, saint of the West, Came Robert of Jamestown, the brave and the blest; Came Smith, the bold rover, and Rolfe—with his ring, To wed sweet MatoÄka, child of a king. Undaunted they came, every peril to dare, Of tribes fiercer far than the wolf in his lair; Of the wild irksome woods, where in ambush they lay; Of their terror by night and their arrow by day. And so where our capes cleave the ice of the poles, Where groves of the orange scent sea-coast and shoals, Where the froward Atlantic uplifts its last crest, Where the sun, when he sets, seeks the East from the West. The clime that from ocean to ocean expands, The fields to the snow-drifts that stretch from the sands, The wilds they have conquered of mountain and plain, Those pilgrims have made them fair Freedom's domain. And the bread of dependence if proudly they spurned, 'Twas the soul of their fathers that kindled and burned, 'Twas the blood of the Saxon within them that ran; They held—to be free is the birthright of man. So oft the old lion, majestic of mane, Sees cubs of his cave breaking loose from his reign; Unmeet to be his if they braved not his eye, He gave them the spirit his own to defy. Arthur Cleveland Coxe. POEMS OF AMERICAN HISTORY CHAPTER ITHE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA
From "Psalm of the West" Far spread, below, The sea that fast hath locked in his loose flow All secrets of Atlantis' drownÈd woe Lay bound about with night on every hand, Save down the eastern brink a shining band Of day made out a little way from land. Then from that shore the wind upbore a cry: Thou Sea, thou Sea of Darkness! why, oh why Dost waste thy West in unthrift mystery? But ever the idiot sea-mouths foam and fill, And never a wave doth good for man, or ill, And Blank is king, and Nothing hath his will; And like as grim-beaked pelicans level file Across the sunset toward their nightly isle On solemn wings that wave but seldom while, So leanly sails the day behind the day To where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray, And down its mortal fissures sinks away. Master, Master, break this ban: The wave lacks Thee. Oh, is it not to widen man Stretches the sea? Oh, must the sea-bird's idle van Alone be free? Into the Sea of the Dark doth creep BjÖrne's pallid sail, As the face of a walker in his sleep, Set rigid and most pale, About the night doth peer and peep In a dream of an ancient tale. Lo, here is made a hasty cry: Land, land, upon the west!— God save such land! Go by, go by: Here may no mortal rest, Where this waste hell of slate doth lie And grind the glacier's breast. The sail goeth limp: hey, flap and strain! Round eastward slanteth the mast; As the sleep-walker waked with pain, White-clothed in the midnight blast, Doth stare and quake, and stride again To houseward all aghast. Yet as—A ghost! his household cry: He hath followed a ghost in flight. Let us see the ghost—his household fly With lamps to search the night— So Norsemen's sails run out and try The Sea of the Dark with light. Stout Are Marson, southward whirled From out the tempest's hand, Doth skip the sloping of the world To Huitramannaland, Where Georgia's oaks with moss-beards curled Wave by the shining strand, And sway in sighs from Florida's Spring Or Carolina's Palm— The woods his artist's-balm, Singing the Song of Everything Consummate-sweet and calm— Land of large merciful-hearted skies, Big bounties, rich increase, Green rests for Trade's blood-shotten eyes, For o'er-beat brains surcease, For Love the dear woods' sympathies, For Grief the wise woods' peace. For Need rich givings of hid powers In hills and vales quick-won, For Greed large exemplary flowers That ne'er have toiled nor spun, For Heat fair-tempered winds and showers, For Cold the neighbor sun. * * * * * Then Leif, bold son of Eric the Red, To the South of the West doth flee— Past slaty Helluland is sped, Past Markland's woody lea, Till round about fair Vinland's head, Where Taunton helps the sea, The Norseman calls, the anchor falls, The mariners hurry a-strand: They wassail with fore-drunken skals Where prophet wild grapes stand; They lift the Leifsbooth's hasty walls, They stride about the land— New England, thee! whose ne'er-spent wine As blood doth stretch each vein, And urge thee, sinewed like thy vine, Through peril and all pain To grasp Endeavor's towering Pine, And, once ahold, remain— Land where the strenuous-handed Wind With sarcasm of a friend Doth smite the man would lag behind To frontward of his end; Yea, where the taunting fall and grind Of Nature's Ill doth send Such mortal challenge of a clown Rude-thrust upon the soul, That men but smile where mountains frown Or scowling waters roll, And Nature's front of battle down Do hurl from pole to pole. Now long the Sea of Darkness glimmers low With sails from Northland flickering to and fro— Thorwald, Karlsefne, and those twin heirs of woe, Hellboge and Finnge, in treasonable bed Slain by the ill-born child of Eric Red, Freydisa false. Till, as much time is fled, Once more the vacant airs with darkness fill, Once more the wave doth never good nor ill, And Blank is king, and Nothing works his will; And leanly sails the day behind the day To where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray, And down its mortal fissures sinks away, As when the grim-beaked pelicans level file Across the sunset to their seaward isle On solemn wings that wave but seldomwhile. Sidney Lanier.
THE NORSEMEN [On a fragment of statue found at Bradford.] Gift from the cold and silent Past! A relic to the present cast; Left on the ever-changing strand Of shifting and unstable sand, Which wastes beneath the steady chime And beating of the waves of Time! Who from its bed of primal rock First wrenched thy dark, unshapely block? Whose hand, of curious skill untaught, Thy rude and savage outline wrought? The waters of my native stream Are glancing in the sun's warm beam; From sail-urged keel and flashing oar The circles widen to its shore; And cultured field and peopled town Slope to its willowed margin down. Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing The home-life sound of school-bells ringing, And rolling wheel, and rapid jar Of the fire-winged and steedless car, Come quick and blended on my ear,— A spell is in this old gray stone, My thoughts are with the Past alone! A change!—The steepled town no more Stretches along the sail-thronged shore; Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud, Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud: Spectrally rising where they stood, I see the old, primeval wood; Dark, shadow-like, on either hand I see its solemn waste expand; It climbs the green and cultured hill, It arches o'er the valley's rill, And leans from cliff and crag to throw Its wild arms o'er the stream below. Unchanged, alone, the same bright river Flows on, as it will flow forever! I listen, and I hear the low Soft ripple where its waters go; I hear behind the panther's cry, The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by, And shyly on the river's brink The deer is stooping down to drink. But hark!—from wood and rock flung back, What sound comes up the Merrimac? What sea-worn barks are those which throw The light spray from each rushing prow? Have they not in the North Sea's blast Bowed to the waves the straining mast? Their frozen sails the low, pale sun Of ThulË's night has shone upon; Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep Round icy drift, and headland steep. Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughters Have watched them fading o'er the waters, Lessening through driving mist and spray, Like white-winged sea-birds on their way! Onward they glide,—and now I view Their iron-armed and stalwart crew; Joy glistens in each wild blue eye, Turned to green earth and summer sky. Each broad, seamed breast has cast aside Its cumbering vest of shaggy hide; Bared to the sun and soft warm air, Streams back the Northmen's yellow hair. I see the gleam of axe and spear, A sound of smitten shields I hear, Keeping a harsh and fitting time To Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme; Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung, His gray and naked isles among; Or muttered low at midnight hour Round Odin's mossy stone of power. The wolf beneath the Arctic moon Has answered to that startling rune; The Gael has heard its stormy swell, The light Frank knows its summons well; Iona's sable-stoled Culdee Has heard it sounding o'er the sea, And swept, with hoary beard and hair, His altar's foot in trembling prayer! 'Tis past,—the 'wildering vision dies In darkness on my dreaming eyes! The forest vanishes in air, Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare; I hear the common tread of men, And hum of work-day life again; The mystic relic seems alone A broken mass of common stone; And if it be the chiselled limb Of Berserker or idol grim, A fragment of Valhalla's Thor, The stormy Viking's god of War, Or Praga of the Runic lay, Or love-awakening Siona, I know not,—for no graven line, Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign, Is left me here, by which to trace Its name, or origin, or place. Yet, for this vision of the Past, This glance upon its darkness cast, My spirit bows in gratitude Before the Giver of all good, Who fashioned so the human mind, That, from the waste of Time behind, A simple stone, or mound of earth, Can summon the departed forth; Quicken the Past to life again, The Present lose in what hath been, And in their primal freshness show The buried forms of long ago. As if a portion of that Thought By which the Eternal will is wrought, Whose impulse fills anew with breath The frozen solitude of Death, To mortal mind were sometimes lent, To mortal musings sometimes sent, To whisper—even when it seems But Memory's fantasy of dreams— Through the mind's waste of woe and sin, Of an immortal origin! John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR "Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me?" Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December; And, like the water's flow Under December's snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart's chamber. "I was a Viking old! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee! Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse; For this I sought thee. "Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on. "Oft to his frozen lair Tracked I the grisly bear, While from my path the hare Fled like a shadow; Oft through the forest dark Followed the were-wolf's bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow. "But when I older grew, Joining a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With the marauders. Wild was the life we led; Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled, By our stern orders. "Many a wassail-bout Wore the long winter out; Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing, As we the Berserk's tale Measured in cups of ale, Draining the oaken pail, Filled to o'erflowing. "Once as I told in glee Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender; And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendor. "I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. "Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chanting his glory; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story. "While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed, And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. "She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded? "Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me, Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen! When on the white sea-strand, Waving his armÈd hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. "Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. "And as to catch the gale Round veered the flapping sail, 'Death!' was the helmsman's hail, 'Death without quarter!' Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel! Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water! "As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden.— So toward the open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden. "Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward. "There lived we many years; Time dried the maiden's tears; She had forgot her fears, She was a mother; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another! "Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful! "Thus, seamed with many scars, Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!" Thus the tale ended. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
PROPHECY From "Il Morgante Maggiore" 1485 His bark The daring mariner shall urge far o'er The Western wave, a smooth and level plain. Albeit the earth is fashioned like a wheel. Man was in ancient days of grosser mould, And Hercules might blush to learn how far Beyond the limits he had vainly set The dullest sea-boat soon shall wing her way. Man shall descry another hemisphere, Since to one common centre all things tend. So earth, by curious mystery divine Well balanced, hangs amid the starry spheres. At our antipodes are cities, states, And throngÈd empires, ne'er divined of yore. To glad the nations with expected light. Luigi Pulci.
THE INSPIRATION From "The West Indies" Long lay the ocean-paths from man conceal'd; Light came from heaven,—the magnet was reveal'd, A surer star to guide the seaman's eye Than the pale glory of the northern sky; Alike ordain'd to shine by night and day, Through calm and tempest, with unsetting ray; Where'er the mountains rise, the billows roll, Still with strong impulse turning to the pole, True as the sun is to the morning true, Though light as film, and trembling as the dew. Then man no longer plied with timid oar, And failing heart, along the windward shore; Broad to the sky he turn'd his fearless sail, Defied the adverse, woo'd the favoring gale, Bared to the storm his adamantine breast, Or soft on ocean's lap lay down to rest; While free, as clouds the liquid ether sweep, His white-wing'd vessels coursed the unbounded deep; From clime to clime the wanderer loved to roam, The waves his heritage, the world his home. Then first Columbus, with the mighty hand Of grasping genius, weigh'd the sea and land; The floods o'erbalanced:—where the tide of light, Day after day, roll'd down the gulf of night, There seem'd one waste of waters:—long in vain His spirit brooded o'er the Atlantic main; When sudden, as creation burst from nought, Sprang a new world through his stupendous thought, Light, order, beauty!—While his mind explored The unveiling mystery, his heart adored; Where'er sublime imagination trod, He heard the voice, he saw the face of God. Far from the western cliffs he cast his eye, O'er the wide ocean stretching to the sky: In calm magnificence the sun declined, And left a paradise of clouds behind: Proud at his feet, with pomp of pearl and gold, The billows in a sea of glory roll'd. "—Ah! on this sea of glory might I sail, Track the bright sun, and pierce the eternal veil That hides those lands, beneath Hesperian skies, Where daylight sojourns till our morrow rise!" Thoughtful he wander'd on the beach alone; Mild o'er the deep the vesper planet shone, The eye of evening, brightening through the west Till the sweet moment when it shut to rest: "Whither, O golden Venus! art thou fled? Not in the ocean-chambers lies thy bed; Round the dim world thy glittering chariot drawn Pursues the twilight, or precedes the dawn; Thy beauty noon and midnight never see, The morn and eve divide the year with thee." Soft fell the shades, till Cynthia's slender bow Crested the furthest wave, then sunk below: "Tell me, resplendent guardian of the night, Circling the sphere in thy perennial flight, What secret path of heaven thy smiles adorn, What nameless sea reflects thy gleaming horn?" Now earth and ocean vanish'd, all serene The starry firmament alone was seen; Through the slow, silent hours, he watch'd the host Till Night himself, on shadowy pinions borne, Fled o'er the mighty waters, and the morn Danced on the mountains:—"Lights of heaven!" he cried, "Lead on;—I go to win a glorious bride; Fearless o'er gulfs unknown I urge my way, Where peril prowls, and shipwreck lurks for prey: Hope swells my sail;—in spirit I behold That maiden-world, twin-sister of the old, By nature nursed beyond the jealous sea, Denied to ages, but betroth'd to me." James Montgomery.
COLUMBUS [January, 1487] St. Stephen's cloistered hall was proud In learning's pomp that day, For there a robed and stately crowd Pressed on in long array. A mariner with simple chart Confronts that conclave high, While strong ambition stirs his heart, And burning thoughts of wonder part From lip and sparkling eye. What hath he said? With frowning face, In whispered tones they speak, And lines upon their tablets trace, Which flush each ashen cheek; The Inquisition's mystic doom Sits on their brows severe, And bursting forth in visioned gloom, Sad heresy from burning tomb Groans on the startled ear. Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time Thy splendid dream shall crown; Yon Western Hemisphere sublime, Where unshorn forests frown, The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow, The Indian hunter's bow, Bold streams untamed by helm or prow, And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou To thankless Spain shalt show. Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need! In Fate's unfolding scroll, Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read, That rack the noble soul. On! on! Creation's secrets probe, Then drink thy cup of scorn, And wrapped in fallen CÆsar's robe, Sleep like that master of the globe, All glorious,—yet forlorn. Lydia Huntley Sigourney.
COLUMBUS TO FERDINAND [January, 1491] Illustrious monarch of Iberia's soil, Too long I wait permission to depart; Sick of delays, I beg thy list'ning ear— Shine forth the patron and the prince of art. While yet Columbus breathes the vital air, Grant his request to pass the western main: Reserve this glory for thy native soil, And what must please thee more—for thy own reign. Of this huge globe, how small a part we know— Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny?— How disproportion'd to the mighty deep The lands that yet in human prospect lie! Does Cynthia, when to western skies arriv'd, Spend her sweet beam upon the barren main, And ne'er illume with midnight splendor, she, The natives dancing on the lightsome green?— Should the vast circuit of the world contain Such wastes of ocean, and such scanty land?— I think more nobly of the Almighty hand. Does yon fair lamp trace half the circle round To light the waves and monsters of the seas?— No—be there must beyond the billowy waste Islands, and men, and animals, and trees. An unremitting flame my breast inspires To seek new lands amidst the barren waves, Where falling low, the source of day descends, And the blue sea his evening visage laves. Hear, in his tragic lay, Cordova's sage: "The time shall come, when numerous years are past, The ocean shall dissolve the bonds of things, And an extended region rise at last; "And Typhis shall disclose the mighty land Far, far away, where none have rov'd before; Nor shall the world's remotest region be Gibraltar's rock, or Thule's savage shore." Fir'd at the theme, I languish to depart, Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail; He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep; Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale. Nor does he dread to lose the intended course, Though far from land the reeling galley stray, And skies above and gulphy seas below Be the sole objects seen for many a day. Think not that Nature has unveil'd in vain The mystic magnet to the mortal eye: So late have we the guiding needle plann'd Only to sail beneath our native sky? Found for our use an ocean in the land, Its breadth so small we could not wander long, Nor long be absent from the neighboring strand. Short was the course, and guided by the stars, But stars no more shall point our daring way; The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drown'd, And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea, When southward we shall steer—O grant my wish, Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail, He dreads no tempests on the untravell'd deep, Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale. Philip Freneau.
COLUMBUS AT THE CONVENT [July, 1491] Isabella and Ferdinand were with their army before Granada, and received Columbus well; but his demands for emoluments and honors in the event of success were pronounced absurd; the negotiations were broken off, and again Columbus started for France. The few converts to his theories were in despair, and one of them, Luis de Santangel, receiver of the ecclesiastical revenues of Aragon, obtained an audience of the Queen, and enkindled her patriotic spirit. When Ferdinand still hesitated, she exclaimed, "I undertake the enterprise for my own crown of Castile. I will pledge my jewels to raise the money that is needed!" Santangel assured her that he himself was ready to provide the money, and advanced seventeen thousand florins from the coffers of Aragon, so that Ferdinand really paid for the expedition, after all. THE FINAL STRUGGLE From "The New World" [January 6—April 17, 1492] Yet had his sun not risen; from his lips Fell in swift fervid accents his desire, And Talavera's eyes of smouldering fire Shone with a myriad doubts, a dark eclipse Of faith hung round him, and the longed-for ships Ploughed but the ocean of his star-lit dreams; Time had not tried his soul enough with whips And scorns, for so the rigid Master deems He makes his servants fit For the hard toils which knit The perfect garment, firm and without seams, The world shall wear at last; his hurt brain teems With indignation and he turns away Undaunted, and he girds him for the fray Once more; but first he hears the words of his good friend, Marchena, strong with trust in the far-shining end. His wanderings reached at last the lonely door Of calm La Rabida; there the silence came Grateful upon his grief's consuming flame; The simple cloisters gave him peace once more, And the live ocean rolled up to the shore In ceaseless voice of promise; through the pines The sun looked down benignant, and the roar Of the far world of rivalries declines Into an inward murmur With each day growing firmer, Whose sense is conquest at the last; as shines A lamp across a rocky path's confines, Making the outlet clear, Juan Perez' faith Who heard him and conceived his words no wraith Of fevered fancy but the very truth, was light To bring the Queen to know his purposes aright. O noble priest and friend! you reached the court And turned the Queen from conquest's mid career To hearken; other triumphs glittered clear Before her, and again from Huelva's port The seeker came; he saw Granada's fort Open its gates reluctant, and the King, El Zogoibi, bewail his bitter sort And loss which made the rich Te Deums ring When on La Vela's tower The cross bloomed like a flower Of heaven's own growing; but the sudden spring, Loud with birds silent long that strove to sing, After the winter's weary voiceless reign, Was overcast with storms of cold disdain; Haughtily forth he fared and reached Granada's gates When the clouds lifted and the persecuting fates Relented from their fury; for the Queen Listened unto the urgings manifold Of Santangel, and counsel, wise and bold, Divinings pierced the misty ocean's screen And felt the deed must surely come to pass; So they recalled him, and his life's changed scene Grew bright with blooms and smile of thickening grass; O royal woman then Your hand received again The keys of a great realm; in the clear glass Of actions yet to be whose fires amass Infinite stores of impulse toward the good, Your image permanent lies; forth from the wood Of beasts malicious and the unrelenting dread You showed the way, but sought not from the gloom to tread. The wind was fair, the ships lay in the bay, And the blue sky looked down upon the earth; Prophetic time laughed toward the nearing birth Of the strong child with whom should come a day That dulled all earlier hours. Forth on the way With holy blessings said, and bellied sails, And mounting joy that knows not let nor stay! Lo! the undaunted purpose never fails! O patient master, seer, For whom the far is near, The vision true, and the mere present pales Its lustre, what mild seas and blossomed vales Awaited you? haply a paradise But not the one which drew your swerveless eyes; Could you have known what lands were there beyond the main, You surelier would have turned to gladsomeness from pain. Louis James Block.
STEER, BOLD MARINER, ON! [August 3, 1492] Steer, bold mariner, on! albeit witlings deride thee, And the steersman drop idly his hand at the helm. Ever and ever to westward! there must the coast be discovered, If it but lie distinct, luminous lie in thy mind. Trust to the God that leads thee, and follow the sea that is silent; Did it not yet exist, now would it rise from the flood. Nature with Genius stands united in league everlasting; What is promised by one, surely the other performs. Friedrich von Schiller.
