CHAPTER III

Hearken the stirring storyThe soldier has to tell,Of fierce and bloody battle,Contested long and well.Ere walled Maubila, stoutly held,Before our forces fell.Now many years have circledSince that October day,When proudly to MaubilaDe Soto took his way,With men-at-arms and cavaliersIn terrible array.Oh, never sight more goodlyIn any land was seen;And never better soldiersThan those he led have been,More prompt to handle arquebus,Or wield their sabres keen.The sun was at meridian,His hottest rays fell downAlike on soldier's corseletAnd on the friar's gown;The breeze was hushed as on we rodeRight proudly to the town.First came the bold De Soto,In all his manly pride,The gallant Don Diego,His nephew, by his side;A yard behind Juan Ortiz rode,Interpreter and guide.Baltasar de Gallegos,Impetuous, fierce and hot;Francisco de Figarro,Since by an arrow shot;And slender Juan de Guzman, whoIn battle faltered not.Luis Bravo de Xeres,That gallant cavalier;Alonzo de Carmono,Whose spirit knew no fear;The marquis of Astorga, andVasquez, the cannoneer.Andres de Vasconcellos,Juan Cales, young and fair,Roma de Cardenoso,Him of the yellow hair—Rode gallant in their bravery,Straight to the public square.And there, in sombre garments,Were monks of Cuba four,Fray Juan de Gallegos,And other priests a score,Who sacramental bread and wineAnd holy relics bore.And next eight hundred soldiersIn closest order come,Some with Biscayan lances,With arquebuses some,Timing their tread to martial notesOf trump and fife and drum.Loud sang the gay Mobilians,Light danced their daughters brown;Sweet sounded pleasant musicThrough all the swarming town;But 'mid the joy one sullen browWas lowering with a frown.The haughty Tuscaloosa,The sovereign of the land,With moody face, and thoughtful,Rode at our chief's right hand,And cast from time to time a glanceOf hatred at the band.And when that gay processionMade halt to take a rest,And eagerly the peopleTo see the strangers prest,The frowning King, in wrathful tones,De Soto thus addressed:"To bonds and to dishonorBy faithless friends trepanned,For days beside you, Spaniard,The ruler of the landHas ridden as a prisoner,Subject to your command."He was not born the fettersOf baser men to wear,And tells you this, De Soto,Hard though it be to bear—Let those beware the panther's rageWho follow to his lair."Back to your isle of Cuba!Slink to your den again,And tell your robber sovereign,The mighty lord of Spain,Whoso would strive this land to winShall find his efforts vain."And, save it be your purposeWithin my realm to die,Let not your forces lingerOur deadly anger nigh,Lest food for vultures and for wolvesYour mangled forms should lie."Then, spurning courtly offersHe left our chieftain's side,And crossing the enclosureWith quick and lengthened stride,He passed within his palace gates,And there our wrath defied.Now came up Charamilla,Who led our troop of spies,And said unto our captain,With tones that showed surprise,"A mighty force within the town,In wait to crush us, lies."The babes and elder womenWere sent at break of dayInto the forest yonder,Five leagues or more away:Within yon huts ten thousand menWait eager for the fray.""What say ye now, my comrades?"De Soto asked his men;"Shall we, before these traitors,Go backward, baffled, then;Or, sword in hand, attack the foeWho crouches in his den?"Before their loud responsesHad died upon the ear,A savage stood before them,Who said, in accents clear,"Ho! robbers base and coward thieves!Assassin Spaniards, hear!"No longer shall our sovereign,Born noble, great, and free,Be led beside your master,A shameful sight to see,While weapons here to strike you downOr hands to grasp them be."As spoke the brawny savage,Full wroth our comrades grew—Baltasar de GallegosHis heavy weapon drew,And dealt the boaster such a strokeAs clove his body through.Then rushed the swart MobiliansLike hornets from their nest;Against our bristling lancesWas bared each savage breast;With arrow-head and club and stone,Upon our band they prest."Retreat in steady order!But slay them as ye go!"Exclaimed the brave De Soto,And with each word a blowThat sent a savage soul to doomHe dealt upon the foe."Strike well who would our honorFrom spot or tarnish save!Strike down the haughty Pagan,The infidel and slave!Saint Mary Mother sits above,And smiles upon the brave."Strike! all my gallant comrades!Strike! gentlemen of Spain!Upon the traitor wretchesYour deadly anger rain,Or never to your native landReturn in pride again!"Then hosts of angry foemenWe fiercely held at bay,Through living walls of PagansWe cut our bloody way;And though by thousands