THE TRIUMPH From "Psalm of the West" [Dawn, October 12, 1492] Santa Maria, well thou tremblest down the wave, Thy Pinta far abow, thy NiÑa nigh astern: Columbus stands in the night alone, and, passing grave, Yearns o'er the sea as tones o'er under-silence yearn. Heartens his heart as friend befriends his friend less brave, Makes burn the faiths that cool, and cools the doubts that burn:— "'Twixt this and dawn, three hours my soul will smite With dull-blade minutes flatwise slapping me. Wait, Heart! Time moves.—Thou lithe young Western Night, Just-crownÈd king, slow riding to thy right, Would God that I might straddle mutiny Calm as thou sitt'st yon never-managed sea, Balk'st with his balking, fliest with his flight, Giv'st supple to his rearings and his falls, Nor dropp'st one coronal star above thy brow Whilst ever dayward thou art steadfast drawn! Yea, would I rode these mad contentious brawls No damage taking from their If and How, Nor no result save galloping to my Dawn! "My Dawn? my Dawn? How if it never break? How if this West by other Wests is pieced, And these by vacant Wests on Wests increased— One Pain of Space, with hollow ache on ache Throbbing and ceasing not for Christ's own sake?— Big perilous theorem, hard for king and priest: Pursue the West but long enough, 'tis East! Oh, if this watery world no turning take! Oh, if for all my logic, all my dreams, Provings of that which is by that which seems, Fears, hopes, chills, heats, hastes, patiences, droughts, tears, Wife-grievings, slights on love, embezzled years, Hates, treaties, scorns, upliftings, loss and gain,— This earth, no sphere, be all one sickening plane! "Or, haply, how if this contrarious West, That me by turns hath starved, by turns hath fed, Embraced, disgraced, beat back, solicited, Have no fixed heart of Law within his breast, Or with some different rhythm doth e'er contest Nature in the East? Why, 'tis but three weeks fled I saw my Judas needle shake his head And flout the Pole that, East, he Lord confessed! God! if this West should own some other Pole, And with his tangled ways perplex my soul Until the maze grow mortal, and I die Where distraught Nature clean hath gone astray, On earth some other wit than Time's at play, Some other God than mine above the sky! "Now speaks mine other heart with cheerier seeming: Ho, Admiral! o'er-defalking to thy crew Against thyself, thyself far overfew To front yon multitudes of rebel scheming? Come, ye wild twenty years of heavenly dreaming! Come, ye wild weeks since first this canvas drew Out of vexed Palos ere the dawn was blue, O'er milky waves about the bows full-creaming! Come set me round with many faithful spears Of confident remembrance—how I crushed Cat-lived rebellions, pitfalled treasons, hushed Scared husbands' heart-break cries on distant wives, Made cowards blush at whining for their lives, Watered my parching souls, and dried their tears. "Ere we Gomera cleared, a coward cried, Turn, turn: here be three caravels ahead, From Portugal, to take us: we are dead!— Hold Westward, pilot, calmly I replied. So when the last land down the horizon died, Go back, go back! they prayed: our hearts are lead.— Friends, we are bound into the West, I said. Then passed the wreck of a mast upon our side. See (so they wept) God's Warning! Admiral, turn!— Steersman, I said, hold straight into the West. Then down the night we saw the meteor burn. So do the very heavens in fire protest: Good Admiral, put about! O Spain, dear Spain!— Hold straight into the West, I said again. "Next drive we o'er the slimy-weeded sea. Lo! here beneath (another coward cries) The cursÈd land of sunk Atlantis lies! This slime will suck us down—turn while thou'rt free!— But no! I said, Freedom bears West for me! Yet when the long-time stagnant winds arise, And day by day the keel to westward flies, My Good my people's Ill doth come to be: Ever the winds into the West do blow; Never a ship, once turned, might homeward go; Meanwhile we speed into the lonesome main. For Christ's sake, parley, Admiral! Turn, before We sail outside all bounds of help from pain!— Our help is in the West, I said once more. "So when there came a mighty cry of Land! And we clomb up and saw, and shouted strong Salve Regina! all the ropes along, But knew at morn how that a counterfeit band Of level clouds had aped a silver strand; So when we heard the orchard-bird's small song, And all the people cried, A hellish throng To tempt us onward by the Devil planned, Yea, all from hell—keen heron, fresh green weeds, Pelican, tunny-fish, fair tapering reeds, Lie-telling lands that ever shine and die In clouds of nothing round the empty sky. Tired Admiral, get thee from this hell, and rest!— Steersman, I said, hold straight into the West. "I marvel how mine eye, ranging the Night, From its big circling ever absently Returns, thou large low Star, to fix on thee. Maria! Star? No star: a Light, a Light! Wouldst leap ashore, Heart? Yonder burns—a Light. Pedro Gutierrez, wake! come up to me. I prithee stand and gaze about the sea: What seest? Admiral, like as land—a Light! Well! Sanchez of Segovia, come and try: What seest? Admiral, naught but sea and sky! Well! but I saw It. Wait! the Pinta's gun! Why, look, 'tis dawn, the land is clear: 'tis done! Two dawns do break at once from Time's full hand— God's, East—mine, West: good friends, behold my Land!" Sidney Lanier.
COLUMBUS Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone. Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?" "Why, say 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'" "My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan, and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" "Why, you shall say at break of day, 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'" They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why, now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say"— He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!" They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. He lifts his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Admiral, say but one good word: What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leapt like a leaping sword: "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!" Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night A light! a light! a light! a light! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!" Joaquin Miller.
THE THANKSGIVING FOR AMERICA [Barcelona, April, 1493] I 'Twas night upon the Darro. The risen moon above the silvery tower Of Comares shone, the silver sun of night, And poured its lustrous splendors through the halls Of the Alhambra. The air was breathless, Yet filled with ceaseless songs of nightingales, And odors sweet of falling orange blooms; The misty lamps were burning odorous oil; The uncurtained balconies were full of life, And laugh and song, and airy castanets And gay guitars. Afar Sierras rose, Domes, towers, and pinnacles, over royal heights, Whose crowns were gemmed with stars. The Generaliffe, The summer palace of old Moorish kings In vanished years, stood sentinel afar, A pile of shade, as brighter grew the moon, Impearling fountain sprays, and shimmering On seas of citron orchards cool and green, And terraces embowered with vernal vines And breathing flowers. In shadowy arcades Were loitering priests, and here and there A water-carrier passed with tinkling bells. There came a peal of horns That woke Granada, city of delights, From its long moonlight reverie. Again:— The suave lute ceased to play, the castanet; The water-bearer stopped, and ceased his song The wandering troubadour. Then rent the air Another joyous peal, and oped the gates And entered there a train of cavaliers, Their helmets glittering in the low red moon, The streets and balconies All danced with wondering life. The train moved on, And filled the air again the horns melodious, And loud the heralds shouted:— "Thy name, O Fernando, through all earth shall be sounded, Columbus has triumphed, his foes are confounded!" A silence followed. Could such tidings be? Men heard and whispered, Eyes glanced to eyes, feet uncertain moved, Never on mortal ears had fallen words Like these. And was the earth a star? On marched the cavaliers, And pealed again the horns, and again cried The heralds:— "Thy name, Isabella, through all earth shall be sounded, Columbus has triumphed, his foes are confounded!" All hearts were thrilled. "Isabella!" That name breathed faith and hope And lofty aim. Emotion swayed the crowds: Tears flowed, and acclamations rose, and rushed The wondering multitudes toward the plaza. "Isabella! Isabella!" it filled The air—that one word "Isabella!" And now 'Tis noon of night. The moon hangs near the earth— A golden moon in golden air; the peaks Like silver tents of shadowy sentinels Glint 'gainst the sky. The plaza gleams and surges Like a sea. The joyful horns peal forth again, And falls a hush, and cry the heralds:— "Thy name, Isabella, shall be praised by all the living; Haste, haste to Barcelona, and join the Great Thanksgiving!" What nights had seen Granada! Yet never one like this! The moon went down And fell the wings of shadow, yet the streets Still swarmed with people hurrying on and on. II Morn came, With bursts of nightingales and quivering fires. The cavaliers rode forth toward Barcelona. The city followed, throbbing with delight. The happy troubadour, the muleteer, The craftsmen all, the boy and girl, and e'en The mother—'twas a soft spring morn; The fairest skies of earth those April morns In Andalusia. Long was the journey, But the land was flowers and the nights were not, And birds sang all the hours, and breezes cool Fanned all the ways along the sea. The roads were filled With hurrying multitudes. For well 'twas known That he, the conqueror, viceroy of the isles, Was riding from Seville to meet the king. And what were conquerors before to him whose eye Had seen the world a star, and found the star a world? Once he had walked The self-same ways, roofless and poor and sad, A beggar at old convent doors, and heard The very children jeer him in the streets, And ate his crust and made his roofless bed Upon the flowers beside his boy, and prayed, And found in trust a pillow radiant With dreams immortal. Now? III That was a glorious day That dawned on Barcelona. Banners filled The thronging towers, the old bells rung, and blasts Of lordly trumpets seemed to reach the sky Cerulean. All Spain had gathered there, And waited there his coming; Castilian knights, Gay cavaliers, hidalgos young, and e'en the old Puissant grandees of far Aragon, With glittering mail, and waving plumes, and all The peasant multitude with bannerets And charms and flowers. Beneath pavilions Of brocades of gold, the Court had met. The dual crowns of Leon old and proud Castile There waited him, the peasant mariner. The trumpets waited Near the open gates; the minstrels young and fair Upon the tapestried and arrased walls, And everywhere from all the happy provinces The wandering troubadours. Afar was heard A cry, a long acclaim. Afar was seen A proud and stately steed with nodding plumes, Bridled with gold, whose rider stately rode, And still afar a long and sinuous train Of silvery cavaliers. A shout arose, And all the city, all the vales and hills, With silver trumpets rung. He came, the Genoese, With reverent look and calm and lofty mien, And saw the wondering eyes and heard the cries And trumpet peals, as one who followed still Some Guide unseen. Before his steed Crowned Indians marched with lowly faces, And wondered at the new world that they saw; Gay parrots shouted from their gold-bound arms, And from their crests swept airy plumes. The sun Shone full in splendor on the scene, and here The old and new world met. But— IV Hark! the heralds! How they thrill all hearts and fill all eyes with tears! The very air seems throbbing with delight; Hark! hark! they cry, in chorus all they cry:— "Á Castilla y Á Leon, Á Castilla y Á Leon, Nuevo mundo dio Colon!" Every heart now beats with his, The stately rider on whose calm face shines "Nuevo mundo dio Colon!" how it rings! From wall to wall, from knights and cavaliers, And from the multitudinous throngs, A mighty chorus of the vales and hills! "Á Castilla y Á Leon!" And now the golden steed Draws near the throne; the crowds move back, and rise The reverent crowns of Leon and Castile; And stands before the tear-filled eyes of all The multitudes the form of Isabella. Semiramis? Zenobia? What were they To her, as met her eyes again the eyes of him Into whose hands her love a year before Emptied its jewels! He told his tale: The untried deep, the green Sargasso Sea, The varying compass, the affrighted crews, The hymn they sung on every doubtful eve, The sweet hymn to the Virgin. How there came The land birds singing, and the drifting weeds, How broke the morn on fair San Salvador, How the Te Deum on that isle was sung, And how the cross was lifted in the name Of Leon and Castile. And then he turned His face towards Heaven, "O Queen! O Queen! There kingdoms wait the triumphs of the cross!" V Then Isabella rose, With face illumined: then overcome with joy She sank upon her knees, and king and court And nobles rose and knelt beside her, And followed them the sobbing multitude; Then came a burst of joy, a chorus grand, And mighty antiphon— "We praise thee, Lord, and, Lord, acknowledge thee, And give thee glory!—Holy, Holy, Holy!" Loud and long it swelled and thrilled the air, That first Thanksgiving for the new-found world! VI The twilight roses bloomed In the far skies o'er Barcelona. The gentle Indians came and stood before The throne, and smiled the queen, and said: "I see my gems again." The shadow fell, And trilled all night beneath the moon and stars The happy nightingales. Hezekiah Butterworth.
COLUMBUS IN CHAINS [August, 1500] Are these the honors they reserve for me, Chains for the man who gave new worlds to Spain! Rest here, my swelling heart!—O kings, O queens, Patrons of monsters, and their progeny, Authors of wrong, and slaves to fortune merely! Why was I seated by my prince's side, Honor'd, caress'd like some first peer of Spain? Was it that I might fall most suddenly From honor's summit to the sink of scandal? 'Tis done, 'tis done!—what madness is ambition! What is there in that little breath of men, Which they call Fame, that should induce the brave To forfeit ease and that domestic bliss Which is the lot of happy ignorance, Less glorious aims, and dull humility?— Whoe'er thou art that shalt aspire to honor, And on the strength and vigor of the mind Vainly depending, court a monarch's favor, Pointing the way to vast extended empire; First count your pay to be ingratitude, Then chains and prisons, and disgrace like mine! Each wretched pilot now shall spread his sails, And treading in my footsteps, hail new worlds, Which, but for me, had still been empty visions. Philip Freneau.
COLUMBUS DYING [May 20, 1506] Hark! do I hear again the roar Of the tides by the Indies sweeping down? Or is it the surge from the viewless shore That swells to bear me to my crown? Life is hollow and cold and drear With smiles that darken and hopes that flee; And, far from its winds that faint and veer, I am ready to sail the vaster sea! Lord, Thou knowest I love Thee best; And that scorning peril and toil and pain, I held my way to the mystic West, Glory for Thee and Thy Church to gain. And Thou didst lead me, only Thou, Cheering my heart in cloud and calm, Till the dawn my glad, victorious prow Greeted Thine isles of bloom and balm. And then, O gracious, glorious Lord, I saw Thy face, and all heaven came nigh And my soul was lost in that rich reward, And ravished with hope of the bliss on high, So, I can meet the sovereign's frown— My dear Queen gone—with a large disdain; For the time will come when his chief renown Will be that I sailed from his realm of Spain. I have found new Lands—a World, maybe, Whose splendor will yet the Old outshine; And life and death are alike to me, For earth will honor, and heaven is mine Is mine!—What songs of sweet accord! What billows that nearer, gentler roll! Is mine!—Into Thy hands, O Lord, Into Thy hands I give my soul! Edna Dean Proctor. COLUMBUS Give me white paper! This which you use is black and rough with smears Of sweat and grime and fraud and blood and tears, Crossed with the story of men's sins and fears, Of battle and of famine all these years, When all God's children had forgot their birth, And drudged and fought and died like beasts of earth. "Give me white paper!" One storm-trained seaman listened to the word; What no man saw he saw; he heard what no man heard. In answer he compelled the sea To eager man to tell The secret she had kept so well! Left blood and guilt and tyranny behind,— Sailing still West the hidden shore to find; For all mankind that unstained scroll unfurled, Where God might write anew the story of the World. Edward Everett Hale. COLUMBUS AND THE MAYFLOWER O little fleet! that on thy quest divine Sailedst from Palos one bright autumn morn, Say, has old Ocean's bosom ever borne A freight of faith and hope to match with thine? Say, too, has Heaven's high favor given again Such consummation of desire as shone About Columbus when he rested on The new-found world and married it to Spain? Answer,—thou refuge of the freeman's need,— Thou for whose destinies no kings looked out, Nor sages to resolve some mighty doubt,— Thou simple Mayflower of the salt-sea mead! When thou wert wafted to that distant shore, Gay flowers, bright birds, rich odors met thee not, Stern Nature hailed thee to a sterner lot,— God gave free earth and air, and gave no more. Thus to men cast in that heroic mould Came empire such as Spaniard never knew, Such empire as beseems the just and true; And at the last, almost unsought, came gold. But He who rules both calm and stormy days, Can guard that people's heart, that nation's health, Safe on the perilous heights of power and wealth, As in the straitness of the ancient ways. Lord Houghton. CHAPTER IIIN THE WAKE OF COLUMBUS
THE FIRST VOYAGE OF JOHN CABOT [1497] 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. 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.
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. 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
THE FALL OF MAUBILA [October 18, 1540] 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, "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.
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, 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, 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.
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.
THE FIRST AMERICAN SAILORS Five fearless knights of the first renown In Elizabeth's great array, 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 gravesbr /> 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. CHAPTER IIITHE SETTLEMENT OF VIRGINIA
THE MYSTERY OF CRO-A-TÀN 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.
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.
[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.
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.
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. 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.
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.
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.
[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.
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.
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.
BACON'S EPITAPH, MADE BY HIS MAN [October 1, 1676] 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, 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.
[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. (?)
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. CHAPTER IVTHE DUTCH AT NEW AMSTERDAM
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.
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; 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.
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.
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. 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.
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. 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,
PETER STUYVESANT'S NEW YEAR'S CALL [I. Jan. A. C. 1661] THE SETTLEMENT OF NEW ENGLAND
THE WORD OF GOD TO LEYDEN CAME [August 15 (N. S.), 1620] The word of God to Leyden came, Dutch town by Zuyder Zee: Rise up, my children of no name, My kings and priests to be. There is an empire in the West, Which I will soon unfold; A thousand harvests in her breast, Rocks ribbed with iron and gold. Rise up, my children, time is ripe! Old things are passed away. Bishops and kings from earth I wipe; Too long they've had their day. A little ship have I prepared To bear you o'er the seas; And in your souls my will declared Shall grow by slow degrees. Beneath my throne the martyrs cry; I hear their voice, How long? It mingles with their praises high, And with their victor song. The thing they longed and waited for, But died without the sight; So, this shall be! I wrong abhor, The world I'll now set right. Leave, then, the hammer and the loom, You've other work to do; For Freedom's commonwealth there's room, And you shall build it too. I'm tired of bishops and their pride, I'm tired of kings as well; Henceforth I take the people's side, And with the people dwell. Tear off the mitre from the priest, And from the king, his crown; Let all my captives be released; Lift up, whom men cast down. Their pastors let the people choose, And choose their rulers too; But bless the work they do. The Pilgrims rose, at this, God's word, And sailed the wintry seas: With their own flesh nor blood conferred, Nor thought of wealth or ease. They left the towers of Leyden town, They left the Zuyder Zee; And where they cast their anchor down, Rose Freedom's realm to be. Jeremiah Eames Rankin.
SONG OF THE PILGRIMS [September 16 (N. S.), 1620] The breeze has swelled the whitening sail, The blue waves curl beneath the gale, And, bounding with the wave and wind, We leave Old England's shores behind— Leave behind our native shore, Homes, and all we loved before. The deep may dash, the winds may blow, The storm spread out its wings of woe, Till sailors' eyes can see a shroud Hung in the folds of every cloud; Still, as long as life shall last, From that shore we'll speed us fast. For we would rather never be, Than dwell where mind cannot be free, But bows beneath a despot's rod Even where it seeks to worship God. Blasts of heaven, onward sweep! Bear us o'er the troubled deep! O see what wonders meet our eyes! Another land, and other skies! Columbian hills have met our view! Adieu! Old England's shores, adieu! Here, at length, our feet shall rest, Hearts be free, and homes be blessed. As long as yonder firs shall spread Their green arms o'er the mountain's head,— As long as yonder cliffs shall stand, Where join the ocean and the land,— Shall those cliffs and mountains be Proud retreats for liberty. Now to the King of kings we'll raise The pÆan loud of sacred praise; More loud than sounds the swelling breeze, More loud than speak the rolling seas! Happier lands have met our view! England's shores, adieu! adieu! Thomas Cogswell Upham.
LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS [November 19 (N. S.), 1620] The breaking waves dashed high On the stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods, against a stormy sky, Their giant branches tossed; And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came: Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear,— They shook the depths of the desert's gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free! The ocean-eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, This was their welcome home! There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band; Why have they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow, serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?— They sought a faith's pure shrine! Aye, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found— Freedom to worship God! Felicia Hemans.
THE FIRST PROCLAMATION OF MILES STANDISH [November 23 (N. S.), 1620] "Ho, Rose!" quoth the stout Miles Standish, As he stood on the Mayflower's deck, And gazed on the sandy coast-line That loomed as a misty speck On the edge of the distant offing,— "See! yonder we have in view Bartholomew Gosnold's 'headlands.' 'Twas in sixteen hundred and two "That the Concord of Dartmouth anchored Just there where the beach is broad, And the merry old captain named it (Half swamped by the fish)—Cape Cod. "And so as his mighty 'headlands' Are scarcely a league away, What say you to landing, sweetheart, And having a washing-day? "For did not the mighty Leader Who guided the chosen band Pause under the peaks of Sinai, And issue his strict command— "(For even the least assoilment Of Egypt the spirit loathes)— Or ever they entered Canaan, The people should wash their clothes? "The land we have left is noisome,— And rank with the smirch of sin; The land that we seek should find us Clean-vestured without and within." "Dear heart"—and the sweet Rose Standish Looked up with a tear in her eye; She was back in the flag-stoned kitchen Where she watched, in the days gone by, Her mother among her maidens (She should watch them no more, alas!), And saw as they stretched the linen To bleach on the Suffolk grass. In a moment her brow was cloudless, As she leaned on the vessel's rail, And thought of the sea-stained garments, Of coif and of farthingale; And the doublets of fine Welsh flannel, The tuckers and homespun gowns, And the piles of the hosen knitted From the wool of the Devon downs. So the matrons aboard the Mayflower Made ready with eager hand To drop from the deck their baskets As soon as the prow touched land. And there did the Pilgrim Mothers, "On a Monday," the record says, Ordain for their new-found England The first of her washing-days. And there did the Pilgrim Fathers, With matchlock and axe well slung, Keep guard o'er the smoking kettles That propt on the crotches hung. For the trail of the startled savage Was over the marshy grass, And the glint of his eyes kept peering Through cedar and sassafras. And the children were mad with pleasure As they gathered the twigs in sheaves, And piled on the fire the fagots, And heaped up the autumn leaves. "Do the thing that is next," saith the proverb, And a nobler shall yet succeed:— 'Tis the motive exalts the action; 'Tis the doing, and not the deed; For the earliest act of the heroes Whose fame has a world-wide sway Was—to fashion a crane for a kettle, And order a washing-day! Margaret Junkin Preston.
THE MAYFLOWER Down in the bleak December bay The ghostly vessel stands away; Her spars and halyards white with ice, Under the dark December skies. A hundred souls, in company, Have left the vessel pensively,— Have reached the frosty desert there, And touched it with the knees of prayer. And now the day begins to dip, The night begins to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower. Neither the desert nor the sea Imposes rites: their prayers are free; Danger and toil the wild imposes, And thorns must grow before the roses. And who are these?—and what distress The savage-acred wilderness On mother, maid, and child may bring, Beseems them for a fearful thing; For now the day begins to dip, The night begins to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower. But Carver leads (in heart and health A hero of the commonwealth) The axes that the camp requires, To build the lodge and heap the fires, And Standish from his warlike store Arrays his men along the shore, Distributes weapons resonant, And dons his harness militant; For now the day begins to dip, The night begins to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower; And Rose, his wife, unlocks a chest— She sees a Book, in vellum drest, She drops a tear and kisses the tome, Thinking of England and of home: Might they—the Pilgrims, there and then Ordained to do the work of men— Have seen, in visions of the air, While pillowed on the breast of prayer (When now the day began to dip, The night began to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower), The Canaan of their wilderness A boundless empire of success; And seen the years of future nights Jewelled with myriad household lights; And seen the honey fill the hive; And seen a thousand ships arrive; And heard the wheels of travel go; It would have cheered a thought of woe, When now the day began to dip, The night began to lower Over the bay, and over the ship Mayflower. Erastus Wolcott Ellsworth.
THE PEACE MESSAGE [March 16, 1621] At the door of his hut sat Massasoit, And his face was lined with care, For the Yellow Pest had stalked from the West And swept his wigwams bare; Mother and child had it stricken down, And the warrior in his pride, Till for one that lived when the plague was past, A full half-score had died. Now from the Eastern Shore there came Word of a white-skinned race Who had risen from out the mighty deep In search of a dwelling-place. Houses they fashioned of tree and stone, Turkey and deer they slew With a breath of flame like the lightning-flash Of the great God, Manitu. Was it war or peace? The Chief looked round On the wreck of his mighty band. His heart was sad as he rose from the ground And held on high his hand. "We must treat with the stranger, my children," he said, And he called to him Samoset: "You will go to the men on the Eastern Shore With wampum and calumet." Warm was the welcome he received, For the Pilgrims' hearts did thrill At the message he brought from Massasoit, With its earnest of good-will. They bade him eat and they bade him drink, Gave bracelet, knife, and ring, And sent him again to Monhegan To lay them before his king. So the treaty was made, and the treaty was kept For fifty years and four; The white men wrought, and waked, and slept Secure on the Eastern Shore; From the door of his hut, old Massasoit Noted their swift increase, And blessed the day he had sent that way His messenger of peace. Burton Egbert Stevenson.
THE FIRST THANKSGIVING DAY [November, 1621] "And now," said the Governor, gazing abroad on the piled-up store Of the sheaves that dotted the clearings and covered the meadows o'er, "'Tis meet that we render praises because of this yield of grain; 'Tis meet that the Lord of the harvest be thanked for His sun and rain. "And therefore, I, William Bradford (by the grace of God to-day, And the franchise of this good people), Governor of Plymouth, say, Through virtue of vested power—ye shall gather with one accord, And hold, in the month November, thanksgiving unto the Lord. "He hath granted us peace and plenty, and the quiet we've sought so long; He hath thwarted the wily savage, and kept him from wrack and wrong; And unto our feast the Sachem shall be bidden, that he may know We worship his own Great Spirit who maketh the harvests grow. "So shoulder your matchlocks, masters: there is hunting of all degrees; And fishermen, take your tackle, and scour for spoil the seas; To honor our First Thanksgiving, and make it a feast of joy! "We fail of the fruits and dainties—we fail of the old home cheer; Ah, these are the lightest losses, mayhap, that befall us here; But see, in our open clearings, how golden the melons lie; Enrich them with sweets and spices, and give us the pumpkin-pie!" So, bravely the preparations went on for the autumn feast; The deer and the bear were slaughtered; wild game from the greatest to least Was heaped in the colony cabins; brown home-brew served for wine, And the plum and the grape of the forest, for orange and peach and pine. At length came the day appointed: the snow had begun to fall, But the clang from the meeting-house belfry rang merrily over all, And summoned the folk of Plymouth, who hastened with glad accord To listen to Elder Brewster as he fervently thanked the Lord. In his seat sate Governor Bradford; men, matrons, and maidens fair; Miles Standish and all his soldiers, with corselet and sword, were there; And sobbing and tears and gladness had each in its turn the sway, For the grave of the sweet Rose Standish o'ershadowed Thanksgiving Day. And when Massasoit, the Sachem, sate down with his hundred braves, And ate of the varied riches of gardens and woods and waves, And looked on the granaried harvest,—with a blow on his brawny chest, He muttered, "The good Great Spirit loves His white children best!" Margaret Junkin Preston.
THE WAR-TOKEN From "The Courtship of Miles Standish" [April 1, 1622] Meanwhile the choleric Captain strode wrathful away to the council, Found it already assembled, impatiently waiting his coming; Men in the middle of life, austere and grave in deportment, Only one of them old, the hill that was nearest to heaven, Covered with snow, but erect, the excellent Elder of Plymouth. God had sifted three kingdoms to find the wheat for this planting, Then had sifted the wheat, as the living seed of a nation; So say the chronicles old, and such is the faith of the people! Near them was standing an Indian, in attitude stern and defiant, Naked down to the waist, and grim and ferocious in aspect; While on the table before them was lying unopened a Bible, Ponderous, bound in leather, brass-studded, printed in Holland, And beside it outstretched the skin of a rattlesnake glittered, Filled, like a quiver, with arrows; a signal and challenge of warfare, Brought by the Indian, and speaking with arrowy tongues of defiance. This Miles Standish beheld, as he entered, and heard them debating What were an answer befitting the hostile message and menace, Talking of this and of that, contriving, suggesting, objecting; One voice only for peace, and that the voice of the Elder, Judging it wise and well that some at least were converted, Rather than any were slain, for this was but Christian behavior! Muttering deep in his throat, for his voice was husky with anger, "What! do you mean to make war with milk and the water of roses? Is it to shoot red squirrels you have your howitzer planted There on the roof of the church, or is it to shoot red devils? Truly the only tongue that is understood by a savage Must be the tongue of fire that speaks from the mouth of the cannon!" Thereupon answered and said the excellent Elder of Plymouth, Somewhat amazed and alarmed at this irreverent language: "Not so thought St. Paul, nor yet the other Apostles; Not from the cannon's mouth were the tongues of fire they spake with!" But unheeded fell this mild rebuke on the Captain, Who had advanced to the table, and thus continued discoursing: "Leave this matter to me, for to me by right it pertaineth. War is a terrible trade; but in the cause that is righteous, Sweet is the smell of powder; and thus I answer the challenge!" Then from the rattlesnake's skin, with a sudden, contemptuous gesture, Jerking the Indian arrows, he filled it with powder and bullets Full to the very jaws, and handed it back to the savage, Saying, in thundering tones: "Here, take it! this is your answer!" Silently out of the room then glided the glistening savage, Bearing the serpent's skin, and seeming himself like a serpent, Winding his sinuous way in the dark to the depths of the forest. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
FIVE KERNELS OF CORN [April, 1622] I 'Twas the year of the famine in Plymouth of old, The ice and the snow from the thatched roofs had rolled; Through the warm purple skies steered the geese o'er the seas, And the woodpeckers tapped in the clocks of the trees; And the boughs on the slopes to the south winds lay bare, And dreaming of summer, the buds swelled in the air. The pale Pilgrims welcomed each reddening morn; There were left but for rations Five Kernels of Corn. Five Kernels of Corn! Five Kernels of Corn! But to Bradford a feast were Five Kernels of Corn! II "Five Kernels of Corn! Five Kernels of Corn! Ye people, be glad for Five Kernels of Corn!" So Bradford cried out on bleak Burial Hill, And the thin women stood in their doors, white and still. "Lo, the harbor of Plymouth rolls bright in the Spring, The maples grow red, and the wood robins sing, The west wind is blowing, and fading the snow, And the pleasant pines sing, and the arbutuses blow. Five Kernels of Corn! Five Kernels of Corn! To each one be given Five Kernels of Corn!" III O Bradford of Austerfield haste on thy way. The west winds are blowing o'er Provincetown Bay, The white avens bloom, but the pine domes are chill, And new graves have furrowed Precisioners' Hill! "Give thanks, all ye people, the warm skies have come, The hilltops are sunny, and green grows the holm, And ye still have left you Five Kernels of Corn. Five Kernels of Corn! Five Kernels of Corn! Ye have for Thanksgiving Five Kernels of Corn!" IV "The raven's gift eat and be humble and pray, A new light is breaking, and Truth leads your way; One taper a thousand shall kindle: rejoice That to you has been given the wilderness voice!" O Bradford of Austerfield, daring the wave, And safe through the sounding blasts leading the brave, Of deeds such as thine was the free nation born, And the festal world sings the "Five Kernels of Corn." Five Kernels of Corn! Five Kernels of Corn! The nation gives thanks for Five Kernels of Corn! To the Thanksgiving Feast bring Five Kernels of Corn! Hezekiah Butterworth.
From "The Courtship of Miles Standish" [March, 1623] By the end of 1624 Plymouth was in a thriving condition. Its inhabitants numbered nearly two hundred, and it boasted thirty-two dwelling-houses. Other colonies soon sprang up about the Bay—Piscataqua (Portsmouth), Naumkeag (Salem), Nantasket (Hull), and Winnisimmet (Chelsea). The trials and pleasures of life in New England at about this time are humorously described in what are perhaps the first verses written by an American colonist. [1630] New England's annoyances, you that would know them, Pray ponder these verses which briefly doth shew them. The Place where we live is a wilderness Wood, Where Grass is much wanting that's fruitful and good: Our Mountains and Hills and our Vallies below Being commonly cover'd with Ice and with Snow; And when the North-west Wind with violence blows, Then every Man pulls his Cap over his Nose: But if any's so hardy and will it withstand, He forfeits a Finger, a Foot, or a Hand. But when the Spring opens, we then take the Hoe, And make the Ground ready to plant and to sow; Our Corn being planted and Seed being sown, The Worms destroy much before it is grown; And when it is growing, some spoil there is made By Birds and by Squirrels that pluck up the Blade; And when it is come to full Corn in the Ear, It is often destroy'd by Raccoon and by Deer. And now do our Garments begin to grow thin, And Wool is much wanted to card and to spin; If we can get a Garment to cover without, Our other In-Garments are Clout upon Clout: Our Clothes we brought with us are apt to be torn, They need to be clouted soon after they're worn; But clouting our Garments they hinder us nothing: Clouts double are warmer than single whole Clothing. If fresh Meat be wanting, to fill up our Dish, We have Carrots and Turnips as much as we wish; And is there a mind for a delicate Dish, We repair to the Clam-banks, and there we catch Fish. For Pottage and Puddings, and Custards and Pies, Our Pumpkins and Parsnips are common supplies; We have Pumpkins at morning, and Pumpkins at noon; If it was not for Pumpkins we should be undone. If Barley be wanting to make into Malt, We must be contented, and think it no fault; For we can make Liquor to sweeten our Lips Of Pumpkins and Parsnips and Walnut-Tree Chips. * * * * * Now while some are going let others be coming, For while Liquor's boiling it must have a scumming; But I will not blame them, for Birds of a Feather, By seeking their Fellows, are flocking together. But you whom the Lord intends hither to bring, Forsake not the Honey for fear of the Sting; But bring both a quiet and contented Mind, And all needful Blessings you surely will find.
THE PILGRIM FATHERS I Well worthy to be magnified are they Who, with sad hearts, of friends and country took A last farewell, their loved abodes forsook, And hallowed ground in which their fathers lay; Then to the new-found World explored their way, That so a Church, unforced, uncalled to brook Ritual restraints, within some sheltering nook Her Lord might worship and his word obey In freedom. Men they were who could not bend; Blest Pilgrims, surely, as they took for guide A will by sovereign Conscience sanctified; Blest while their Spirits from the woods ascend Along a Galaxy that knows no end, But in His glory who for Sinners died. II From Rite and Ordinance abused they fled To Wilds where both were utterly unknown; But not to them had Providence foreshown What benefits are missed, what evils bred, In worship neither raised nor limited Save by Self-will. Lo! from that distant shore, For Rite and Ordinance, Piety is led Back to the Land those Pilgrims left of yore, Led by her own free choice. So Truth and Love By Conscience governed do their steps retrace.— Fathers! your Virtues, such the power of grace, Their spirit, in your Children, thus approve. Transcendent over time, unbound by place, Concord and Charity in circles move. William Wordsworth.
THE PILGRIM FATHERS The Pilgrim Fathers,—where are they? The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore; Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day When the Mayflower moored below; When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep Still brood upon the tide; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale, When the heavens looked dark, is gone,— As an angel's wing through an opening cloud Is seen, and then withdrawn. The pilgrim exile,—sainted name! The hill whose icy brow Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hillside and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head,— But the Pilgrim! where is he? The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest: When summer's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. The earliest ray of the golden day On that hallowed spot is cast; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last. The Pilgrim spirit has not fled: It walks in noon's broad light; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars by night. It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And still guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay, where the Mayflower lay, Shall foam and freeze no more. John Pierpont.
THE THANKSGIVING IN BOSTON HARBOR [June 12, 1630] "Praise ye the Lord!" The psalm to-day Still rises on our ears, Borne from the hills of Boston Bay Through five times fifty years, When Winthrop's fleet from Yarmouth crept Out to the open main, And through the widening waters swept, In April sun and rain. "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," The leader shouted, "pray;" And prayer arose from all the ships As faded Yarmouth Bay. They passed the Scilly Isles that day, And May-days came, and June, And thrice upon the ocean lay The full orb of the moon. And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay, Ere England sunk from view, While yet the rippling Solent lay In April skies of blue, "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," Each morn was shouted, "pray;" And prayer arose from all the ships, As first in Yarmouth Bay; Blew warm the breeze o'er Western seas, Through Maytime morns, and June, Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals, Low 'neath the summer moon; And as Cape Ann arose to view, And Norman's Woe they passed, The wood-doves came the white mists through, And circled round each mast. "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," Then called the leader, "pray;" And prayer arose from all the ships, As first in Yarmouth Bay. Above the sea the hill-tops fair— God's towers—began to rise, And odors rare breathe through the air, Like balms of Paradise. Through burning skies the ospreys flew, And near the pine-cooled shores Danced airy boat and thin canoe, To flash of sunlit oars. "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips," The leader shouted, "pray!" Then prayer arose, and all the ships Sailed into Boston Bay. The white wings folded, anchors down, The sea-worn fleet in line, Fair rose the hills where Boston town Should rise from clouds of pine; Fair was the harbor, summit-walled, And placid lay the sea. "Praise ye the Lord," the leader called; "Praise ye the Lord," spake he. "Give thanks to God with fervent lips, Give thanks to God to-day," The anthem rose from all the ships, Safe moored in Boston Bay. "Praise ye the Lord!" Primeval woods First heard the ancient song, And summer hills and solitudes The echoes rolled along. Above the fleet that day, While Shawmut's triple peaks in view In amber hazes lay. "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, Praise ye the Lord to-day," The anthem rose from all the ships Safe moored in Boston Bay. The Arabella leads the song— The Mayflower sings below, That erst the Pilgrims bore along The Plymouth reefs of snow. Oh! never be that psalm forgot That rose o'er Boston Bay, When Winthrop sang, and Endicott, And Saltonstall, that day: "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, Praise ye the Lord to-day;" And praise arose from all the ships, Like prayers in Yarmouth Bay. That psalm our fathers sang we sing, That psalm of peace and wars, While o'er our heads unfolds its wing The flag of forty stars. And while the nation finds a tongue For nobler gifts to pray, 'Twill ever sing the song they sung That first Thanksgiving Day: "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips, Praise ye the Lord to-day;" So rose the song from all the ships, Safe moored in Boston Bay. Our fathers' prayers have changed to psalms, As David's treasures old Turned, on the Temple's giant arms, To lily-work of gold. Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth's tide, Ho! ships of Boston Bay, Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide To this Thanksgiving Day! We pray to God with fervent lips, We praise the Lord to-day, As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships, But psalms from Boston Bay. Hezekiah Butterworth.
THE FIRST THANKSGIVING [February 22, 1631] It was Captain Pierce of the Lion who strode the streets of London, Who stalked the streets in the blear of morn and growled in his grisly beard; By Neptune! quoth this grim sea-dog, I fear that my master's undone! 'Tis a bitter thing if all for naught through the drench of the deep I've steered! He had come from out of the ultimate West through the spinning drift and the smother, Come for a guerdon of golden grain for a hungry land afar; And he thought of many a wasting maid, and of many a sad-eyed mother, And how their gaze would turn and turn for a sail at the harbor bar. But famine lay on the English isle, and grain was a hoarded treasure, So ruddy the coin must gleam to loose the lock of the store-house door; And under his breath the Captain groaned because of his meagre measure, And the grasping souls of those that held the keys to the precious store. But he flung a laugh and a fleer at doubt, and braving the roaring city He faced them out—those moiling men whose greed had grown to a curse— Till at last he found in the strenuous press a heart that was moved to pity, And he gave the Governor's bond and word for what he lacked in his purse. So the Lion put her prow to the West in the wild and windy weather, Her sails all set, though her decks were wet with the driving scud and the foam; For the haunting thought of hungry eyes was the lure that called him home. Sooth, in the streets of Boston-town was the heavy sound of sorrow, For an iron frost had bound the wold, and the sky hung bleak and dread; Despair sat dark on the face of him who dared to think of the morrow, When not a crust could the goodwife give if the children moaned for bread. But hark, from the wintry waterside a loud and lusty cheering, That sweeps the sullen streets of the town as a wave the level strand! A sail! a sail! upswelled the cry, speeding the vessel steering Out of the vast of the misty sea in to the waiting land. Turn the dimming page of the past that the dust of the years is dry on. And see the tears in the eyes of Joy as the ship draws in to the shore, And see the genial glow on the face of Captain Pierce of the Lion, As the Governor grips his faithful hand and blesses him o'er and o'er! Oh, the rapture of that release! Feasting instead of fasting! Happiness in the heart of the home, and hope with its silver ray! Oh, the songs of prayer and praise to the Lord God everlasting That mounted morn and noon and eve on that first Thanksgiving Day! Clinton Scollard.
NEW ENGLAND'S GROWTH From a fragmentary poem on "New England" Famine once we had, But other things God gave us in full store, As fish and ground-nuts to supply our strait, That we might learn on Providence to wait; And know, by bread man lives not in his need. But by each word that doth from God proceed. But a while after plenty did come in, From His hand only who doth pardon sin, And all did flourish like the pleasant green, Which in the joyful spring is to be seen. Almost ten years we lived here alone, In other places there were few or none; For Salem was the next of any fame, That began to augment New England's name; But after multitudes began to flow, More than well knew themselves where to bestow; Boston then began her roots to spread, And quickly soon she grew to be the head, Not only of the Massachusetts Bay, But all trade and commerce fell in her way. And truly it was admirable to know, How greatly all things here began to grow. New plantations were in each place begun, And with inhabitants were filled soon. All sorts of grain which our own land doth yield, Was hither brought and sown in every field: As wheat and rye, barley, oats, beans and pease, Here all thrive, and they profit from them raise. All sorts of roots and herbs in gardens grow, Parsnips, carrots, turnips, or what you'll sow. Onions, melons, cucumbers, radishes, Skirets, beets, coleworts, and fair cabbages. Here grow fine flowers many, and 'mongst those, The fair white lily and sweet fragrant rose. Many good wholesome berries here you'll find, Fit for man's use, almost of every kind, Pears, apples, cherries, plumbs, quinces, and peach, Are now no dainties; you may have of each. Nuts and grapes of several sorts are here, If you will take the pains them to seek for. William Bradford.
THE ASSAULT ON THE FORTRESS From "The Destruction of the Pequods" [May 25, 1637] Through verdant banks where Thames's branches glide, Long held the Pequods an extensive sway; Bold, savage, fierce, of arms the glorious pride, And bidding all the circling realms obey. Jealous, they saw the tribes, beyond the sea, Plant in their climes; and towns, and cities, rise; Ascending castles foreign flags display; Mysterious art new scenes of life devise; And steeds insult the plains, and cannon rend the skies. The rising clouds the savage chief descried, And, round the forest, bade his heroes arm; To arms the painted warriors proudly hied, And through surrounding nations rung the alarm. The nations heard; but smiled, to see the storm, With ruin fraught, o'er Pequod mountains driven And felt infernal joy the bosom warm, To see their light hang o'er the skirts of even, And other suns arise, to gild a kinder heaven. Swift to the Pequod fortress Mason sped, Far in the wildering wood's impervious gloom; A lonely castle, brown with twilight dread; Where oft the embowelled captive met his doom, And frequent heaved, around the hollow tomb, Scalps hung in rows, and whitening bones were strew'd; Where, round the broiling babe, fresh from the womb, With howls the Powow fill'd the dark abode, And screams and midnight prayers invoked the evil god. But now no awful rites, nor potent spell, To silence charm'd the peals of coming war; Or told the dread recesses of the dell, Where glowing Mason led his bands from far; No spirit, buoyant on his airy car, Controll'd the whirlwind of invading fight: Deep died in blood, dun evening's falling star Sent sad o'er western hills its parting light, And no returning morn dispersed the long, dark night. On the drear walls a sudden splendor glow'd, There Mason shone, and there his veterans pour'd. Anew the hero claim'd the fiends of blood, While answering storms of arrows round him shower'd, And the war-scream the ear with anguish gored. Alone, he burst the gate; the forest round ReËchoed death; the peal of onset roar'd, In rush'd the squadrons; earth in blood was drown'd; And gloomy spirits fled, and corses hid the ground. Not long in dubious fight the host had striven, When, kindled by the musket's potent flame, In clouds, and fire, the castle rose to heaven, And gloom'd the world, with melancholy beam. Then hoarser groans, with deeper anguish, came; And fiercer fight the keen assault repell'd: Nor e'en these ills the savage breast could tame; Like hell's deep caves, the hideous region yell'd, Till death, and sweeping fire, laid waste the hostile field. Timothy Dwight.
DEATH SONG [1673] Great Sassacus fled from the eastern shores, Where the sun first shines, and the great sea roars, For the white men came from the world afar, And their fury burnt like the bison star. His sannops were slain by their thunder's power, And his children fell like the star-eyed flower; And the home of his youth has a stranger name— His ancestor once was our countryman's foe, And the arrow was plac'd in the new-strung bow, The wild deer ranged through the forest free, While we fought with his tribe by the distant sea. But the foe never came to the Mohawk's tent, With his hair untied, and his bow unbent, And found not the blood of the wild deer shed, And the calumet lit and the bear-skin bed. But sing ye the Death Song, and kindle the pine, And bid its broad light like his valor to shine; Then raise high his pile by our warriors' heaps, And tell to his tribe that his murderer sleeps. Alonzo Lewis. OUR COUNTRY On primal rocks she wrote her name; Her towers were reared on holy graves; The golden seed that bore her came Swift-winged with prayer o'er ocean waves. The Forest bowed his solemn crest, And open flung his sylvan doors; Meek Rivers led the appointed guest To clasp the wide-embracing shores; Till, fold by fold, the broidered land To swell her virgin vestments grew, While sages, strong in heart and hand, Her virtue's fiery girdle drew. O Exile of the wrath of kings! O Pilgrim Ark of Liberty! The refuge of divinest things, Their record must abide in thee! First in the glories of thy front Let the crown-jewel, Truth, be found; Thy right hand fling, with generous wont, Love's happy chain to farthest bound! Let Justice, with the faultless scales, Hold fast the worship of thy sons; Thy Commerce spread her shining sails Where no dark tide of rapine runs! So link thy ways to those of God, So follow firm the heavenly laws, That stars may greet thee, warrior-browed, And storm-sped angels hail thy cause! O Lord, the measure of our prayers, Hope of the world in grief and wrong, Be thine the tribute of the years, The gift of Faith, the crown of Song! Julia Ward Howe. CHAPTER VIRELIGIOUS PERSECUTIONS IN NEW ENGLAND
PROLOGUE From "John Endicott" To-night we strive to read, as we may best, This city, like an ancient palimpsest; And bring to light, upon the blotted page, The mournful record of an earlier age, That, pale and half effaced, lies hidden away Beneath the fresher writing of to-day. Rise, then, O buried city that hast been; Rise up, rebuilded in the painted scene, And let our curious eyes behold once more The pointed gable and the pent-house door, The meeting-house with leaden-latticed panes, The narrow thoroughfares, the crooked lanes! Rise, too, ye shapes and shadows of the Past, Rise from your long-forgotten graves at last; The words ye uttered in those days of fear! Revisit your familiar haunts again,— The scenes of triumph, and the scenes of pain, And leave the footprints of your bleeding feet Once more upon the pavement of the street! Nor let the Historian blame the Poet here, If he perchance misdate the day or year, And group events together, by his art, That in the Chronicles lie far apart; For as the double stars, though sundered far, Seem to the naked eye a single star, So facts of history, at a distance seen, Into one common point of light convene. "Why touch upon such themes?" perhaps some friend May ask, incredulous; "and to what good end? Why drag again into the light of day The errors of an age long passed away?" I answer: "For the lesson that they teach: The tolerance of opinion and of speech. Hope, Faith, and Charity remain,—these three; And greatest of them all is Charity." Let us remember, if these words be true, That unto all men Charity is due; Give what we ask; and pity, while we blame, Lest we become copartners in the shame, Lest we condemn, and yet ourselves partake, And persecute the dead for conscience' sake. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
ROGER WILLIAMS [January, 1636] Williams had a hard time of it. Thirty years later, he related how he was "sorely tossed for fourteen weeks in a bitter winter season, not knowing what bread or bed did mean." GOD MAKES A PATH God makes a path, provides a guide, And feeds in wilderness! His glorious name while breath remains, O that I may confess. Lost many a time, I have had no guide, No house, but hollow tree! In stormy winter night no fire, No food, no company: In him I found a house, a bed, A table, company: No cup so bitter, but's made sweet, When God shall sweetning be. Roger Williams.