round they swarmed,We kept our firm array.At length they feared to follow;We stood upon the plain,And dressed our shattered column;When, slacking bridle rein,De Soto, wounded as he was,Led to the charge again.For now our gallant horsemenTheir steeds again had found,That had been fastly tetheredUnto the trees around,Though some of these, by arrows slain,Lay stretched upon the ground.And as the riders mounted,The foe, in joyous tones,Gave vent to shouts of triumph,And hurled a shower of stones;But soon the shouts were changed to wails,The cries of joy to moans.Down on the scared MobiliansThe furious rush was led;Down fell the howling victimsBeneath the horses' tread;The angered chargers trod alikeOn dying and on dead.Back to the wooden ramparts,With cut and thrust and blow,We drove the panting savage,The very walls below,Till those above upon our headsHuge rocks began to throw.Whenever we retreatedThe swarming foemen came—Their wild and matchless couragePut even ours to shame—Rushing upon our lances' points,And arquebuses' flame.Three weary hours we fought them,And often each gave way;Three weary hours, uncertainThe fortune of the day;And ever where they fiercest foughtDe Soto led the fray.Baltasar de GallegosRight well displayed his might;His sword fell ever fatal,Death rode its flash of light;And where his horse's head was turnedThe foe gave way in fright.At length before our daringThe Pagans had to yield,And in their stout enclosureThey sought to find a shield,And left us, wearied with our toil,The masters of the field.Now worn and spent and weary,Our force was scattered round,Some seeking for their comrades,Some seated on the ground,When sudden fell upon our earsA single trumpet's sound."Up! ready make for storming!"That speaksMoscosonear;He comes with stainless sabre,He comes with spotless spear;But stains of blood and spots of goreAwait his weapons here.Soon, formed in four divisions,Around the order goes—"To front with battle-axes!No moment for repose.At signal of an arquebus,Rain on the gates your blows."Not long that fearful crashing,The gates in splinters fall;And some, though sorely wounded,Climb o'er the crowded wall:No rampart's height can keep them back,No danger can appall.Then redly rained the carnage—None asked for quarter there;Men fought with all the furyBorn of a wild despair;And shrieks and groans and yells of hateWere mingled in the air.Four times they backward beat us,Four times our force returned;We quenched in bloody torrentsThe fire that in us burned;We slew who fought, and those who kneltWith stroke of sword we spurned.And what are these new forces,With long, black, streaming hair?They are the singing maidensWho met us in the square;And now they spring upon our ranksLike she-wolves from their lair.Their sex no shield to save them,Their youth no weapon stayed;De Soto with his falchionA lane amid them made,And in the skulls of blooming girlsSank battle-axe and blade.Forth came a wingèd arrow,And struck our leader's thigh;The man who sent it shouted,And looked to see him die;The wound but made the tide of rageRun twice as fierce and high.Then came our stout camp-master,"The night is coming down;Already twilight darknessIs casting shadows brown;We would not lack for light on strifeIf once we burned the town."With that we fired the houses;The ranks before us broke;The fugitives we followed,And dealt them many a stroke,While round us rose the crackling flame,And o'er us hung the smoke.And what with flames around them,And what with smoke o'erhead,And what with cuts of sabre,And what with horses' tread,And what with lance and arquebus,The town was filled with dead.Six thousand of the foemenUpon that day were slain,Including those who fought usOutside upon the plain—Six thousand of the foemen fell,And eighty-two of Spain.Not one of us unwoundedCame from the fearful fray;And when the fight was overAnd scattered round we lay,Some sixteen hundred wounds we boreAs tokens of the day.And through that weary darkness,And all that dreary night,We lay in bitter anguish,But never mourned our plight,Although we watched with eagernessTo see the morning light.And when the early dawningHad marked the sky with red,We saw the Moloch incenseRise slowly overheadFrom smoking ruins and the heapsOf charred and mangled dead.I knew the slain were Pagans,While we in Christ were free,And yet it seemed that momentA spirit said to me:"Henceforth be doomed while life remainsThis sight of fear to see."And ever since that dawningWhich chased the night away,I wake to see the corsesThat thus before me lay:And this is why in cloistered cellI wait my latter day.Thomas Dunn English.