CANONICUS AND ROGER WILLIAMS [1636] Content within his wigwam warm, Canonicus sate by the fire; Without, the voices of the storm Shrieked ever high and higher. Eager and wild, the spiteful wind Tore at the thatch with fingers strong; The Sachem fed the fire within And hummed a hunting-song. Sudden upon the crusted snow He caught a sound not of the storm— A sound of footsteps dragging slow Towards his shelter warm. He drew aside the flap of skin; A stranger at the threshold stood; Canonicus bade him enter in, And gave him drink and food. His hand he gave in friendship true, Land for a home gave he; And he learned of the love of Christ Jesu, Who died upon the tree. To the stranger guest sweet life he gave; For a State he saved its Sire; Yea, and his own soul did he save From burning in hell-fire.
[March 28, 1638] "Home, home—where's my baby's home? Here we seek, there we seek, my baby's home to find. Come, come, come, my baby, come! We found her home, we lost her home, and home is far behind. Come, my baby, come! Find my baby's home!" The baby clings; the mother sings; the pony stumbles on; The father leads the beast along the tangled, muddy way; The boys and girls trail on behind; the sun will soon be gone, And starlight bright will take again the place of sunny day. "Home, home—where's my baby's home? Here we seek, there we seek, my baby's home to find. Come, come, come, my baby, come! We found her home, we lost her home, and home is far behind. Come, my baby, come! Find my baby's home!" The sun goes down behind the lake; the night fogs gather chill, The children's clothes are torn; and the children's feet are sore. "Keep on, my boys, keep on, my girls, till all have passed the hill; Then ho, my girls, and ho, my boys, for fire and sleep once more!" And all the time she sings to the baby on her breast, "Home, my darling, sleep, my darling, find a place for rest; Who gives the fox his burrow will give my bird a nest. Come, my baby, come! Find my baby's home!" He lifts the mother from the beast; the hemlock boughs they spread, And make the baby's cradle sweet with fern-leaves and with bays. The baby and her mother are resting on their bed; He strikes the flint, he blows the spark, and sets the twigs ablaze. "Sleep, my child; sleep, my child! Baby, find her rest, Here beneath the gracious skies, upon her father's breast; Who gives the fox his burrow will give my bird her nest. Home, home, find my baby's home!" The guardian stars above the trees their loving vigil keep; The cricket sings her lullaby, the whippoorwill his cheer. The father knows his Father's arms are round them as they sleep; The mother knows that in His arms her darling need not fear. "Home, home, my baby's home is here; With God we seek, with God we find the place for baby's rest. Hist, my child, list, my child; angels guard us here. The God of heaven is here to make and keep my birdie's nest. Home, home, here's my baby's home!" Edward Everett Hale.
JOHN UNDERHILL [September, 1638] A score of years had come and gone Since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth stone, When Captain Underhill, bearing scars From Indian ambush and Flemish wars, Left three-hilled Boston and wandered down, East by north, to Cocheco town. With Vane the younger, in council sweet, He had sat at Anna Hutchinson's feet, And, when the bolt of banishment fell On the head of his saintly oracle, He had shared her ill as her good report, And braved the wrath of the General Court. He shook from his feet as he rode away The dust of the Massachusetts Bay. The world might bless and the world might ban, What did it matter the perfect man, To whom the freedom of earth was given, Proof against sin, and sure of heaven? He cheered his heart as he rode along With screed of Scripture and holy song, Or thought how he rode with his lances free By the Lower Rhine and the Zuyder-Zee, Till his wood-path grew to a trodden road, And Hilton Point in the distance showed. He saw the church with the block-house nigh, The two fair rivers, the flakes thereby, And, tacking to windward, low and crank, The little shallop from Strawberry Bank; And he rose in his stirrups and looked abroad Over land and water, and praised the Lord. Goodly and stately and grave to see, Into the clearing's space rode he, With the sun on the hilt of his sword in sheath, And his silver buckles and spurs beneath, And the settlers welcomed him, one and all, From swift Quampeagan to Gonic Fall. And he said to the elders: "Lo, I come As the way seemed open to seek a home. Somewhat the Lord hath wrought by my hands In the Narragansett and Netherlands, And if here ye have work for a Christian man, I will tarry, and serve ye as best I can. "I boast not of gifts, but fain would own The wonderful favor God hath shown, The special mercy vouchsafed one day On the shore of Narragansett Bay, As I sat, with my pipe, from the camp aside, And mused like Isaac at eventide. "A sudden sweetness of peace I found, A garment of gladness wrapped me round; I felt from the law of works released, The strife of the flesh and spirit ceased, My faith to a full assurance grew, And all I had hoped for myself I knew. "Now, as God appointeth, I keep my way, I shall not stumble, I shall not stray; He hath taken away my fig-leaf dress, I wear the robe of His righteousness; And the shafts of Satan no more avail Than Pequot arrows on Christian mail." "Tarry with us," the settlers cried, "Thou man of God, as our ruler and guide." And Captain Underhill bowed his head, "The will of the Lord be done!" he said. In the ruler's seat in Cocheco town. And he judged therein as a just man should; His words were wise and his rule was good; He coveted not his neighbor's land, From the holding of bribes he shook his hand; And through the camps of the heathen ran A wholesome fear of the valiant man. But the heart is deceitful, the good Book saith, And life hath ever a savor of death. Through hymns of triumph the tempter calls, And whoso thinketh he standeth falls. Alas! ere their round the seasons ran, There was grief in the soul of the saintly man. The tempter's arrows that rarely fail Had found the joints of his spiritual mail; And men took note of his gloomy air, The shame in his eye, the halt in his prayer, The signs of a battle lost within, The pain of a soul in the coils of sin. Then a whisper of scandal linked his name With broken vows and a life of blame; And the people looked askance on him As he walked among them sullen and grim, Ill at ease, and bitter of word, And prompt of quarrel with hand or sword. None knew how, with prayer and fasting still, He strove in the bonds of his evil will; But he shook himself like Samson at length, And girded anew his loins of strength, And bade the crier go up and down And call together the wondering town. Jeer and murmur and shaking of head Ceased as he rose in his place and said: "Men, brethren, and fathers, well ye know How I came among you a year ago, Strong in the faith that my soul was freed From sin of feeling, or thought, or deed. "I have sinned, I own it with grief and shame, But not with a lie on my lips I came. In my blindness I verily thought my heart Swept and garnished in every part. He chargeth His angels with folly; He sees The heavens unclean. Was I more than these? "I urge no plea. At your feet I lay The trust you gave me, and go my way. Hate me or pity me, as you will, The Lord will have mercy on sinners still; And I, who am chiefest, say to all, Watch and pray, lest ye also fall." No voice made answer: a sob so low That only his quickened ear could know Smote his heart with a bitter pain, As into the forest he rode again, And the veil of its oaken leaves shut down On his latest glimpse of Cocheco town. Crystal-clear on the man of sin The streams flashed up, and the sky shone in; On his cheek of fever the cool wind blew, The leaves dropped on him their tears of dew, And angels of God, in the pure, sweet guise Of flowers, looked on him with sad surprise. Was his ear at fault that brook and breeze Sang in their saddest of minor keys? What was it the mournful wood-thrush said? What whispered the pine-trees overhead? Did he hear the Voice on his lonely way That Adam heard in the cool of day? Into the desert alone rode he, Alone with the Infinite Purity; And, bowing his soul to its tender rebuke, As Peter did to the Master's look, He measured his path with prayers of pain For peace with God and nature again. And in after years to Cocheco came The bruit of a once familiar name; How among the Dutch of New Netherlands, From wild Danskamer to Haarlem sands, A penitent soldier preached the Word, And smote the heathen with Gideon's sword! And the heart of Boston was glad to hear How he harried the foe on the long frontier. And heaped on the land against him barred The coals of his generous watch and ward. Frailest and bravest! the Bay State still Counts with her worthies John Underhill. John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE PROCLAMATION From "John Endicott" [October 21, 1656] COLE Here comes the Marshal. MERRY (within) Make room for the Marshal. KEMPTHORN How pompous and imposing he appears! His great buff doublet bellying like a mainsail, And all his streamers fluttering in the wind. What holds he in his hand? COLE A proclamation. Enter the Marshal, with a proclamation; and Merry, with a halberd. They are preceded by a drummer, and followed by the hangman, with an armful of books, and a crowd of people, among whom areUpsall and John Endicott.A pile is made of the books. MERRY Silence, the drum! Good citizens, attend To the new laws enacted by the Court. MARSHAL (reads) "Whereas a cursed sect of Heretics Has lately risen, commonly called Quakers, Who take upon themselves to be commissioned Immediately of God, and furthermore Infallibly assisted by the Spirit To write and utter blasphemous opinions, Despising Government and the order of God In Church and Commonwealth, and speaking evil Of Dignities, reproaching and reviling The Magistrates and Ministers, and seeking To turn the people from their faith, and thus Gain proselytes to their pernicious ways;— This Court, considering the premises, And to prevent like mischief as is wrought By their means in our land, doth hereby order, That whatsoever master or commander Of any ship, bark, pink, or catch shall bring To any roadstead, harbor, creek, or cove Within this Jurisdiction any Quakers, Or other blasphemous Heretics, shall pay Unto the Treasurer of the Commonwealth One hundred pounds, and for default thereof Be put in prison, and continue there Till the said sum be satisfied and paid." COLE Now, Simon Kempthorn, what say you to that? KEMPTHORN I pray you, Cole, lend me a hundred pounds! MARSHAL (reads) "If any one within this Jurisdiction Shall henceforth entertain, or shall conceal Quakers, or other blasphemous Heretics, Knowing them so to be, every such person Shall forfeit to the country forty shillings For each hour's entertainment or concealment, And shall be sent to prison, as aforesaid, Until the forfeiture be wholly paid." Murmurs in the crowd. KEMPTHORN Now, Goodman Cole, I think your turn has come! COLE Knowing them so to be! KEMPTHORN At forty shillings The hour, your fine will be some forty pounds! COLE Knowing them so to be! That is the law. MARSHAL (reads) "And it is further ordered and enacted, If any Quaker or Quakers shall presume To come henceforth into this Jurisdiction, Every male Quaker for the first offence Shall have one ear cut off; and shall be kept At labor in the Workhouse, till such time As he be sent away at his own charge. And for the repetition of the offence Be branded in the palm of his right hand. And every woman Quaker shall be whipt Severely in three towns; and every Quaker, Or he or she, that shall for a third time Herein again offend, shall have their tongues Bored through with a hot iron, and shall be Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death." Loud murmurs. The voice of Christison in the crowd O patience of the Lord! How long, how long, Ere thou avenge the blood of Thine Elect? MERRY Silence, there, silence! Do not break the peace! MARSHAL (reads) "Every inhabitant of this Jurisdiction Who shall defend the horrible opinions Of Quakers, by denying due respect To equals and superiors, and withdrawing From Church Assemblies, and thereby approving The abusive and destructive practices Of this accursed sect, in opposition To all the orthodox received opinions Of godly men, shall be forthwith committed Unto close prison for one month; and then Refusing to retract and to reform The opinions as aforesaid, he shall be Sentenced to Banishment on pain of Death. By the Court. Edward Rawson, Secretary." Now, hangman, do your duty. Burn those books. Loud murmurs in the crowd. The pile of books is lighted. UPSALL I testify against these cruel laws! Forerunners are they of some judgment on us; And, in the love and tenderness I bear Unto this town and people, I beseech you, O Magistrates, take heed, lest ye be found As fighters against God! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK [1658] To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day, From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil away; Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful three, And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set His handmaid free! Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars, Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of stars; In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night-time, My grated casement whitened with autumn's early rime. Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by; Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky; No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed to be The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea; All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my sorrow, Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for and sold, Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the fold! Oh, the weakness of the flesh was there,—the shrinking and the shame; And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came: "Why sit'st thou thus forlornly," the wicked murmur said, "Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed? "Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet, Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street? Where be the youths whose glances, the summer Sabbath through, Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew? "Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?—Bethink thee with what mirth Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm, bright hearth; How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white and fair, On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair. "Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind words are spoken, Not for thee the nuts of Wenham woods by laughing boys are broken; No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid, For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful hunters braid. "O weak, deluded maiden!—by crazy fancies led, With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread; To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and sound, And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sackcloth bound,— "Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine, Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine; Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory lame, Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their shame. "And what a fate awaits thee!—a sadly toiling slave, Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the grave! Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless thrall, The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all!" Oh, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's fears Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing tears, I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer, To feel, O Helper of the weak! that Thou indeed wert there! I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison shackles fell, Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white, And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. Bless the Lord for all his mercies!—for the peace and love I felt, Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt; When "Get behind me, Satan!" was the language of my heart, And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart. Slow broke the gray cold morning; again the sunshine fell, Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell; The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward from the street Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing feet. At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast, And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street I passed; I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not see, How, from every door and window, the people gazed on me. And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my cheek, Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs grew weak: "O Lord! support thy handmaid; and from her soul cast out The fear of man, which brings a snare, the weakness and the doubt." Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud in morning's breeze, And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering words like these: "Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a brazen wall, Trust still His loving-kindness whose power is over all." We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters broke On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of rock; The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear lines on high, Tracing with rope and slender spar their network on the sky. And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and grave and cold, And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed and old, And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at hand, Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land. And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready ear, The priest leaned o'er his saddle, with laugh and scoff and jeer; It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of silence broke, As if through woman's weakness a warning spirit spoke. I cried, "The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek, Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the weak! Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones,—go turn the prison lock Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf amid the flock!" Dark lowered the brows of Endicott, and with a deeper red O'er Rawson's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of anger spread; "Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, "heed not her words so wild, Her Master speaks within her,—the Devil owns his child!" But gray heads shook, and young brows knit, the while the sheriff read That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made, Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff, turning, said,— "Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker maid? In the Isle of fair Barbadoes, or on Virginia's shore, You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor." Grim and silent stood the captains; and when again he cried, "Speak out, my worthy seamen!"—no voice, no sign replied; But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my ear,— "God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear!" A weight seemed lifted from my heart, a pitying friend was nigh,— I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his eye; And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind to me, Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea,— "Pile my ship with bars of silver, pack with coins of Spanish gold, From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her hold, By the living God who made me!—I would sooner in your bay Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child away!" "Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws!" Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just applause. "Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, Shall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold?" I looked on haughty Endicott; with weapon half-way drawn, Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and scorn; Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in silence back, And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring in his track. Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul; Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parchment roll. "Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, the ruler and the priest, Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well released." Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round the silent bay, As, with kind words and kinder looks, he bade me go my way; For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen, And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men. Oh, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye, A holier wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky, A lovelier light on rock and hill and stream and woodland lay, And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay. Thanksgiving to the Lord of life! to Him all praises be, Who from the hands of evil men hath set his handmaid free; All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid, Who takes the crafty in the snare which for the poor is laid! Sing, O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight calm Uplift the loud thanksgiving, pour forth the grateful psalm; Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old, When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter told. And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong, The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay His hand upon the strong. Woe to the wicked rulers in His avenging hour! Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and devour! But let the humble ones arise, the poor in heart be glad, And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise be clad. For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the stormy wave, And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save! John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE KING'S MISSIVE [November, 1661] Under the great hill sloping bare To cove and meadow and Common lot, In his council chamber and oaken chair, Sat the worshipful Governor Endicott. A grave, strong man, who knew no peer In the pilgrim land, where he ruled in fear Of God, not man, and for good or ill Held his trust with an iron will. He had shorn with his sword the cross from out The flag, and cloven the May-pole down, And whipped the Quakers from town to town. Earnest and honest, a man at need To burn like a torch for his own harsh creed, He kept with the flaming brand of his zeal The gate of the holy common weal. His brow was clouded, his eye was stern, With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath; "Woe's me!" he murmured: "at every turn The pestilent Quakers are in my path! Some we have scourged, and banished some, Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come, Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in, Sowing their heresy's seed of sin. "Did we count on this? Did we leave behind The graves of our kin, the comfort and ease Of our English hearths and homes, to find Troublers of Israel such as these? Shall I spare? Shall I pity them? God forbid! I will do as the prophet to Agag did: They come to poison the wells of the Word, I will hew them in pieces before the Lord!" The door swung open, and Rawson the clerk Entered, and whispered under breath, "There waits below for the hangman's work A fellow banished on pain of death— Shattuck, of Salem, unhealed of the whip, Brought over in Master Goldsmith's ship At anchor here in a Christian port, With freight of the devil and all his sort!" Twice and thrice on the chamber floor Striding fiercely from wall to wall, "The Lord do so to me and more," The Governor cried, "if I hang not all! Bring hither the Quaker." Calm, sedate, With the look of a man at ease with fate, Into that presence grim and dread Came Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head. "Off with the knave's hat!" An angry hand Smote down the offence; but the wearer said, With a quiet smile, "By the king's command I bear his message and stand in his stead." In the Governor's hand a missive he laid With the royal arms on its seal displayed, And the proud man spake as he gazed thereat, Uncovering, "Give Mr. Shattuck his hat." He turned to the Quaker, bowing low,— "The king commandeth your friends' release; Doubt not he shall be obeyed, although To his subjects' sorrow and sin's increase. What he here enjoineth, John Endicott, His loyal servant, questioneth not. You are free! God grant the spirit you own May take you from us to parts unknown." So the door of the jail was open cast, And, like Daniel, out of the lion's den Tender youth and girlhood passed, With age-bowed women and gray-locked men. And the voice of one appointed to die Was lifted in praise and thanks on high, And the little maid from New Netherlands Kissed, in her joy, the doomed man's hands And one, whose call was to minister To the souls in prison, beside him went, An ancient woman, bearing with her The linen shroud for his burial meant. For she, not counting her own life dear, In the strength of a love that cast out fear, Had watched and served where her brethren died, Like those who waited the cross beside. One moment they paused on their way to look On the martyr graves by the Common side. And much scourged Wharton of Salem took His burden of prophecy up and cried: "Rest, souls of the valiant! Not in vain Have ye borne the Master's cross of pain; Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors crowned, With a fourfold chain ye have Satan bound!" The autumn haze lay soft and still On wood and meadow and upland farms; On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmill Slowly and lazily swung its arms; Broad in the sunshine stretched away, With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay; And over water and dusk of pines Blue hills lifted their faint outlines. The topaz leaves of the walnut glowed, The sumach added its crimson fleck, And double in air and water showed The tinted maples along the Neck; And gentian fringes of amethyst, And royal plumes of golden-rod, The grazing cattle on Centry trod. But as they who see not, the Quakers saw The world about them; they only thought With deep thanksgiving and pious awe On the great deliverance God had wrought. Through lane and alley the gazing town Noisily followed them up and down; Some with scoffing and brutal jeer, Some with pity and words of cheer. One brave voice rose above the din. Upsall, gray with his length of days, Cried from the door of his Red Lion Inn: "Men of Boston, give God the praise! No more shall innocent blood call down The bolts of wrath on your guilty town. The freedom of worship, dear to you, Is dear to all, and to all is due. "I see the vision of days to come, When your beautiful City of the Bay Shall be Christian liberty's chosen home, And none shall his neighbor's rights gainsay. The varying notes of worship shall blend And as one great prayer to God ascend, And hands of mutual charity raise Walls of salvation and gates of praise." So passed the Quakers through Boston town, Whose painful ministers sighed to see The walls of their sheep-fold falling down, And wolves of heresy prowling free. But the years went on, and brought no wrong; With milder counsels the State grew strong, As outward Letter and inward Light Kept the balance of truth aright. The Puritan spirit perishing not, To Concord's yeomen the signal sent, And spake in the voice of the cannon-shot That severed the chains of a continent. With its gentler mission of peace and good-will The thought of the Quaker is living still, And the freedom of soul he prophesied Is gospel and law where the martyrs died. John Greenleaf Whittier. CHAPTER VIIKING PHILIP'S WAR AND THE WITCHCRAFT DELUSION
THE LAMENTABLE BALLAD OF THE BLOODY BROOK [September 18, 1675] At the approach of winter, the Indians withdrew to the Narragansett country, and the colonists decided to strike a decisive blow. An army of a thousand men was raised and on the morning of Sunday, December 19, approached the Narragansett stronghold, a well-fortified position on an island in the midst of a swamp. A murderous fire greeted the assailants, but they forced an entrance into the fort, set fire to the wigwams, and after a terrific struggle, in which they lost nearly three hundred killed and wounded, drove the Indians out and destroyed their store of winter provisions. THE GREAT SWAMP FIGHT [December 19, 1675] I Oh, rouse you, rouse you, men at arms, And hear the tale I tell, From Pettaquamscut town I come, Now hear what there befell. The houses stand upon the hill, Not large, each house is full, But largest of them all there stood The house of Justice Bull. 'Twas there the court sat every year, The governor came in state, From there the couriers through the town Served summons soon and late. And there, 'tis but three years agone, George Fox preached, you remember; That was in May when he preached peace, And now it is December. Peace, peace, he cried, but righteous God, How can there be true peace, When war and tumult stalk at night, And deeds of blood increase? Revenge, revenge, good captains bold, Revenge, my people cry; Where stood the house of Justice Bull But piled-up ashes lie. How fared it then, who may dare tell? The shutters barred the light, As one by one the windows closed, And all was black as night. Strong was the house, and strong brave men All armed lay down to sleep, And women fair, and children, too, They were to guard and keep. And then a horror in the night, And shouts, and fire, and knives, And demons yelling in delight, As men fought for their lives. And where there stood that goodly house And lived those goodly men, Full seven goodly souls are gone. Revenge, we cry again! II Up, up, ye men of English blood! The gallant governor cried, And we shall dare to find their lair, Where'er it be they hide. For never men of English blood Could brook so foul a deed, For all these sins the fierce redskins Shall reap their lawful meed. Up rose the little army then, All armed as best they could, With pike and sword and axes broad, Flint-locks and staves of wood. And motley was the company, Recruits from wood and field, But strong young men were with them then, Who'd sooner die than yield. Connecticut had sent her men With Major Robert Treat; Each colony in its degree Sent in its quota meet. And Massachusetts led the way, And Plymouth had next post, Winslow commands the gathered bands, A thousand men they boast. The winter sun hung in the sky And frost bound all things fast; As they set forth, from out the north, There blew a bitter blast. The meadow grass was stiff with rime, The frozen brook lay dead; Like stone did sound the frozen ground Beneath the martial tread. All day they marched in bitter cold, And when, as fell the night, They reached the hill and gazed their fill Upon the piteous sight, No need to urge the rapid chase, The cinders did that well, And in the air a woman's hair Told more than words could tell. In stern resolve they lay them down, For rest they needed sore, But long ere dawn the swords were drawn And open stood the door. Out to the gloom of morning passed Full silently those men, And what 'twixt light and fall of night Should come, no soul might ken. III They turned their faces toward the west, The morning air was cold, And softly stepped, while still men slept, With courage high and bold. An Indian they met ere long, 'Twas Peter, whom they knew; They asked their way, naught would he say, To his own comrades true. In anger cried the governor: Then let the man be hung, For he can tell, he knows full well, So let him find his tongue. To save his life that wretched man Agreed to be their guide, As they marched on, the Indian Marched onward by their side. And soon they reached a dreadful swamp, With cedar trees o'ergrown, And thick and dark with dead trees stark And great trunks lying prone. 'Twas frozen hard, and Indians there! They fired as they ran, And with a bound that spurned the ground, The fierce assault began. And then a wonder in the wood,— A little rising ground, With palisade for shelter made Of timber planted round. And but one place of entrance there Across a watery way, A tall felled tree gave access free, From shore to shore it lay. Full many a gallant man that day His life left at that tree, The bravest men pressed forward then, And there fell captains three. A dreadful day, and of our men Short work would have been made, But that by grace they found a place Weak in the palisade. Then they poured in, within the fort Soon filled with Indians dead, And many a one great deeds had done Within that place of dread. Then with a torch the whole was fired, The wigwams caught the blaze, The fire roared and spread abroad And fed on tubs of maize. The night came on, the governor called, The soldiers gathered round; The fort was theirs, and dying prayers Were rising from the ground. With care they gathered up their dead, The few who had been spared, All through the cold, in pain untold, To Warwick they repaired. So was the Indians' power gone, Avenged were Englishmen, For from the night of that Swamp fight They never rose again. In Narragansett there was peace, The soldiers went their way, All that remains are some few grains Of corn parched on that day. Gone is the wrong, the toil, the pain, The Indians, they are gone. Please God we use, and not abuse The land so hardly won! Caroline Hazard.
ON A FORTIFICATION AT BOSTON BEGUN BY WOMEN DUX FOEMINA FACTI [March, 1676] A grand attempt some Amazonian Dames Contrive whereby to glorify their names, A ruff for Boston Neck of mud and turfe, Reaching from side to side, from surf to surf, Their nimble hands spin up like Christmas pyes, Their pastry by degrees on high doth rise. The wheel at home counts it an holiday, Since while the mistress worketh it may play. A tribe of female hands, but manly hearts, Forsake at home their pasty crust and tarts, To knead the dirt, the samplers down they hurl, Their undulating silks they closely furl. The pick-axe one as a commandress holds, While t'other at her awk'ness gently scolds. One puffs and sweats, the other mutters why Can't you promove your work so fast as I? Some dig, some delve, and others' hands do feel The little waggon's weight with single wheel. And least some fainting-fits the weak surprize, They want no sack nor cakes, they are more wise. These brave essays draw forth male, stronger hands, More like to dawbers than to marshal bands; These do the work, the sturdy bulwarks raise, But the beginners well deserve the praise. Benjamin Tompson.
THE SUDBURY FIGHT [April 21, 1676] Ye sons of Massachusetts, all who love that honored name, Ye children of New England, holding dear your fathers' fame, Hear tell of Sudbury's battle through a day of death and flame! The painted Wampanoags, Philip's hateful warriors, creep Upon the town at springtide while the skies deny us rain; We see their shadows lurking in the forest's whispering deep, And speed the sorry tidings past dry field and rustling lane: And send your best and bravest if you wish to see us more! The Commonwealth is quiet now, and peace her measure fills, Content in homes and farmsteads, busy marts and buzzing mills From the Atlantic's roaring to the tranquil Berkshire hills. But through that day our fathers, speaking low their breathless words, Their wives and babes in safety, toil to save their little all; They fetch their slender food-stores, drive indoors their scanty herds, They clean the bell-mouthed musket, melt the lead and mould the ball; Please God they'll keep their battle till their countrymen shall haste With succor from the eastward, iron-hearted, flinty-faced. A hundred dragging twelvemonths ere the welcome joy-bells ring The dawn of Independence did King Philip's devils spring Through April on the little spot, like wolves a-ravening. The morning lifts in fury as they come with torch in hand, And howl about the houses in the shrunken frontier town; Our garrisons hold steady while the flames by breezes fanned Disclose the painted demons, fierce and cunning, lithe and brown; At every loophole firing, women close at hand to load, The children bringing bullets, thus the Sudbury men abode. By night, through generations, have the eager children come Beside their grandsire's settle, listening to the droning hum Of this old tale, with backward glances, open-mouthed and dumb. The burning hours stretch slowly—then a welcome sight appears! Along the tawny upland where stout Haynes keeps faithful guard From Watertown speeds Mason, young in everything but years; Our men rush down to meet him; then, together, swift and hard, They force the Indians backward to the Musketaquid's side, And slaying, ever slaying, drive them o'er the reddened tide. There stand stout Haynes and Mason by the bridge upon the flood; In vain the braves attack them, thick as saplings in the wood: Praise God for men so valiant, who have such a foe withstood! But Green Hill looks with anguish down upon the painted horde Their stealthy ambush keeping as the Concord men draw near, To dart with hideous noises as they reach the lower ford, A thousand 'gainst a dozen; but their every life costs dear As, sinking 'neath such numbers, one by one our neighbors fail: One sole survivor in his blood brings on the dreadful tale. Through sun and evening shadow, through the night till weary morn, Speeds Wadsworth with his soldiers, forth from Boston, spent and worn, And Brocklebank at Marlboro' joins that little hope forlorn. They hear the muskets snap afar, they hear the savage whoop— All weariness forgotten, on they hasten in relief; They see the braves before them—with a cheer the little group Bends down and charges forward; from above the cunning Chief, His wild-cat eyes dilating, sees his bushes bloom with fire, The tree-trunks at his bidding blaze with fiendish lust and ire. A thousand warriors lurk there, and a thousand warriors shout, Exulting, aiming, flaming, happy in our coming rout; But Wadsworth never pauses, every musket ringing out. He gains the lifting hillside, and his sixscore win their way Defiant through the coppice till upon the summit placed; With every bullet counting, there they load and aim and slay, Against all comers warring, iron-hearted, flinty-faced; Hold Philip as for scorning, drive him down the bloodstained slope, And stand there, firm and dauntless, steadfast in their faith and hope. With Mason at the river, Wadsworth staunch upon the hill, The certain reinforcements, and black night the foe to chill, An hour or less and hideous Death might have been baffled still. But in that droughty woodland Philip fires the leaves and grass: The flames dance up the hillside, in their rear less savage foes. No courage can avail us, down the slope the English pass— A day in flame beginning lights with hell its awful close, As swifter, louder, fiercer, o'er the crest the reek runs past And headlong hurls bold Wadsworth, conquered by the cruel blast. Ye men of Massachusetts, weep the awful slaughter there! The panther heart of Philip drives the English to despair, As scalping-knife and tomahawk gleam in th' affrighted glare. There Wadsworth yields his spirit, Brocklebank must meet his doom; Within the stone mill's shelter fights the remnant of their force; When swift upon the foemen, rushing through the gathering gloom, Cheer Cowell's men from Brookfield, gallant Prentice with his horse! And Mason from the river, and Haynes join in the fight, Till Philip's host is routed, hurled on shrieking through the night. Defeated, cursing, weeping, flees King Philip to his den, Our speedy vengeance glutted on the flower of his men; In pomp and pride the Wampanoags ne'er shall march again. We mourn our stricken Captains, but not vainly did they fall: The King of Pocanoket has received their stern command; Their lives were laid down gladly at their country's trumpet-call, And on their savage foemen have they set the heavier hand; Against our day-long valor was the red man's fortune spent And that one day at Sudbury has saved a continent. In graves adown the hemisphere, in graves across the seas, The sons of Massachusetts sleep, as here beneath her trees, Nor Brocklebank nor Wadsworth is the first or last of these. Oh, blue hills of New England, slanting to the morning beams Where suns and clouds of April have their balmy power sped; Oh, greening woods and meadows, pleasant ponds and babbling streams, And clematis soft-blooming where War once his banners led; How hungers many an exile for that homeland far away, And all the happy dreaming of a bygone April day! Wherever speaks New England, wheresoever spreads her shade, We praise our fathers' valor, and our fathers' prayer is said, That, fearing God's Wrath only, firm may stand the State they made. Wallace Rice.
KING PHILIP'S LAST STAND [August 12, 1676] 'Twas Captain Church, bescarred and brown, And armÈd cap-a-pie. Came ambling into Plymouth-town; And from far riding up and down A weary man was he. Now, where is my good wife? he quoth Before the goodmen all; And they replied, What of thine oath? And he looked on them lorn and loath, As he were like to fall. What of thine oath? to him they cried, And wilt thou let him slip Who harrieth fair New England-side Till every path is slaughter-dyed,— The murderous King Philip! His cheek went flush and swelled his girth; Upon him be God's ban! His voice ran loud in grisly mirth: Now, who with me will run to earth This bloody IndiÀn? Then I! and I! the lusty peal Made thrill the Plymouth air; And forth with him for woe or weal, Their hands agrip on musket-steel, Hied many a godly pair. They sped them through the summer-land By ferry and by ford, Until they saw before them stand A redman of that cursÈd band, His features ochre-scored. Would the pale-faces find, he said, Where lurks their fiercest foe? Now, by the spirit of the dead,— My brother, whose heart's blood he shed,— Follow, and they shall know! This Indian brave, they followed him; In caution crawled and crept; Till in a marish deep and dim They came to where the Sachem grim In leafy hiding slept. (The quiet August morn's at bud, King Philip, woe's the day! And woe that one of thine own blood, Now that ill-fortune roars to flood, Should be the man to slay!) Around him spread a girdling line; The fatal snare was laid; And when down aisles of birch and pine They saw the first slant sun-rays shine, They sprang their ambuscade. And did he slink, or did he shrink From that relentless ring? Nay, not a coward did he sink, But leaped across Death's darkling brink A savage, yet a king! Then unto him whose bolt of lead Had struck King Philip down, They gave the Sachem's hand and head; Then back they marched, with triumph tread, To joyful Plymouth-town. On Philip's name a bloody blot The white man's writ has thrown,— The ruthless raid, the inhuman plot; And yet what one of us would not Do battle for his own! Clinton Scollard.
PROLOGUE From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms" Delusions of the days that once have been, Witchcraft and wonders of the world unseen, Phantoms of air, and necromantic arts That crushed the weak and awed the stoutest hearts,— These are our theme to-night; and vaguely here, Through the dim mists that crowd the atmosphere, In shadow on the background of the Past. Who would believe that in the quiet town Of Salem, and amid the woods that crown The neighboring hillsides, and the sunny farms That fold it safe in their paternal arms,— Who would believe that in those peaceful streets, Where the great elms shut out the summer heats, Where quiet reigns, and breathes through brain and breast The benediction of unbroken rest,— Who would believe such deeds could find a place As these whose tragic history we retrace? 'Twas but a village then: the goodman ploughed His ample acres under sun or cloud; The goodwife at her doorstep sat and spun, And gossiped with her neighbors in the sun; The only men of dignity and state Were then the Minister and the Magistrate, Who ruled their little realm with iron rod, Less in the love than in the fear of God; And who believed devoutly in the Powers Of Darkness, working in this world of ours, In spells of Witchcraft, incantations dread, And shrouded apparitions of the dead. Upon this simple folk "with fire and flame," Saith the old Chronicle, "the Devil came; Scattering his firebrands and his poisonous darts, To set on fire of Hell all tongues and hearts! And 'tis no wonder; for, with all his host, There most he rages where he hateth most, And is most hated; so on us he brings All these stupendous and portentous things!" Something of this our scene to-night will show; And ye who listen to the Tale of Woe, Be not too swift in casting the first stone, Nor think New England bears the guilt alone. This sudden burst of wickedness and crime Was but the common madness of the time, When in all lands, that lie within the sound Of Sabbath bells, a Witch was burned or drowned. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
SALEM [A.D. 1692] Soe, Mistress Anne, faire neighboure myne, How rides a witch when night-winds blowe? Folk say that you are none too goode To joyne the crewe in Salem woode, When one you wot of gives the signe: Righte well, methinks, the pathe you knowe. In meetinge-time I watched you well, Whiles godly Master Parris prayed: Your folded hands laye on your booke; But Richard answered to a looke That fain would tempt him unto hell, Where, Mistress Anne, your place is made. You looke into my Richard's eyes With evill glances shamelesse growne; I found about his wriste a hair, And guesse what fingers tyed it there! He shall not lightly be your prize— Your Master first shall take his owne. 'Tis not in nature he should be (Who loved me soe when Springe was greene) A childe, to hange upon your gowne! He loved me well in Salem towne Until this wanton witcherie His heart and myne crept dark betweene. Last Sabbath nighte, the gossips saye, Your goodman missed you from his side. He had no strength to move, until Agen, as if in slumber still, Beside him at the dawne you laye. Tell, nowe, what meanwhile did betide. Dame Anne, mye hate goe with you fleete As drifts the Bay fogg overhead— Or over yonder hill-topp, where There is a tree ripe fruit shall bear When, neighbour myne, your wicked feet The stones of Gallows Hill shall tread. Edmund Clarence Stedman.
THE DEATH OF GOODY NURSE [July 19, 1692] The chill New England sunshine Lay on the kitchen floor; The wild New England north wind Came rattling at the door. And by the wide old fire-place, Deep in her cushioned chair, Lay back an ancient woman, With shining snow-white hair. The peace of God was on her face, Her eyes were sweet and calm, And when you heard her earnest voice It sounded like a psalm. In all the land they loved her well; From country and from town Came many a heart for counsel, And many a soul cast down. Her hands had fed the hungry poor With blessing and with bread; Her face was like a comforting From out the Gospel read. So weak and silent as she lay, Her warm hands clasped in prayer, A sudden knocking at the door Came on her unaware. And as she turned her hoary head, Beside her chair there stood Four grim and grisly Puritans— No visitants for good. They came upon her like a host, And bade her speak and tell Why she had sworn a wicked oath To serve the powers of hell; To work the works of darkness On children of the light, A witch they might not suffer here Who read the Word aright. Like one who sees her fireside yawn, A pit of black despair, Or one who wakes from quiet dreams Within a lion's lair, She glared at them with starting eyes, Her voice essayed no sound; She gasped like any hunted deer The eager dogs surround. "Answer us!" hoarse and loud they cry; She looked from side to side— No human help—"Oh, gracious God!" In agony she cried. Then, calling back her feeble life, The white lips uttered slow, "I am as pure as babe unborn From this foul thing, ye know. "If God doth visit me for sin, Beneath His rod I bend," But pitiless and wroth were they, And bent upon their end. They tortured her with taunt and jeer, They vexed her night and day— No husband's arm nor sister's tears Availed their rage to stay. Before the church they haled her then; The minister arose And poured upon her patient head The worst of all its woes: He bade her be accursed of God Forever here and there; He cursed her with a heavy curse No mortal man may bear. She stood among the cowering crowd As calm as saints in heaven, Her eyes as sweet as summer skies, Her face like summer's even. The devils wrought their wicked will On matron and on maid. "Thou hast bewitched us!" cried they all, But not a word she said. They fastened chains about her feet, And carried her away; For many days in Salem jail Alone and ill she lay She heard the scythe along the field Ring through the fragrant air, She smelt the wild-rose on the wind That bloweth everywhere. Reviled and hated and bereft, The soul had plenteous rest, Though sorrow like a frantic flood Beat sore upon her breast. At last the prison door stood wide, They led the saint abroad; By many an old familiar place Her trembling footsteps trod. Till faint with weakness and distress, She climbed a hillside bleak, And faced the gallows built thereon, Still undisturbed and meek. They hanged this weary woman there, Like any felon stout; Her white hairs on the cruel rope Were scattered all about. The body swung upon the tree In every flitting wind, Reviled and mocked by passengers And folk of evil mind. A woman old and innocent, To die a death of shame, With kindred, neighbors, friends thereby, And none to utter blame. Oh, God, that such a thing should be On earth which Thou hast made! A voice from heaven answered me, "Father forgive," He said. Rose Terry Cooke.
A SALEM WITCH [August 19, 1692]
THE TRIAL From "Giles Corey of the Salem Farms" [September 7, 1692] Scene II.—Interior of the Meeting-house. Mather and the Magistrates seated in front of the pulpit. Before them a raised platform. Martha in chains. Corey near her. Mary Walcot in a chair. A crowd of spectators, among them Gloyd. Confusion and murmurs during the scene. HATHORNE Call Martha Corey. MARTHA I am here. HATHORNE Come forward. She ascends the platform. The Jurors of our Sovereign Lord and Lady The King and Queen, here present, do accuse you Of having on the tenth of June last past, And divers other times before and after, Wickedly used and practised certain arts Called Witchcrafts, Sorceries, and Incantations, Against one Mary Walcot, single woman, Of Salem Village: by which wicked arts The aforesaid Mary Walcot was tormented, Tortured, afflicted, pined, consumed, and wasted, Against the peace of our Sovereign Lord and Lady The King and Queen, as well as of the Statute Made and provided in that case. What say you? MARTHA Before I answer, give me leave to pray. HATHORNE We have not sent for you, nor are we here, To hear you pray, but to examine you In whatsoever is alleged against you Why do you hurt this person? MARTHA I do not. I am not guilty of the charge against me. MARY Avoid, she-devil! You may torment me now! Avoid, avoid, Witch! MARTHA I am innocent. I never had to do with any Witchcraft Since I was born. I am a gospel woman. MARY You are a gospel Witch! MARTHA (clasping her hands) Ah me! ah me! Oh, give me leave to pray! MARY (stretching out her hands) She hurts me now. See, she has pinched my hands! HATHORNE Who made these marks Upon her hands? MARTHA I do not know. I stand Apart from her. I did not touch her hands. HATHORNE Who hurt her then? MARTHA I know not. HATHORNE Do you think She is bewitched? MARTHA Indeed I do not think so. I am no Witch, and have no faith in Witches. HATHORNE Then answer me: When certain persons came Beforehand why they came? MARTHA I had had speech; The children said I hurt them, and I thought These people came to question me about it. HATHORNE How did you know the children had been told To note the clothes you wore? MARTHA My husband told me What others said about it. HATHORNE Goodman Corey, Say, did you tell her? COREY I must speak the truth; I did not tell her. It was some one else. HATHORNE Did you not say your husband told you so? How dare you tell a lie in this assembly? Who told you of the clothes? Confess the truth. MARTHA bites her lips, and is silent. You bite your lips, but do not answer me! MARY Ah, she is biting me! Avoid, avoid! HATHORNE You said your husband told you. MARTHA Yes, he told me The children said I troubled them. HATHORNE Then tell me, Why do you trouble them? MARTHA I have denied it. MARY She threatened me; stabbed at me with her spindle; And, when my brother thrust her with his sword, He tore her gown, and cut a piece away. Here are they both, the spindle and the cloth. Shows them. HATHORNE And there are persons here who know the truth Of what has now been said. What answer make you? MARTHA I make no answer. Give me leave to pray. HATHORNE Whom would you pray to? MARTHA To my God and Father. HATHORNE Who is your God and Father? MARTHA The Almighty! HATHORNE Doth he you pray to say that he is God? It is the Prince of Darkness, and not God. MARY There is a dark shape whispering in her ear. HATHORNE What does it say to you? MARTHA I see no shape. HATHORNE Did you not hear it whisper? MARTHA I heard nothing. MARY What torture! Ah, what agony I suffer! Falls into a swoon. HATHORNE You see this woman cannot stand before you. If you would look for mercy, you must look In God's way, by confession of your guilt. Why does your spectre haunt and hurt this person? I do not know. He who appeared of old In Samuel's shape, a saint and glorified, May come in whatsoever shape he chooses. I cannot help it. I am sick at heart! COREY O Martha, Martha! let me hold your hand. HATHORNE No; stand aside, old man. MARY (starting up) Look there! Look there! I see a little bird, a yellow bird, Perched on her finger; and it pecks at me. Ah, it will tear mine eyes out! MARTHA I see nothing. HATHORNE 'Tis the Familiar Spirit that attends her. MARY Now it has flown away. It sits up there Upon the rafters. It is gone; is vanished. MARTHA Giles, wipe these tears of anger from mine eyes. Wipe the sweat from my forehead. I am faint. She leans against the railing. MARY Oh, she is crushing me with all her weight! HATHORNE Did you not carry once the Devil's Book To this young woman? MARTHA Never. HATHORNE Have you signed it, Or touched it? MARTHA No; I never saw it. HATHORNE Did you not scourge her with an iron rod? MARTHA No, I did not. If any Evil Spirit Has taken my shape to do these evil deeds, I cannot help it. I am innocent. HATHORNE Did you not say the Magistrates were blind? That you would open their eyes? MARTHA (with a scornful laugh) Yes, I said that; If you call me a sorceress, you are blind! If you accuse the innocent, you are blind! Can the innocent be guilty? HATHORNE Did you not On one occasion hide your husband's saddle To hinder him from coming to the Sessions? MARTHA I thought it was a folly in a farmer To waste his time pursuing such illusions. HATHORNE What was the bird that this young woman saw Just now upon your hand? MARTHA I know no bird. HATHORNE Have you not dealt with a Familiar Spirit? MARTHA No, never, never! HATHORNE What then was the Book You showed to this young woman, and besought her To write in it? MARTHA Where should I have a book? I showed her none, nor have none. MARY The next Sabbath Is the Communion Day, but Martha Corey Will not be there! MARTHA Ah, you are all against me. What can I do or say? You can confess. MARTHA No, I cannot, for I am innocent. HATHORNE We have the proof of many witnesses That you are guilty. MARTHA Give me leave to speak. Will you condemn me on such evidence,— You who have known me for so many years? Will you condemn me in this house of God, Where I so long have worshipped with you all? Where I have eaten the bread and drunk the wine So many times at our Lord's Table with you? Bear witness, you that hear me; you all know That I have led a blameless life among you, That never any whisper of suspicion Was breathed against me till this accusation. And shall this count for nothing? Will you take My life away from me, because this girl, Who is distraught, and not in her right mind, Accuses me of things I blush to name? HATHORNE What! is it not enough? Would you hear more? Giles Corey! COREY I am here. HATHORNE Come forward, then. COREY ascends the platform. Is it not true, that on a certain night You were impeded strangely in your prayers? That something hindered you? and that you left This woman here, your wife, kneeling alone Upon the hearth? COREY Yes; I cannot deny it. HATHORNE Did you not say the Devil hindered you? COREY I think I said some words to that effect. HATHORNE Is it not true, that fourteen head of cattle, To you belonging, broke from their enclosure And leaped into the river, and were drowned? COREY It is most true. HATHORNE And did you not then say That they were overlooked? COREY So much I said. I see; they're drawing round me closer, closer, A net I cannot break, cannot escape from! (Aside.) HATHORNE Who did these things? COREY I do not know who did them. HATHORNE Then I will tell you. It is some one near you; You see her now; this woman, your own wife. COREY I call the heavens to witness, it is false! She never harmed me, never hindered me In anything but what I should not do. And I bear witness in the sight of heaven, And in God's house here, that I never knew her As otherwise than patient, brave, and true, Faithful, forgiving, full of charity, A virtuous and industrious and good wife! HATHORNE Tut, tut, man; do not rant so in your speech; You are a witness, not an advocate! Here, Sheriff, take this woman back to prison. MARTHA O Giles, this day you've sworn away my life! MARY Go, go and join the Witches at the door. Do you not hear the drum? Do you not see them? Go quick. They're waiting for you. You are late! [Exit Martha; Corey following. COREY The dream! the dream! the dream! HATHORNE What does he say? Giles Corey, go not hence. You are yourself Accused of Witchcraft and of Sorcery By many witnesses. Say, are you guilty? COREY I know my death is foreordained by you,— Mine and my wife's. Therefore I will not answer. During the rest of the scene he remains silent. HATHORNE Do you refuse to plead?—'Twere better for you To make confession, or to plead Not Guilty.— Do you not hear me?—Answer, are you guilty? Do you not know a heavier doom awaits you, If you refuse to plead, than if found guilty? Where is John Gloyd? GLOYD (coming forward) Here am I. HATHORNE Tell the Court; Have you not seen the supernatural power Of this old man? Have you not seen him do Strange feats of strength? GLOYD I've seen him lead the field, On a hot day, in mowing, and against Us younger men; and I have wrestled with him. He threw me like a feather. I have seen him Lift up a barrel with his single hands, Which two strong men could hardly lift together, And, holding it above his head, drink from it. HATHORNE That is enough; we need not question further. What answer do you make to this, Giles Corey? MARY See there! See there! HATHORNE What is it? I see nothing. MARY Look! Look! It is the ghost of Robert Goodell, Whom fifteen years ago this man did murder By stamping on his body! In his shroud He comes here to bear witness to the crime! The crowd shrinks back from Corey in horror. HATHORNE Ghosts of the dead and voices of the living Bear witness to your guilt, and you must die! It might have been an easier death. Your doom Will be on your own head, and not on ours. Twice more will you be questioned of these things; Twice more have room to plead or to confess. If you are contumacious to the Court, And if, when questioned, you refuse to answer, Then by the Statute you will be condemned To the peine forte et dure! To have your body Pressed by great weights until you shall be dead! And may the Lord have mercy on your soul! Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. GILES COREY [September 19, 1692] Giles Corey was a Wizzard strong, A stubborn wretch was he; And fitt was he to hang on high Upon the Locust-tree. So when before the magistrates For triall he did come, He would no true confession make, But was compleatlie dumbe. "Giles Corey," said the Magistrate, "What hast thou heare to pleade To these that now accuse thy soule Of crimes and horrid deed?" Giles Corey, he said not a worde, No single worde spoke he. "Giles Corey," saith the Magistrate, "We'll press it out of thee." They got them then a heavy beam, They laid it on his breast; They loaded it with heavy stones, And hard upon him prest. "More weight!" now said this wretched man; "More weight!" again he cried; And he did no confession make, But wickedly he dyed.