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

Now many years have circledSince that October day,When proudly to MaubilaDe Soto took his way,With men-at-arms and cavaliersIn terrible array.

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

The sun was at meridian,His hottest rays fell downAlike on soldier's corseletAnd on the friar's gown;The breeze was hushed as on we rodeRight proudly to the town.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And, save it be your purposeWithin my realm to die,Let not your forces lingerOur deadly anger nigh,Lest food for vultures and for wolvesYour mangled forms should lie."

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

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

"The babes and elder womenWere sent at break of dayInto the forest yonder,Five leagues or more away:Within yon huts ten thousand menWait eager for the fray."

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

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

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

As spoke the brawny savage,Full wroth our comrades grew—Baltasar de GallegosHis heavy weapon drew,And dealt the boaster such a strokeAs clove his body through.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Down on the scared MobiliansThe furious rush was led;Down fell the howling victimsBeneath the horses' tread;The angered chargers trod alikeOn dying and on dead.

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

Whenever we retreatedThe swarming foemen came—Their wild and matchless couragePut even ours to shame—Rushing upon our lances' points,And arquebuses' flame.

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

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

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

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

"Up! ready make for storming!"That speaksMoscosonear;He comes with stainless sabre,He comes with spotless spear;But stains of blood and spots of goreAwait his weapons here.

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

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

Then redly rained the carnage—None asked for quarter there;Men fought with all the furyBorn of a wild despair;And shrieks and groans and yells of hateWere mingled in the air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Six thousand of the foemenUpon that day were slain,Including those who fought usOutside upon the plain—Six thousand of the foemen fell,And eighty-two of Spain.

Not one of us unwoundedCame from the fearful fray;And when the fight was overAnd scattered round we lay,Some sixteen hundred wounds we boreAs tokens of the day.

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

And when the early dawningHad marked the sky with red,We saw the Moloch incenseRise slowly overheadFrom smoking ruins and the heapsOf charred and mangled dead.

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

And ever since that dawningWhich chased the night away,I wake to see the corsesThat thus before me lay:And this is why in cloistered cellI wait my latter day.

Thomas Dunn English.

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

QUIVÍRA

[1540-1541]

Francisco Coronado rode forth with all his train,Eight hundred savage bowmen, three hundred spears of Spain,To seek the rumored glory that pathless deserts hold—The city of Quivíra whose walls are rich with gold.Oh, gay they rode with plume on crest and gilded spur at heel,With gonfalon of Aragon and banner of Castile!While High Emprise and Joyous Youth, twin marshals of the throng,Awoke Sonora's mountain peaks with trumpet-note and song.Beside that brilliant army, beloved of serf and lord,There walked as brave a soldier as ever smote with sword,Though nought of knightly harness his russet gown revealed—The cross he bore as weapon, the missal was his shield.But rugged oaths were changed to prayers, and angry hearts grew tame,And fainting spirits waxed in faith where Fray Padilla came;And brawny spearmen bowed their heads to kiss the helpful handOf him who spake the simple truth that brave men understand.What pen may paint their daring—those doughty cavaliers!The cities of the Zuñiwere humbled by their spears.Wild Arizona's barrens grew pallid in the glowOf blades that won Granada and conquered Mexico.They fared by lofty Acoma; their rally-call was blownWhere 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 goalThey turned to Fray Padilla for aid of heart and soul.He bound the wounds that lance-thrust and flinty arrow made;He cheered the sick and failing; above the dead he prayed.Two thousand miles of war and woe behind their banners lay:And sadly fever, drought and toil had lessened their array,When came a message fraught with hope to all the steadfast band:"Good tidings from the northward, friends! Quivíra lies at hand!"How joyously they spurred them! How sadly drew the rein!There shone no golden palace, there blazed no jewelled fane.Rude tents of hide of bison, dog-guarded, met their view—A squalid Indian village; the lodges of the Sioux!Then Coronado bowed his head. He spake unto his men:"Our quest is vain, true hearts of Spain! Now ride we home again.And would to God that I might give that phantom city's prideIn 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 nearLike 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 KawIn wonder heard the Gospel of Love and Peace and Law.They gloried in their Brown-robed Priest; and oft in twilight's goldThe warriors grouped, a silent ring, to hear the tale he told,While round the gentle man-at-arms their lithe-limbed children playedAnd 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 starA 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, unrolledThe City of Quivíra whose streets are paved with gold.Arthur Guiterman.

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 handOf him who spake the simple truth that brave men understand.

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

They fared by lofty Acoma; their rally-call was blownWhere 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 goalThey turned to Fray Padilla for aid of heart and soul.He bound the wounds that lance-thrust and flinty arrow made;He cheered the sick and failing; above the dead he prayed.

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

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

Then Coronado bowed his head. He spake unto his men:"Our quest is vain, true hearts of Spain! Now ride we home again.And would to God that I might give that phantom city's prideIn 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 nearLike 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 KawIn wonder heard the Gospel of Love and Peace and Law.