MISTRESS HALE OF BEVERLY [October, 1692] The roadside forests here and there were touched with tawny gold; The days were shortening, and at dusk the sea looked blue and cold; Through his long fields the minister paced, restless, up and down; Before, the land-locked harbor lay; behind, the little town. No careless chant of harvester or fisherman awoke The silent air; no clanging hoof, no curling weft of smoke, Where late the blacksmith's anvil rang; all dumb as death,—and why? Why? echoed back the minister's chilled heart, for sole reply. His wife was watching from the door; she came to meet him now A weary sadness in her voice, a care upon her brow. A vague, oppressive mystery, a hint of unknown fear, Hung hovering over every roof: it was the witchcraft year. She laid her hand upon his arm, and looked into his face, And as he turned away she turned, beside him keeping pace: And, "Oh, my husband, let me speak!" said gentle Mistress Hale, "For truth is fallen in the street, and falsehoods vile prevail. "The very air we breathe is thick with whisperings of hell; The foolish trust the quaking bog, where wise men sink as well, Who follow them: O husband mine, for love of me, beware Of touching slime that from the pit is oozing everywhere! "The rulers and the ministers, tell me, what have they done, Through all the dreadful weeks since this dark inquest was begun, Save to encourage thoughtless girls in their unhallowed ways, And bring to an untimely end many a good woman's days? "Think of our neighbor, Goodwife Hoar; because she would not say She was in league with evil powers, she pines in jail to-day. Think of our trusty field-hand, Job,—a swaggerer, it is true,— Boasting he feared no Devil, they have condemned him, too. "And Bridget Bishop, when she lived yonder at Ryal-side, What if she kept a shovel-board, and trimmed with laces wide Her scarlet bodice: grant she was too frivolous and vain; How dared they take away the life they could not give again? "Nor soberness availeth aught; for who hath suffered worse, Through persecutions undeserved, than good Rebecca Nurse? Forsaken of her kith and kin, alone in her despair, It almost seemed as if God's ear were closed against her prayer. "They spare not even infancy: poor little Dorcas Good, The vagrant's child—but four years old!—who says that baby could To Satan sign her soul away condemns this business blind, As but the senseless babbling of a weak and wicked mind. "Is it not like the ancient tale they tell of Phaeton, Whose ignorant hands were trusted with the horses of the sun? Our teachers now by witless youths are led on and beguiled: Woe to the land, the Scripture saith, whose ruler is a child! "God grant this dismal day be short! Except help soon arrive, To ruin these deluded ones will our fair country drive. If I to-morrow were accused, what further could I plead Than those who died, whom neither judge nor minister would heed? "I pray thee, husband, enter not their councils any more! My heart aches with forebodings! Do not leave me, I implore! Yet if to turn this curse aside my life might but avail, In Christ's name would I yield it up," said gentle Mistress Hale. The minister of Beverly dreamed a strange dream that night: He dreamed the tide came up, blood-red, through inlet, cove, and bight, Till Salem village was submerged; until Bass River rose, A threatening crimson gulf, that yawned the hamlet to inclose. It rushed in at the cottage-doors whence women fled and wept; Close to the little meeting-house with serpent curves it crept; The grave-mounds in the burying-ground were sunk beneath its flood; The doorstone of the parsonage was dashed with spray of blood. And on the threshold, praying, knelt his dear and honored wife, As one who would that deluge stay at cost of her own life.— "Oh, save her! save us, Christ!" the cry unlocked him from his dream, And at his casement in the east he saw the day-star gleam. The minister that morning said, "Only this once I go, Beloved wife; I cannot tell if witches be or no. We on the judgment-throne have sat in place of God too long; I fear me much lest we have done His flock a grievous wrong: "And this before my brethren will I testify to-day." Around him quiet wooded isles and placid waters lay, As unto Salem-Side he crossed. He reached the court-room small, Just as a shrill, unearthly shriek echoed from wall to wall. "Woe! Mistress Hale tormenteth me! She came in like a bird, Perched on her husband's shoulder!" Then silence fell; no word Spake either judge or minister, while with profound amaze Each fixed upon the other's face his horror-stricken gaze. But, while the accuser writhed in wild contortions on the floor, One rose and said, "Let all withdraw! the court is closed!" no more: For well the land knew Mistress Hale's rare loveliness and worth; Her virtues bloomed like flowers of heaven along the paths of earth. The minister of Beverly went homeward riding fast; His wife shrank back from his strange look, affrighted and aghast. "Dear wife thou ailest! Shut thyself into thy room!" said he; "Whoever comes, the latch-string keep drawn in from all save me!" Nor his life's treasure from close guard did he one moment lose, Until across the ferry came a messenger with news That the bewitched ones acted now vain mummeries of woe; The judges looked and wondered still, but all the accused let go. The dark cloud rolled from off the land; the golden leaves dropped down Along the winding wood-paths of the little sea-side town: In Salem Village there was peace; with witchcraft-trials passed The nightmare-terror from the vexed New England air at last. Again in natural tones men dared to laugh aloud and speak; From Naugus Head the fisher's shout rang back to Jeffrey's Creek; The phantom-soldiery withdrew, that haunted Gloucester shore; The teamster's voice through Wenham Woods broke into psalms once more. The minister of Beverly thereafter sorely grieved That he had inquisition held with counsellors deceived; Forsaking love's unerring light and duty's solid ground, And groping in the shadowy void, where truth is never found. Errors are almost trespasses; rarely indeed we know How our mistakes hurt other hearts, until some random blow Has well-nigh broken our own. Alas! regret could not restore To lonely hearths the presences that gladdened them before. As with the grain our fathers sowed sprang up Old England's weeds, So to their lofty piety clung superstition's seeds. Though tares grow with it, wheat is wheat: by food from heaven we live: Yet whoso asks for daily bread must add, "Our sins forgive!" Truth made transparent in a life, tried gold of character, Were Mistress Hale's, and this is all that history says of her; Their simple force, like sunlight, broke the hideous midnight spell, And sight restored again to eyes obscured by films of hell. The minister's long fields are still with dews of summer wet; The roof that sheltered Mistress Hale tradition points to yet. Green be her memory ever kept all over Cape-Ann-Side, Whose unobtrusive excellence awed back delusion's tide! Lucy Larcom. CHAPTER VIIITHE STRUGGLE FOR THE CONTINENT
ST. JOHN [April, 1647] "To the winds give our banner! Bear homeward again!" Cried the Lord of Acadia, Cried Charles of Estienne! From the prow of his shallop He gazed, as the sun From its bed in the ocean, Streamed up the St. John. O'er the blue western waters That shallop had passed, Where the mists of Penobscot Clung damp on her mast. St. Saviour had looked On the heretic sail, As the songs of the Huguenot Rose on the gale. The pale, ghostly fathers Remembered her well, And had cursed her while passing, With taper and bell; Of Papists abhorred, Had welcomed and feasted The heretic Lord. They had loaded his shallop With dun-fish and ball, With stores for his larder, And steel for his wall. Pemaquid, from her bastions And turrets of stone, Had welcomed his coming With banner and gun. And the prayers of the elders Had followed his way, As homeward he glided, Down Pentecost Bay. Oh, well sped La Tour! For, in peril and pain, His lady kept watch, For his coming again. O'er the Isle of the Pheasant The morning sun shone, On the plane-trees which shaded The shores of St. John. "Now, why from yon battlements Speaks not my love! Why waves there no banner My fortress above?" Dark and wild, from his deck St. Estienne gazed about, On fire-wasted dwellings, And silent redoubt; From the low, shattered walls Which the flame had o'errun, There floated no banner, There thundered no gun! But beneath the low arch Of its doorway there stood A pale priest of Rome, In his cloak and his hood. With the bound of a lion, La Tour sprang to land, On the throat of the Papist He fastened his hand. "Speak, son of the Woman Of scarlet and sin! What wolf has been prowling My castle within?" From the grasp of the soldier The Jesuit broke, Half in scorn, half in sorrow, He smiled as he spoke: "No wolf, Lord of Estienne, Has ravaged thy hall, But thy red-handed rival, With fire, steel, and ball! On an errand of mercy I hitherward came, While the walls of thy castle Yet spouted with flame. "Pentagoet's dark vessels Were moored in the bay, Grim sea-lions, roaring Aloud for their prey." "But what of my lady?" Cried Charles of Estienne. "On the shot-crumbled turret Thy lady was seen: "Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud, Her hand grasped thy pennon, While her dark tresses swayed In the hot breath of cannon! But woe to the heretic, Evermore woe! When the son of the church And the cross is his foe! "In the track of the shell, In the path of the ball, Pentagoet swept over The breach of the wall! Steel to steel, gun to gun, One moment,—and then Alone stood the victor, Alone with his men! "Of its sturdy defenders, Thy lady alone Saw the cross-blazoned banner Float over St. John." "Let the dastard look to it!" Cried fiery Estienne, "Were D'Aulnay King Louis, I'd free her again!" "Alas for thy lady! No service from thee Is needed by her Whom the Lord hath set free; Her thraldom she bore, But the tenth morning came, And Death opened her door!" As if suddenly smitten La Tour staggered back; His hand grasped his sword-hilt, His forehead grew black. He sprang on the deck Of his shallop again. "We cruise now for vengeance! Give away!" cried Estienne. "Massachusetts shall hear Of the Huguenot's wrong, And from island and creekside Her fishers shall throng! Pentagoet shall rue What his Papists have done, When his palisades echo The Puritan's gun!" Oh, the loveliest of heavens Hung tenderly o'er him, There were waves in the sunshine, And green isles before him; But a pale hand was beckoning The Huguenot on; And in blackness and ashes Behind was St. John! John Greenleaf Whittier.
THE BATTLE OF LA PRAIRIE [1691]
THE SACK OF DEERFIELD [February 29, 1704] Of the onset, fear-inspiring, and the firing and the pillage Of our village, when De Rouville with his forces on us fell, When, ere dawning of the morning, with no death-portending warning, With no token shown or spoken, came the foeman, hear me tell. High against the palisadoes, on the meadows, banks, and hill-sides, At the rill-sides, over fences, lay the lingering winter snow; And so high by tempest rifted, at our pickets it was drifted, That its frozen crust was chosen as a bridge to bear the foe. We had set at night a sentry, lest an entry, while the sombre Heavy slumber was upon us, by the Frenchman should be made; But the faithless knave we posted, though of wakefulness he boasted, 'Stead of keeping watch was sleeping, and his solemn trust betrayed. Than our slumber none profounder; never sounder fell on sleeper, Never deeper sleep its shadow cast on dull and listless frames; But it fled before the crashing of the portals, and the flashing, And the soaring, and the roaring, and the crackling of the flames. Fell the shining hatchets quickly 'mid the thickly crowded women, Growing dim in crimson currents from the pulses of the brain; Rained the balls from firelocks deadly, till the melted snow ran redly With the glowing torrent flowing from the bodies of the slain. I, from pleasant dreams awaking at the breaking of my casement, With amazement saw the foemen enter quickly where I lay; Heard my wife and children's screaming, as the hatchets woke their dreaming, Heard their groaning and their moaning as their spirits passed away. 'Twas in vain I struggled madly as the sadly sounding pleading Of my bleeding, dying darlings fell upon my tortured ears; 'Twas in vain I wrestled, raging, fight against their numbers waging, Crowding round me there they bound me, while my manhood sank in tears. At the spot to which they bore me, no one o'er me watched or warded; There unguarded, bound and shivering, on the snow I lay alone; Watching by the firelight ruddy, as the butchers dark and bloody, Slew the nearest friends and dearest to my memory ever known. And it seemed, as rose the roaring blaze, up soaring, redly streaming O'er the gleaming snow around me through the shadows of the night, That the figures flitting fastly were the fiends at revels ghastly, Madly urging on the surging, seething billows of the fight. Suddenly my gloom was lightened, hope was heightened, though the shrieking, Malice-wreaking, ruthless wretches death were scattering to and fro; For a knife lay there—I spied it, and a tomahawk beside it Glittering brightly, buried lightly, keen edge upward, in the snow. Naught knew I how came they thither, nor from whither; naught to me then If the heathen dark, my captors, dropped those weapons there or no; Then, with engines of my vengeance in my hands, I sought the foe. Oh, what anger dark, consuming, fearful, glooming, looming horrid, Lit my forehead, draped my figure, leapt with fury from my glance; 'Midst the foemen rushing frantic, to their sight I seemed gigantic, Like the motion of the ocean, like a tempest my advance. Stoutest of them all, one savage left the ravage round and faced me; Fury braced me, for I knew him—he my pleading wife had slain. Huge he was, and brave and brawny, but I met the slayer tawny, And with rigorous blow, and vigorous, clove his tufted skull in twain— Madly dashing down the crashing bloody hatchet in his brain. As I brained him rose their calling, "Lo! appalling from yon meadow The Monedo of the white man comes with vengeance in his train!" As they fled, my blows Titanic falling fast increased their panic, Till their shattered forces scattered widely o'er the snowy plain. Stern De Rouville then their error, born of terror, soon dispersing, Loudly cursing them for folly, roused their pride with words of scorn; Peering cautiously they knew me, then by numbers overthrew me; Fettered surely, bound securely, there again I lay forlorn. Well I knew their purpose horrid, on each forehead it was written— Pride was smitten that their bravest had retreated at my ire; For the rest the captive's durance, but for me there was assurance Of the tortures known to martyrs—of the terrible death by fire. Then I felt, though horror-stricken, pulses quicken as the swarthy Savage, or the savage Frenchman, fiercest of the cruel band, Darted in and out the shadows, through the shivered palisadoes, Death-blows dealing with unfeeling heart and never-sparing hand. Soon the sense of horror left me, and bereft me of all feeling; Soon, revealing all my early golden moments, memory came; Showing how, when young and sprightly, with a footstep falling lightly, I had pondered as I wandered on the maid I loved to name. Her, so young, so pure, so dove-like, that the love-like angels whom a Sweet aroma circles ever wheresoe'er they move their wings, Felt with her the air grow sweeter, felt with her their joy completer, Felt their gladness swell to madness, silent grow their silver strings. Then I heard her voice's murmur breathing summer, while my spirit Leaned to hear it and to drink it like a draught of pleasant wine; Felt her head upon my shoulder drooping as my love I told her; Felt the utterly pleased flutter of her heart respond to mine. Then I saw our darlings clearly that more nearly linked our gladness; Saw our sadness as a lost one sank from pain to happy rest; Mingled tears with hers and chid her, bade her by our love consider How our dearest now was nearest to the blessed Master's breast. I had lost that wife so cherished, who had perished, passed from being, In my seeing—I, unable to protect her or defend; At that thought dispersed those fancies, born of woe-begotten trances, While unto me came the gloomy present hour my heart to rend. For I heard the firelocks ringing fiercely flinging forth the whirring, Blood-preferring leaden bullets from a garrisoned abode; When the furious leaden couriers from its loopholes fastly rode. And the seven who kept it stoutly, though devoutly triumph praying, Ceased not slaying, trusting somewhat to their firelocks and their wives; For while they the house were holding, balls the wives were quickly moulding— Neither fearful, wild, nor tearful, toiling earnest for their lives. Onward rushed each dusky leaguer, hot and eager, but the seven Rained the levin from their firelocks as the Pagans forward pressed; Melting at that murderous firing, back that baffled foe retiring, Left there lying, dead or dying, ten, their bravest and their best. Rose the red sun, straightly throwing from his glowing disk his brightness On the whiteness of the snowdrifts and the ruins of the town— On those houses well defended, where the foe in vain expended Ball and powder, standing prouder, smoke-begrimed and scarred and brown. Not for us those rays shone fairly, tinting rarely dawning early With the pearly light and glistering of the March's snowy morn; Some were wounded, some were weary, some were sullen, all were dreary, As the sorrow of that morrow shed its cloud of woe forlorn. Then we heard De Rouville's orders, "To the borders!" and the dismal, Dark abysmal fate before us opened widely as he spoke; But we heard a shout in distance—into fluttering existence, Brief but splendid, quickly ended, at the sound our hopes awoke. 'Twas our kinsmen armed and ready, sweeping steady to the nor'ward, Pressing forward fleet and fearless, though in scanty force they came— Cried De Rouville, grimly speaking, "Is't our captives you are seeking? Well, with iron we environ them, and wall them round with flame. "With the toil of blood we won them, we've undone them with our bravery; Off to slavery, then, we carry them or leave them lifeless here. Foul my shame so far to wander, and my soldiers' blood to squander 'Mid the slaughter free as water, should our prey escape us clear. "Off, ye scum of peasants Saxon, and your backs on Frenchmen turning, To our burning, dauntless courage proper tribute promptly pay; Do you come to seize and beat us? Are you here to slay and eat us? If your meat be Gaul and Mohawk, we will starve you out to-day." How my spirit raged to hear him, standing near him bound and helpless! Never whelpless tigress fiercer howled at slayer of her young, When secure behind his engines, he has baffled her of vengeance, Than did I there, forced to lie there while his bitter taunts he flung. For I heard each leaden missile whirr and whistle from the trusty Firelock rusty, brought there after long-time absence from the strife, And was forced to stand in quiet, with my warm blood running riot, When for power to give an hour to battle I had bartered life. All in vain they thus had striven; backward driven, beat and broken, Leaving token of their coming in the dead around the dell, They retreated—well it served us! their retreat from death preserved us, Though the order for our murder from the dark De Rouville fell. As we left our homes in ashes, through the lashes of the sternest Welled the earnest tears of anguish for the dear ones passed away; Sorely cumbered, miles we numbered four alone that weary day. They were tired themselves of tramping, for encamping they were ready, Ere the steady twilight newer pallor threw upon the snow; So they built them huts of branches, in the snow they scooped out trenches, Heaped up firing, then, retiring, let us sleep our sleep of woe. By the wrist—and by no light hand—to the right hand of a painted, Murder-tainted, loathsome Pagan, with a jeer, I soon was tied; And the one to whom they bound me, 'mid the scoffs of those around me, Bowing to me, mocking, drew me down to slumber at his side. As for me, be sure I slept not: slumber crept not on my senses; Less intense is lover's musing than a captive's bent on ways To escape from fearful thralling, and a death by fire appalling; So, unsleeping, I was keeping on the Northern Star my gaze. There I lay—no muscle stirring, mind unerring, thought unswerving, Body nerving, till a death-like, breathless slumber fell around; Then my right hand cautious stealing, o'er my bed-mate's person feeling, Till each finger stooped to linger on the belt his waist that bound. 'Twas his knife—the handle clasping, firmly grasping, forth I drew it, Clinging to it firm, but softly, with a more than robber's art; As I drove it to its utter length of blade, I heard the flutter Of a snow-bird—ah! 'twas no bird! 'twas the flutter of my heart. Then I cut the cord that bound me, peered around me, rose uprightly, Stepped as lightly as a lover on his blessed bridal day; Swiftly as my need inclined me, kept the bright North Star behind me, And, ere dawning of the morning, I was twenty miles away. Thomas Dunn English.
[August 29, 1708] How sweetly on the wood-girt town The mellow light of sunset shone! Each small, bright lake, whose waters still Mirror the forest and the hill, Reflected from its waveless breast The beauty of a cloudless west, Glorious as if a glimpse were given Within the western gates of heaven, Left, by the spirit of the star Of sunset's holy hour, ajar! Beside the river's tranquil flood The dark and low-walled dwellings stood, Where many a rood of open land Stretched up and down on either hand, With corn-leaves waving freshly green The thick and blackened stumps between Behind, unbroken, deep and dread, The wild, untravelled forest spread, Back to those mountains, white and cold, Of which the Indian trapper told, Upon whose summits never yet Was mortal foot in safety set. Quiet and calm without a fear Of danger darkly lurking near, The weary laborer left his plough, The milkmaid carolled by her cow; From cottage door and household hearth Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth. At length the murmur died away, And silence on that village lay. Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all, Undreaming of the fiery fate Which made its dwellings desolate! Hours passed away. By moonlight sped The Merrimac along his bed. Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood, Silent, beneath that tranquil beam, As the hushed grouping of a dream. Yet on the still air crept a sound, No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound, No stir of wings, nor waters flowing, Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing. Was that the tread of many feet, Which downward from the hillside beat? What forms were those which darkly stood Just on the margin of the wood? Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim, Or paling rude, or leafless limb? No,—through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed, Dark human forms in moonshine showed, Wild from their native wilderness, With painted limbs and battle-dress! A yell the dead might wake to hear Swelled on the night air, far and clear; Then smote the Indian tomahawk On crashing door and shattering lock; Then rang the rifle-shot, and then The shrill death-scream of stricken men,— Sank the red axe in woman's brain, And childhood's cry arose in vain. Bursting through roof and window came, Red, fast, and fierce, the kindled flame, And blended fire and moonlight glared On still dead men and scalp-knives bared. The morning sun looked brightly through The river willows, wet with dew. No sound of combat filled the air, No shout was heard, nor gunshot there; Yet still the thick and sullen smoke From smouldering ruins slowly broke; And on the greensward many a stain, And, here and there, the mangled slain, Told how that midnight bolt had sped, Pentucket, on thy fated head! Even now the villager can tell Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell, Still show the door of wasting oak, Through which the fatal death-stroke broke, And point the curious stranger where De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare; Whose hideous head, in death still feared, Bore not a trace of hair or beard; And still, within the churchyard ground, Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, Whose grass-grown surface overlies The victims of that sacrifice. John Greenleaf Whittier.
[May 8, 1725] Of worthy Captain Lovewell I purpose now to sing, How valiantly he served his country and his King; He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide, And hardships they endured to quell the Indian's pride. 'Twas nigh unto Pigwacket, on the eighth day of May, They spied a rebel Indian soon after break of day; He on a bank was walking, upon a neck of land, Which leads into a pond as we're made to understand. Our men resolv'd to have him, and travell'd two miles round, Until they met the Indian, who boldly stood his ground; Then spake up Captain Lovewell, "Take you good heed," says he, "This rogue is to decoy us, I very plainly see. "The Indians lie in ambush, in some place nigh at hand, In order to surround us upon this neck of land; Therefore we'll march in order, and each man leave his pack That we may briskly fight them, when they make their attack." They came unto this Indian, who did them thus defy, As soon as they came nigh him, two guns he did let fly, Which wounded Captain Lovewell, and likewise one man more, But when this rogue was running, they laid him in his gore. Then having scalp'd the Indian, they went back to the spot Where they had laid their packs down, but there they found them not, For the Indians having spy'd them, when they them down did lay, Did seize them for their plunder, and carry them away. These rebels lay in ambush, this very place hard by, So that an English soldier did one of them espy, And cried out, "Here's an Indian," with that they started out, As fiercely as old lions, and hideously did shout. With that our valiant English all gave a loud huzza, To show the rebel Indians they fear'd them not a straw: So now the fight began, and as fiercely as could be, The Indians ran up to them, but soon were forced to flee. Then spake up Captain Lovewell, when first the fight began: "Fight on, my valiant heroes! you see they fall like rain." For as we are inform'd, the Indians were so thick A man could scarcely fire a gun and not some of them hit. Then did the rebels try their best our soldiers to surround, But they could not accomplish it, because there was a pond, To which our men retreated, and covered all the rear, The rogues were forc'd to face them, altho' they skulked for fear. Two logs there were behind them that close together lay, Without being discovered, they could not get away; Therefore our valiant English they travell'd in a row, And at a handsome distance, as they were wont to go. 'Twas ten o'clock in the morning when first the fight begun, And fiercely did continue until the setting sun; Excepting that the Indians some hours before 'twas night Drew off into the bushes and ceas'd awhile to fight, But soon again returned, in fierce and furious mood, Shouting as in the morning, but yet not half so loud; For as we are informed, so thick and fast they fell, Scarce twenty of their number at night did get home well. And that our valiant English till midnight there did stay, To see whether the rebels would have another fray; But they no more returning, they made off towards their home, And brought away their wounded as far as they could come. Of all our valiant English there were but thirty-four, And of the rebel Indians there were about fourscore. And sixteen of our English did safely home return, The rest were kill'd and wounded, for which we all must mourn. Our worthy Captain Lovewell among them there did die, They killed Lieutenant Robbins, and wounded good young Frye, Who was our English Chaplain; he many Indians slew, And some of them he scalp'd when bullets round him flew. Young Fullam, too, I'll mention, because he fought so well, Endeavoring to save a man, a sacrifice he fell: But yet our valiant Englishmen in fight were ne'er dismay'd, But still they kept their motion, and Wymans Captain made, Who shot the old chief Paugus, which did the foe defeat, Then set his men in order, and brought off the retreat; And braving many dangers and hardships in the way, They safe arriv'd at Dunstable, the thirteenth day of May.
[May 8, 1725] What time the noble Lovewell came, With fifty men from Dunstable, The cruel Pequa'tt tribe to tame, With arms and bloodshed terrible, Then did the crimson streams, that flowed, Seem like the waters of the brook, That brightly shine, that loudly dash Far down the cliffs of Agiochook. With Lovewell brave, John Harwood came; From wife and babes 'twas hard to part, Young Harwood took her by the hand, And bound the weeper to his heart. Repress that tear, my Mary, dear, Said Harwood to his loving wife, It tries me hard to leave thee here, And seek in distant woods the strife. When gone, my Mary, think of me, And pray to God, that I may be, Such as one ought that lives for thee, And come at last in victory. Thus left young Harwood babe and wife, With accent wild she bade adieu; It grieved those lovers much to part, So fond and fair, so kind and true. Seth Wyman, who in Woburn lived (A marksman he of courage true), Shot the first Indian whom they saw, Sheer through his heart the bullet flew. The savage had been seeking game, Two guns and eke a knife he bore, And two black ducks were in his hand, He shrieked, and fell, to rise no more. Anon, there eighty Indians rose, Who'd hid themselves in ambush dread; Their knives they shook, their guns they aimed, The famous Paugus at their head. Good heavens! they dance the Powow dance, What horrid yells the forest fill? The grim bear crouches in his den, The eagle seeks the distant hill. What means this dance, this Powow dance? Stern Wyman said; with wonderous art, He crept full near, his rifle aimed, And shot the leader through the heart. John Lovewell, captain of the band, His sword he waved, that glittered bright, For the last time he cheered his men, And led them onward to the fight. Fight on, fight on, brave Lovewell said, Fight on, while heaven shall give you breath An Indian ball then pierced him through, And Lovewell closed his eyes in death. John Harwood died all bathed in blood, When he had fought, till set of day; And many more we may not name, Fell in that bloody battle fray. When news did come to Harwood's wife, That he with Lovewell fought and died, Far in the wilds had given his life, Nor more would in their home abide, Such grief did seize upon her mind, Such sorrow filled her faithful breast; On earth, she ne'er found peace again, But followed Harwood to his rest. 'Twas Paugus led the Pequa'tt tribe;— As runs the Fox, would Paugus run; As howls the wild wolf, would he howl, A large bear skin had Paugus on. But Chamberlain, of Dunstable (One whom a savage ne'er shall slay), Met Paugus by the water side, And shot him dead upon that day. Good heavens! Is this a time for pray'r? Is this a time to worship God? When Lovewell's men are dying fast, And Paugus' tribe hath felt the rod? The Chaplain's name was Jonathan Frye; In Andover his father dwelt, And oft with Lovewell's men he'd prayed, Before the mortal wound he felt. A man was he of comely form, Polished and brave, well learnt and kind; Old Harvard's learned halls he left, Far in the wilds a grave to find. Ah! now his blood-red arm he lifts, His closing lids he tries to raise; And speak once more before he dies, In supplication and in praise. He prays kind heaven to grant success, Brave Lovewell's men to guide and bless, And when they've shed their heart blood true, To raise them all to happiness. Come hither, Farwell, said young Frye, You see that I'm about to die; Now for the love I bear to you, When cold in death my bones shall lie; Go thou and see my parents dear, And tell them you stood by me here; Console them when they cry, Alas! And wipe away the falling tear. Lieutenant Farwell took his hand, His arm around his neck he threw, And said, brave Chaplain, I could wish, That heaven had made me die for you. The Chaplain on kind Farwell's breast, Bloody and languishing he fell; Nor after this said more, but this, "I love thee, soldier, fare thee well." Ah! many a wife shall rend her hair, And many a child cry, "Wo is me!" When messengers the news shall bear, Of Lovewell's dear bought victory. With footsteps slow shall travellers go, Where Lovewell's pond shines clear and bright, And mark the place, where those are laid, Who fell in Lovewell's bloody fight. Old men shall shake their heads, and say, Sad was the hour and terrible, When Lovewell brave 'gainst Paugus went, With fifty men from Dunstable.
THE BATTLE OF LOVELL'S POND [May 8, 1725] Cold, cold is the north wind and rude is the blast That sweeps like a hurricane loudly and fast, As it moans through the tall waving pines lone and drear, Sighs a requiem sad o'er the warrior's bier. The war-whoop is still, and the savage's yell Has sunk into silence along the wild dell; The din of the battle, the tumult, is o'er, And the war-clarion's voice is now heard no more. The warriors that fought for their country, and bled, Have sunk to their rest; the damp earth is their bed; No stone tells the place where their ashes repose, Nor points out the spot from the graves of their foes. They died in their glory, surrounded by fame, And Victory's loud trump their death did proclaim; They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
LOUISBURG [June 17, 1745] Neptune and Mars in Council sate To humble France's pride, Whose vain unbridled insolence All other Powers defied. The gods having sat in deep debate Upon the puzzling theme, Broke up perplexed and both agreed Shirley should form the scheme. Shirley, with Britain's glory fired, Heaven's favoring smile implored: "Let Louisburg return,"—he said, "Unto its ancient Lord." At once the Camp and Fleet were filled With Britain's loyal sons, Whose hearts are filled with generous strife T' avenge their Country's wrongs. With Liberty their breasts are filled, Fair Liberty's their shield; 'Tis Liberty their banner waves And hovers o'er their field. Louis!—behold the unequal strife, Thy slaves in walls immured! While George's sons laugh at those walls— Of victory assured. One key to your oppressive pride Your Western Dunkirk's gone; So Pepperell and Warren bade And what they bade was done! Forbear, proud Prince, your gasconades, Te Deums cease to sing,— When Britains fight the Grand Monarque Must yield to Britain's King. Boston, December, 1745.
A BALLAD OF THE FRENCH FLEET [October 15, 1746] Mr. Thomas Prince, loquitur Peace was made at Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748, but it was really only a truce. England and France could not be permanently at peace until one or the other was undisputed master of the North American continent. The French claimed all the country west of the Alleghanies and enforced their claims by building a string of forts, among them Fort Duquesne at the head of the Ohio. At last, in 1755, was "the British Lyon roused." [1755] Hail, great Apollo! guide my feeble pen, To rouse the august lion from his den, Exciting vengeance on the worst of men. Rouse, British Lion, from thy soft repose, And take revenge upon the worst of foes, Who try to ring and hawl you by the nose. They always did thy quiet breast annoy, Raising rebellion with the Rival boy, Seeking thy faith and interest to destroy. Treaties and oaths they always did break thro', They never did nor would keep faith with you By popes and priests indulged so to do. All neighboring powers and neutral standers by Look on our cause with an impartial eye, And see their falseness and their perfidy. Their grand encroachments on us ne'er did cease. But by indulgence mightily increase, Killing and scalping us in times of peace. They buy our scalps exciting savage clans, In children's blood for to imbue their hands, Assisted by their cruel Gallic bands. Britains, strike home, strike home decisive blows Upon the heads of your perfidious foes, Who always truth and justice did oppose. Go brave the ocean with your war-like ships, And speak your terror o'er the western deeps, And crush the squadrons of the Gallic fleets. Cleave liquid mountains of the foaming flood, And tinge the billows with the Gallic blood, A faithful drubbing to their future good. Bury their squadrons ill in watery tombs; And when the news unto Versailles it comes, Let Lewis swear by Gar and gnaw his thumbs. Oh! ride triumphant o'er the Gallic powers, And conquer all these cursed foes of ours, And sweep the ocean with your iron showers. While all the tribes in Neptune's spacious hall, Shall stand astonish'd at the cannon ball; To see such hail-stones down among them fall. Some of their tribes perhaps are killed dead, And others in a vast amazement fled, While Neptune stands aghast and scratch's his head. My roving muse the surface reach again, Search every part of the Atlantic plain, And see if any Gallics yet remain; And if they do, let British cannon roar; And let thy thunders reach the western shore. While I shall strive to rouse her sons once more. Stephen Tilden.
[May 29, 1755] To arms, to arms! my jolly grenadiers! Hark, how the drums do roll it along! To horse, to horse, with valiant good cheer; We'll meet our proud foe before it is long. Let not your courage fail you; Be valiant, stout and bold; And it will soon avail you, My loyal hearts of gold. Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah! 'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah! March on, march on, brave Braddock leads the foremost; The battle is begun as you may fairly see. Stand firm, be bold, and it will soon be over; We'll soon gain the field from our proud enemy. A squadron now appears, my boys; If that they do but stand! Boys, never fear, be sure you mind The word of command! Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah! 'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah! See how, see how, they break and fly before us! See how they are scattered all over the plain! Now, now—now, now our country will adore us! In peace and in triumph, boys, when we return again! Then laurels shall our glory crown For all our actions told: The hills shall echo all around, My loyal hearts of gold. Huzzah, my valiant countrymen! again I say huzzah! 'Tis nobly done,—the day's our own,—huzzah, huzzah!
BRADDOCK'S FATE, WITH AN INCITEMENT TO REVENGE [July 9, 1755] Come all ye sons of Brittany, Assist my muse in tragedy, And mourn brave Braddock's destiny, And spend a mournful day, Upon Monongahela fields, The mighty're fallen o'er their shields; And British blood bedews the hills Of western Gilboa. July the ninth, oh! Fatal Day, They had a bold and bloody fray, Our host was smote with a dismay; Some basely did retire, And left brave Braddock in the field, Who had much rather die than yield, A while his sword he bravely wield In clouds of smoke and fire. Some time he bravely stood his ground, A thousand foes did him surround, Till he received a mortal wound, Which forc'd him to retreat. He dy'd upon the thirteenth day, As he was home-ward on his way; A sore and sad defeat. Now to his grave this hero's borne, While savage foes triumph and scorn, And drooping banners dress his urn, And guard him to his tomb. Heralds and monarchs of the dead, You that so many worms have fed, He's coming to your chilly bed, Edge close and give him room. HIS EPITAPH Beneath this stone brave Braddock lies, Who always hated cowardice, But fell a savage sacrifice Amidst his Indian foes. I charge you, heroes, of the ground, To guard his dark pavilion round, And keep off all obtruding sound, And cherish his repose. Sleep, sleep, I say, brave valiant man, Bold death, at last, has bid thee stand And to resign thy great command, And cancel thy commission. Altho' thou didst not much incline Thy post and honors to resign; Now iron slumber doth confine; None envy's thy condition. A SURVEY OF THE FIELD OF BATTLE Return my muse unto the field, See what a prospect it doth yield; Ingrateful to the eyes and smell A carnage bath'd in gore, Lies scalp'd and mangled o'er the hills, While sanguine rivers fill the dales, And pale-fac'd horror spreads the fields, The like ne'er here before. And must these sons of Brittany Be clouded, set in western skies, And fall a savage sacrifice? Oh! 'tis a gloomy hour! My blood boils high in every vein, To climb the mountains of the slain, And break the iron jaws in twain, Of savage Gallic power. Our children with their mothers die, While they aloud for mercy cry; They kill, and scalp them instantly, Then fly into the woods, And make a mock of all their cries, And bring their scalps a sacrifice To their infernal deities, And praise their demon gods. Revenge, revenge the harmless blood Which their inhuman dogs have shed In every frontier neighborhood, For near these hundred years. Their murdering clan in ambush lies, To kill and scalp them by surprize, And free from tender parents' eyes Ten hundred thousand tears. Their sculking, scalping, murdering tricks Have so enraged old sixty-six, With legs and arms like withered sticks, And youthful vigor gone; That if he lives another year, Complete in armor he'll appear, And laugh at death and scoff at fear, To right his country's wrong. Let young and old, both high and low, Arm well against this savage foe, Who all around inviron us so, The sons of black delusion. New England's sons you know their way, And how to cross them in their play, And drive these murdering dogs away, Unto their last confusion. One bold effort, oh, let us make, And at one blow behead the snake, And then these savage powers will break, Which long have us oppress'd. And this, brave soldiers, will we do If Heaven and George shall say so too; And if we drive the matter thro', The land will be at rest. Come every soldier charge your gun, And let your task be killing one; Take aim until the work is done; Don't throw away your fire, For he that fires without an aim, May kill his friend and be to blame, And in the end come off with shame, When forced to retire. O mother land, we think we're sure, Sufficient is thy marine powers To dissipate all eastern showers: And if our arms be blest, As far beyond the realms of day, As east is from the west. Forbear my muse thy barbarous song, Upon this theme thou'st dwelt too long, It is too high and much too strong, The learned won't allow. Much honor should accrue to him Who ne'er was at their Academ Come blot out every telesem; Get home unto thy plow. Stephen Tilden. Composed August 20, 1755. NED BRADDOCK [July 9, 1755] Said the Sword to the Ax, 'twixt the whacks and the hacks, "Who's your bold Berserker, cleaving of tracks? Hewing a highway through greenwood and glen, Foot-free for cattle and heart-free for men?" —"Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim, Carving a cross on the wilderness rim; In his own doom building large for the Lord, Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword. Said the Blade to the Ax, "And shall none say him Nay? Never a broadsword to bar him the way? Never a bush where a Huron may hide, Or the shot of a Shawnee spit red on his side?" —Down the long trail from the Fort to the ford, Naked and streaked, plunge a moccasin'd horde: Huron and Wyandot, hot for the bout; Shawnee and Ottawa, barring him out! Red'ning the ridge, 'twixt a gorge and a gorge, Bold to the sky, loom the ranks of St. George; Braddock of Fontenoy, belted and horsed, For a foe to be struck and a pass to be forced. —'Twixt the pit and the crest, 'twixt the rocks and the grass, Where the bush hides the foe, and the foe holds the pass, Beaujeu and Pontiac, striving amain; Huron and Wyandot, jeering the slain! Beaujeu, bon camarade! Beaujeu the Gay! Beaujeu and Death cast their blades in the fray. Never a rifle that spared when they spoke, Never a scalp-knife that balked in its stroke. Till the red hillocks marked where the standards had danced, And the Grenadiers gasped where their sabres had glanced. —But Braddock raged fierce in that storm by the ford, And railed at his "curs" with the flat of his sword! Said the Sword to the Ax, "Where's your Berserker now? Lo! his bones mark a path for a countryman's cow. And Beaujeu the Gay? Give him place, right or wrong, In your tale of a camp, or your stave of a song." —"But Braddock of Fontenoy, stubborn and grim, Who but he carved a cross on the wilderness rim? In his own doom building large for the Lord, Steeple and State!" said the Ax to the Sword. John Williamson Palmer.
ODE TO THE INHABITANTS OF PENNSYLVANIA [September 30, 1756] Still shall the tyrant scourge of Gaul With wasteful rage resistless fall On Britain's slumbering race? Still shall she wave her bloody hand And threatening banners o'er this land, To Britain's fell disgrace? And not one generous chieftain rise (Who dares the frown of war despise, And treacherous fear disclaim) To hurl destruction on her foes, And blast their rising fame? In Britain's cause, with valor fired, Braddock, unhappy chief! expired, And claim'd a nation's tear; Nor could Oswego's bulwarks stand The fury of a savage band, Though Schuyler's arm was there. Still shall this motley, murderous crew Their deep, destructive arts pursue, And general horror spread? No—see Britannia's genius rise! Swift o'er the Atlantic foam she flies And lifts her laurell'd head! Lo! streaming through the dear blue sky, Great Loudon's awful banners fly, In British pomp display'd! Soon shall the gallant chief advance; Before him shrink the sons of France, Confounded and dismay'd. Then rise, illustrious Britons, rise! Great Freedom calls, pursue her voice, And save your country's shame! Let every hand for Britain arm'd, And every breast with virtue warm'd, Aspire at deathless fame! But chief, let Pennsylvania wake, And on her foes let terrors shake, Their gloomy troops defy; For, lo! her smoking farms and plains, Her captured youths, and murder'd swains, For vengeance louder cry. Why should we seek inglorious rest, Or sink, with thoughtless ease oppress'd, While war insults so near? While ruthless, fierce, athirst for blood, Bellona's sons, a desperate brood! In furious bands appear! Rouse, rouse at once, and boldly chase From their deep haunts, the savage race, Till they confess you men. Let other Armstrongs grace the field! Let other slaves before them yield, And tremble round Duquesne. And thou, our chief, and martial guide, Of worth approved, of valor tried In many a hard campaign, O Denny, warmed with British fire, Our inexperienced troops inspire, And conquest's laurels gain! Pennsylvania Gazette, September 30, 1756.
THE EMBARKATION From "Evangeline" [October 8, 1755] Four times the sun had risen and set; and now on the fifth day Cheerily called the cock to the sleeping maids of the farm-house. Soon o'er the yellow fields, in silent and mournful procession, Came from the neighboring hamlets and farms the Acadian women, Driving in ponderous wains their household goods to the sea-shore, Pausing and looking back to gaze once more on their dwellings, Ere they were shut from sight by the winding road and the woodland. Close at their sides their children ran, and urged on the oxen, While in their little hands they clasped some fragments of playthings. Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth they hurried; and there on the sea-beach Piled in confusion lay the household goods of the peasants. All day long between the shore and the ships did the boats ply; All day long the wains came laboring down from the village. Late in the afternoon, when the sun was near to his setting, Echoed far o'er the fields came the roll of drums from the churchyard. Thither the women and children thronged. On a sudden the church-doors Followed the long-imprisoned, but patient, Acadian farmers. Even as pilgrims, who journey afar from their homes and their country, Sing as they go, and in singing forget they are weary and wayworn, So with songs on their lips the Acadian peasants descended Down from the church to the shore, amid their wives and their daughters. Foremost the young men came; and, raising together their voices, Sang with tremulous lips a chant of the Catholic Missions:— "Sacred heart of the Saviour! O inexhaustible fountain! Fill our hearts this day with strength and submission and patience!" Then the old men, as they marched, and the women that stood by the wayside Joined in the sacred psalm, and the birds in the sunshine above them Mingled their notes therewith, like voices of spirits departed. * * * * * Thus to the Gaspereau's mouth moved on that mournful procession. There disorder prevailed, and the tumult and stir of embarking. Busily plied the freighted boats; and in the confusion Wives were torn from their husbands, and mothers, too late, saw their children Left on the land, extending their arms, with wildest entreaties. So unto separate ships were Basil and Gabriel carried, While in despair on the shore Evangeline stood with her father. Half the task was not done when the sun went down, and the twilight Deepened and darkened around; and in haste the refluent ocean Fled away from the shore, and left the line of the sand-beach Covered with waifs of the tide, with kelp and the slippery sea-weed. Farther back in the midst of the household goods and the wagons, Like to a gypsy camp, or a leaguer after a battle, All escape cut off by the sea, and the sentinels near them, Lay encamped for the night the houseless Acadian farmers. Back to its nethermost caves retreated the bellowing ocean, Dragging adown the beach the rattling pebbles, and leaving Inland and far up the shore the stranded boats of the sailors. Then, as the night descended, the herds returned from their pastures; Sweet was the moist still air with the odor of milk from their udders; Lowing they waited, and long, at the well-known bars of the farm-yard,— Waited and looked in vain for the voice and the hand of the milk-maid. Silence reigned in the streets; from the church no Angelus sounded, Rose no smoke from the roofs, and gleamed no lights from the windows. * * * * * Suddenly rose from the south a light, as in autumn the blood-red Moon climbs the crystal walls of heaven, and o'er the horizon Titan-like stretches its hundred hands upon the mountain and meadow, Seizing the rocks and the rivers and piling huge shadows together. Broader and ever broader it gleamed on the roofs of the village, Gleamed on the sky and sea, and the ships that lay in the roadstead. Columns of shining smoke uprose, and flashes of flame were Thrust through their folds and withdrawn, like the quivering hands of a martyr. Then as the wind seized the gleeds and the burning thatch, and, uplifting, Whirled them aloft through the air, at once from a hundred house-tops Started the sheeted smoke with flashes of flame intermingled. These things beheld in dismay the crowd on the shore and on shipboard. Speechless at first they stood, then cried aloud in their anguish, "We shall behold no more our homes in the village of Grand-PrÉ!" Loud on a sudden the cocks began to crow in the farm-yards, Came on the evening breeze, by the barking of dogs interrupted. Then rose a sound of dread, such as startles the sleeping encampments Far in the western prairies or forests that skirt the Nebraska, When the wild horses affrighted sweep by with the speed of the whirlwind, Or the loud bellowing herds of buffaloes rush to the river. Such was the sound that arose on the night, as the herds and the horses Broke through their folds and fences, and madly rushed o'er the meadows. * * * * * Lo! with a mournful sound, like the voice of a vast congregation, Solemnly answered the sea, and mingled its roar with the dirges. 'Twas the returning tide, that afar from the waste of the ocean, With the first dawn of the day, came heaving and hurrying landward. Then recommenced once more the stir and noise of embarking; And with the ebb of the tide the ships sailed out of the harbor, Leaving behind them the dead on the shore, and the village in ruins. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
ON THE DEFEAT AT TICONDEROGA OR CARILONG [July 8, 1758] Neglected long had been my useless lyre, And heartfelt grief represt the poet's fire; But rous'd by dire alarms of wasting war, Again, O muse, the solemn dirge prepare, And join the widow's, orphan's, parent's tear. Unwept, unsung shall Britain's chiefs remain; Doomed in this stranger clime to bleed in vain: Here a last refuge hapless Braddock found, When the grim savage gave the deadly wound: Ah! hide Monongahel thy hateful head (Still as thy waves roll near the injur'd dead) On whose gore-moistened banks the num'rous slain, Now spring in vegetative life again, Whilst their wan ghosts as night's dark gloom prevail Murmur to whistling winds the mournful tale; Cease, cease, ye grisly forms, nor wail the past. Lo! a new scene of death exceeds the last; Th' empurpled fields of Carilong survey Rich with the spoils of one disastrous day! Bold to the charge the ready vet'ran stood And thrice repell'd, as oft the fight renewed, Till (life's warm current drain'd) they sunk in blood, Uncheck'd their ardor, unallay'd their fire, See Beaver, Proby, Rutherford, expire; Silent Britannia's tardy thunder lay While clouds of Gallick smoke obscur'd the day. Th' intrepid race nursed on the mountain's brow O'er-leap the mound, and dare th' astonish'd foe; Whilst Albion's sons (mow'd down in ranks) bemoan Their much lov'd country's wrongs nor feel their own; Cheerless they hear the drum discordant beat— And with slow motion sullenly retreat. But where wert thou, oh! first in martial fame, Whose early cares distinguish'd praises claim, Who ev'ry welcome toil didst gladly share And taught th' enervate warrior want to bear? Illustrious Howe! whose ev'ry deed confest The patriot wish that fill'd thy generous breast: Alas! too swift t' explore the hostile land, Thou dy'dst sad victim to an ambush band, Nor e'er this hour of wild confusion view'd Like Braddock, falling in the pathless wood; Still near the spot where thy pale corse is laid, May the fresh laurel spread its amplest shade; And the big drops swell ev'ry grateful eye; Oh! would each leader who deplores thy fate Thy zeal and active virtues emulate, Soon should proud Carilong be humbled low Nor Montcalm's self, prevent th' avenging blow. London Magazine, 1759.
ON THE LATE SUCCESSFUL EXPEDITION AGAINST LOUISBOURG [July 26, 1758] At length 'tis done, the glorious conflict's done, And British valor hath the conquest won: Success our arms, our heroes, honor crowns, And Louisbourg an English monarch owns! Swift, to the scene where late the valiant fought, Waft me, ye muses, on the wings of thought— That awful scene where the dread god of war O'er field of death roll'd his triumphant car: There yet, with fancy's eye, methinks I view The pressing throng, the fierce assault renew: With dauntless front advance, and boldly brave The cannon's thunder and th' expecting grave. On yonder cliff, high hanging o'er the deep, Where trembling joy climbs the darksome steep; Britannia lonely sitting, from afar Waits the event, and overlooks the war; Thence, rolls her eager wand'ring eyes about In all the dread anxiety of doubt; Sees her fierce sons, her foes with vengeance smite, Grasp deathless honors, and maintain the fight. Whilst thus her breast alternate passions sway, And hope and fear wear the slow hours away. See! from the realms of everlasting light, A radiant form wings her aerial flight. The palm she carries, and the crown she wears, Plainly denote 'tis Victory appears; Her crimson vestment loosely flows behind, The clouds her chariot, and the wings her wind: Trumpets shrill sounding all around her play, And laurell'd honors gild her azure way— Now she alights—the trumpets cease to sound, Her presence spreads expecting silence round:— And thus she speaks; whilst from her heav'nly face Effulgent glories brighten all the place— "Britannia, hail! thine is at length the day, And lasting triumphs shall thy cares repay; Thy godlike sons, by this, their names shall raise, And tongues remote shall joy to swell their praise. I to the list'ning world shall soon proclaim Of Wolfe's brave deeds, the never-dying fame, And swell with glory Amherst's patriot name. Such are the heroes that shall ever bring Wealth to their country, honor to their king: Opposing foes, in vain attempt to quell The native fires that in such bosoms dwell. To thee, with joy, this laurel I resign, Smile, smile, Britannia! victory is thine. Long may it flourish on thy sacred brow! Long may thy foes a forc'd subjection know! See, see their pow'r, their boasted pow'r decline! Rejoice, Britannia! victory is thine." Give your loose canvas to the breezes free, Ye floating thund'rers, bulwarks of the sea: Go, bear the joyful tidings to your king, And, in the voice of war, declare 'tis victory you bring: Let the wild crowd that catch the breath of fame, In mad huzzas their ruder joy proclaim: Let their loud thanks to heav'n in flames ascend, But let the few, whom reason makes more wise, With glowing gratitude uplift their eyes: Oh! let their breasts dilate with sober joy. Let pious praise their hearts and tongues employ; To bless our God with me let all unite, He guides the conq'ring sword, he governs in the fight. Francis Hopkinson.
FORT DUQUESNE A HISTORICAL CENTENNIAL BALLAD [November 25, 1758-1858] II 'Twas night along the autumn hills, the sun's November gleam Had left its crimson on the leaves, its tinge upon the stream; And Hermit Silence kept his watch 'mid ancient rocks and trees, And placed his finger on the lip of babbling brook and breeze. The bivouac's set by Turtle Creek; and while the soldiers sleep, The swarthy chiefs around the fires an anxious council keep; Some spoke of murmurs in the camp, scarce whispered to the air, But tokens of discouragement, the presage of despair. Some a retreat advised; 'twas late; the winter drawing on; The forage and provision, too,—so Ormsby said,—were gone. Men could not feed on air and fight; whatever Pitt might say; In praise or censure, still, they thought, 'twere wiser to delay. Then up spoke iron-headed Forbes, and through his feeble frame There ran the lightning of a will that put them all to shame! "I'll hear no more," he roundly swore; "we'll storm the fort amain! I'll sleep in hell to-morrow night, or sleep in Fort Duquesne!" So said: and each to sleep addressed his wearied limbs and mind, And all was hushed i' the forest, save the sobbing of the wind, And the tramp, tramp, tramp of the sentinel, who started oft in fright At the shadows wrought 'mid the giant trees by the fitful camp-fire light. Good Lord! what sudden glare is that that reddens all the sky, As though hell's legions rode the air and tossed their torches high! Up, men! the alarm drum beats to arms! and the solid ground seems riven By the shock of warring thunderbolts in the lurid depth of heaven! O there was clattering of steel, and mustering in array, And shouts and wild huzzas of men, impatient of delay, As came the scouts swift-footed in—"They fly! the foe! they fly! They've fired the powder magazine and blown it to the sky!" III Now morning o'er the frosty hills in autumn splendor came, And touched the rolling mists with gold, and flecked the clouds with flame; And through the brown woods on the hills—those altars of the world— The blue smoke from the settler's hut and Indian's wigwam curled. Yet never, here, had morning dawned on such a glorious din Of twanging trump, and rattling drum, and clanging culverin, And glittering arms and sabre gleams and serried ranks of men, Who marched with banners high advanced along the river glen. Oh, and royally they bore themselves who knew that o'er the seas Would speed the glorious tidings from the loyal colonies, Of the fall of French dominion with the fall of Fort Duquesne, And the triumph of the English arms from Erie to Champlain. Before high noon they halted; and while they stood at rest, They saw, unfolded gloriously, the "Gateway of the West," There flashed the Allegheny, like a scimetar of gold, And king-like in its majesty, Monongahela rolled. Beyond, the River Beautiful swept down the woody vales, Where Commerce, ere a century passed, should spread her thousand sails; Between the hazy hills they saw Contrecoeur's armed batteaux, And the flying, flashing, feathery oars of the Ottawa's canoes. Then, on from rank to rank of men, a shout of triumph ran, And while the cannon thundered, the leader of the van, The tall Virginian, mounted on the walls that smouldered yet, And shook the English standard out, and named the place Fort Pitt. Again with wild huzzas the hills and river valleys ring, And they swing their loyal caps in air, and shout—"Long live the King! Long life unto King George!" they cry, "and glorious be the reign That adds to English statesmen Pitt, to English arms Duquesne!" Florus B. Plimpton.
HOT STUFF [June, 1759] Come, each death-doing dog who dares venture his neck, Come, follow the hero that goes to Quebec; Jump aboard of the transports, and loose every sail, Pay your debts at the tavern by giving leg-bail; And ye that love fighting shall soon have enough: Wolfe commands us, my boys; we shall give them Hot Stuff. Up the River St. Lawrence our troops shall advance, To the Grenadiers' March we will teach them to dance. Cape Breton we have taken, and next we will try At their capital to give them another black eye. Vaudreuil, 'tis in vain you pretend to look gruff,— Those are coming who know how to give you Hot Stuff. With powder in his periwig, and snuff in his nose, Monsieur will run down our descent to oppose; And the Indians will come: but the light infantry Will soon oblige them to betake to a tree. From such rascals as these may we fear a rebuff? Advance, grenadiers, and let fly your Hot Stuff! When the forty-seventh regiment is dashing ashore, While bullets are whistling and cannon do roar, Says Montcalm: "Those are Shirley's—I know the lappels." "You lie," says Ned Botwood, "we belong to Lascelles'! Tho' our clothing is changed, yet we scorn a powder-puff; So at you, ye bitches, here's give you Hot Stuff." Edward Botwood.
HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? [September 12, 1759] How stands the glass around? For shame ye take no care, my boys, How stands the glass around? Let mirth and wine abound, The trumpets sound, The colors they are flying, boys, To fight, kill, or wound, May we still be found Content with our hard fate, my boys, On the cold ground. Why, soldiers, why, Should we be melancholy, boys? Why, soldiers, why? Whose business 'tis to die! What, sighing? fie! 'Tis he, you or I! Cold, hot, wet or dry, We're always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly! 'Tis but in vain,— I mean not to upbraid you, boys,— 'Tis but in vain, For soldiers to complain: Should next campaign Send us to him who made us, boys, We're free from pain! But if we remain, A bottle and a kind landlady Cure all again. James Wolfe.
BRAVE WOLFE [September 13, 1759] Cheer up, my young men all, Let nothing fright you; Though oft objections rise, Let it delight you. Let not your fancy move Whene'er it comes to trial; Nor let your courage fail At the first denial. I sat down by my love, Thinking that I woo'd her; I sat down by my love, But sure not to delude her. But when I got to speak, My tongue it doth so quiver, I dare not speak my mind, Whenever I am with her. Love, here's a ring of gold, 'Tis long that I have kept it, My dear, now for my sake, I pray you to accept it. When you the posy read, Pray think upon the giver, My dear, remember me, Or I'm undone forever. Then Wolfe he took his leave, Of his most lovely jewel; Although it seemed to be To him, an act most cruel. Although it's for a space I'm forced to leave my love, My dear, where'er I rove, I'll ne'er forget my dove. So then this valiant youth Embarked on the ocean, To free America From faction's dire commotion. He landed at Quebec, Being all brave and hearty; The city to attack, With his most gallant party. Then Wolfe drew up his men, In rank and file so pretty, On Abraham's lofty heights, Before this noble city. A distance from the town The noble French did meet them, In double numbers there, Resolved for to beat them. Montcalm and this brave youth, Together they are walking; So well they do agree, Like brothers they are talking. Then each one to his post, As they do now retire; Oh, then their numerous hosts Began their dreadful fire. Then instant from his horse, Fell this most noble hero, May we lament his loss In words of deepest sorrow. The French are seen to break, Their columns all are flying; Then Wolfe he seems to wake, Though in the act of dying. And lifting up his head (The drums and trumpets rattle), And to his army said, "I pray how goes the battle?" His aide-de-camp replied, "Brave general, 'tis in our favor, Quebec and all her pride, 'Tis nothing now can save her. "She falls into our hands, With all her wealth and treasure." "O then," brave Wolfe replied, "I quit the world with pleasure."
THE DEATH OF WOLFE [September 13, 1759] Thy merits, Wolfe, transcend all human praise, The breathing marble or the muses' lays. Art is but vain—the force of language weak, To paint thy virtues, or thy actions speak. Had I DuchÉ's or Godfrey's magic skill, Each line to raise, and animate at will— To rouse each passion dormant in the soul, Point out its object, or its rage control— Then, Wolfe, some faint resemblance should we find Of those great virtues that adorned thy mind. Like Britain's genius shouldst thou then appear, Hurling destruction on the Gallic rear— While France, astonished, trembled at thy sight, And placed her safety in ignoble flight. Thy last great scene should melt each Briton's heart, And rage and grief alternately impart. With foes surrounded, midst the shades of death, These were the words that closed the warrior's breath— "My eyesight fails!—but does the foe retreat? If they retire, I'm happy in my fate!" A generous chief, to whom the hero spoke, Cried, "Sir, they fly!—their ranks entirely broke: Whilst thy bold troops o'er slaughtered heaps advance, And deal due vengeance on the sons of France." The pleasing truth recalls his parting soul, And from his lips these dying accents stole:— "I'm satisfied!" he said, then wing'd his way, Guarded by angels to celestial day. An awful band!—Britannia's mighty dead, Receives to glory his immortal shade. Marlborough and Talbot hail the warlike chief— Halket and Howe, late objects of our grief, With joyful song conduct their welcome guest To the bright mansions of eternal rest— For those prepared who merit just applause By bravely dying in their country's cause. Pennsylvania Gazette, November 8, 1759.
THE CAPTIVE'S HYMN (Carlisle, Pa., December 31, 1764) The Indian war was over, And Pennsylvania's towns Welcomed the blessed calm that comes When peace a conflict crowns. Bitter and long had been the strife, But gallant Colonel Bouquet Had forced the foe to sue for grace, And named the joyful day When Shawnees, Tuscarawas, Miamis, Delawares, And every band that roved the land And called a captive theirs— From the pathless depths of the forest, By stream and dark defile, In safety to Carlisle; Carlisle in the Cumberland valley, Where Conodogwinnet flows, And the guardian ranges, north and south, In mountain pride repose. Like the wind the Colonel's order To hamlet and clearing flew; And mourning mothers and wives and sons From banks where Delaware seaward runs, From Erie's wave, and Ohio's tide, And the vales where the southern hills divide, Flocked to the town, perchance to view, At last, 'mid the crowds by the startled square, The faces lost, but in memory fair. How strange the scene on the village green That morning cold and gray! To right the Indian tents were set, And in groups the dusky warriors met, While their captives clung to the captors yet, As wild and bronzed as they— In rags and skins, with moccasined feet, Some loath to part, some fain to greet The friends of a vanished day; And, eagerly watching the tents, to left Stood mothers and sons and wives bereft, While, beyond, were the throngs from hill and valley, And, waiting the keen-eyed Colonel's rally, The troops in their brave array. Now friends and captives mingle, And cries of joy or woe Thrill the broad street as loved ones meet, Or in vain the tale of the past repeat, And back in anguish go. Among them lingered a widow— From the Suabian land was she— And one fell morning she had lost Husband and children three, All slain save the young Regina, A captive spared to be. Nine weary years had followed, But the wilderness was dumb, And never a word to her aching heart Through friend or foe had come, And now, from Tulpehocken, Full seventy miles away, She had walked to seek her daughter, The Lord her only stay. She scanned the sun-browned maidens; But the tunic's rough disguise, The savage tongue, the forest ways, Baffled and mocked her yearning gaze, And with sobs and streaming eyes She turned to the Colonel and told him How hopeless was her quest— Moaning, "Alas, Regina! The grave for me is best!" "Nay, Madam," gently he replied, "Don't be disheartened yet, but bide, And try some other test. What pleasant song or story Did she love from your lips to hear?" "O Sir, I taught her 'Our Father;' And the 'Creed' we hold so dear, And she said them over and over While I was spinning near; And every eve, by her little bed, When the light was growing dim, I sung her to sleep, my darling! With Schmolke's beautiful hymn." "Then sing it now," said the Colonel, And close to the captive band He brought the mother with her hymn From the far Suabian land; And with faltering voice and quivering lips, While all was hushed, she sung The strain of lofty faith and cheer In her rich German tongue: "Allein, und doch nicht ganz allein" (How near the listeners press!), Alone, yet not alone am I, Though all may deem my days go by In utter dreariness; The Lord is still my company, I am with Him, and He with me, The solitude to bless. He speaks to me within His word As if His very voice I heard, And when I pray, apart, He meets me in the quiet there With counsel for each cross and care, And comfort for my heart. The world may say my life is lone, With every joy and blessing flown Its vision can descry; I shall not sorrow nor repine, For glorious company is mine With God and angels nigh. As she sung, a maid of the captives Threw back her tangled hair, The lightest murmur there; Her breath came fast, her brown cheek flushed, Her eyes grew bright and wide As if some spell the song had cast, And, ere the low notes died, With a bound like a deer in the forest She sprang to the singer's side, And, "Liebe, kleine Mutter!" Enfolding her, she cried— "My dear, dear, little Mother!"— Then swift before her knelt As in the long, long buried days When by the wood they dwelt; And, "Vater unser, der du bist Im Himmel," chanted she, The sweet "Our Father" she had learned Beside that mother's knee; And then the grand "Apostles' Creed" That in her heart had lain: "Ich glaube an Gott den Vater," Like a child she said again— "I believe in God the Father"— Down to the blest "Amen." Stooping and clasping the maiden Whose soul the song had freed, "Now God be praised!" said the mother, "This is my child indeed!— My own, my darling Regina, Come back in my sorest need, For she knows the Hymn, and 'Our Father,' And the holy 'Apostles' Creed'!" Then, while the throng was silent, And the Colonel bowed his head, With tears and glad thanksgivings Her daughter forth she led; And the sky was lit with sunshine, And the cold earth caught its smile For the mother and ransomed maiden, That morning in Carlisle. Edna Dean Proctor. A PROPHECY [1764] Ere five score years have run their tedious rounds,— If yet Oppression breaks o'er human bounds, As it has done the last sad passing year, Made the New World in anger shed the tear,— Unmindful of their native, once-loved isle, They'll bid Allegiance cease her peaceful smile, While from their arms they tear Oppression's chain, And make lost Liberty once more to reign. But let them live, as they would choose to be, Loyal to King, and as true Britons free, They'll ne'er by fell revolt oppose that crown Which first has raised them, though now pulls them down; If but the rights of subjects they receive, 'Tis all they ask—or all a crown can give. Arthur Lee (?).
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