They gloried in their Brown-robed Priest; and oft in twilight's goldThe warriors grouped, a silent ring, to hear the tale he told,While round the gentle man-at-arms their lithe-limbed children playedAnd 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 starA 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, unrolledThe City of Quivíra whose streets are paved with gold.

Arthur Guiterman.

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

NOREMBEGA

[c. 1543]

The winding way the serpent takesThe mystic water took,From where, to count its beaded lakes,The forest sped its brook.A narrow space 'twixt shore and shore,For sun or stars to fall,While evermore, behind, before,Closed in the forest wall.The dim wood hiding underneathWan flowers without a name;Life tangled with decay and death,League after league the same.Unbroken over swamp and hillThe rounding shadow lay,Save where the river cut at willA pathway to the day.Beside that track of air and light,Weak as a child unweaned,At shut of day a Christian knightUpon his henchman leaned.The embers of the sunset's firesAlong the clouds burned down;"I see," he said, "the domes and spiresOf Norembega town.""Alack! the domes, O master mine,Are golden clouds on high;Yon spire is but the branchless pineThat cuts the evening sky.""Oh, hush and hark! What sounds are theseBut chants and holy hymns?""Thou hear'st the breeze that stirs the treesThrough all their leafy limbs.""Is it a chapel bell that fillsThe 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 meA blessed cross in sight!""Now, nay, 'tis but yon blasted treeWith 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 seeMy home-set sails again;The sweetest eyes of NormandieShall watch for me in vain."Yet onward still to ear and eyeThe baffling marvel calls;I fain would look before I dieOn Norembega's walls."So, haply, it shall be thy partAt Christian feet to layThe mystery of the desert's heartMy dead hand plucked away."Leave me an hour of rest; go thouAnd look from yonder heights;Perchance the valley even nowIs 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 thingsWhose 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 loonLaugh from his reedy pond.He turned him back; "O master dear,We are but men misled;And thou hast sought a city hereTo find a grave instead.""As God shall will! what matters whereA true man's cross may stand,So Heaven be o'er it here as thereIn pleasant Norman land?"These woods, perchance, no secret hideOf lordly tower and hall;Yon river in its wanderings wideHas washed no city wall;"Yet mirrored in the sullen streamThe holy stars are given:Is Norembega, then, a dreamWhose waking is in Heaven?"No builded wonder of these landsMy weary eyes shall see;A city never made with handsAlone awaiteth me—"'Urbs Syon mystica;' I seeIts mansions passing fair,'Condita cœlo;' let me be,Dear Lord, a dweller there!"Above the dying exile hungThe vision of the bard,As faltered on his failing tongueThe song ofgood Bernard.The henchman dug at dawn a graveBeneath the hemlocks brown,And to the desert's keeping gaveThe lord of fief and town.Years after, when the Sieur ChamplainSailed up the unknown stream,And Norembega proved againA shadow and a dream,He found the Norman's nameless graveWithin the hemlock's shade,And, stretching wide its arms to save,The sign that God had made,The cross-boughed tree that marked the spotAnd made it holy ground:He needs the earthly city notWho hath the heavenly found.John Greenleaf Whittier.

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

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

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

Unbroken over swamp and hillThe rounding shadow lay,Save where the river cut at willA pathway to the day.

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

The embers of the sunset's firesAlong the clouds burned down;"I see," he said, "the domes and spiresOf Norembega town."

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

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

"Is it a chapel bell that fillsThe 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 meA blessed cross in sight!""Now, nay, 'tis but yon blasted treeWith 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 seeMy home-set sails again;The sweetest eyes of NormandieShall watch for me in vain.

"Yet onward still to ear and eyeThe baffling marvel calls;I fain would look before I dieOn Norembega's walls.

"So, haply, it shall be thy partAt Christian feet to layThe mystery of the desert's heartMy dead hand plucked away.

"Leave me an hour of rest; go thouAnd look from yonder heights;Perchance the valley even nowIs 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 thingsWhose 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 loonLaugh from his reedy pond.

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

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

"These woods, perchance, no secret hideOf lordly tower and hall;Yon river in its wanderings wideHas washed no city wall;

"Yet mirrored in the sullen streamThe holy stars are given:Is Norembega, then, a dreamWhose waking is in Heaven?

"No builded wonder of these landsMy weary eyes shall see;A city never made with handsAlone awaiteth me—

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

Above the dying exile hungThe vision of the bard,As faltered on his failing tongueThe song ofgood Bernard.

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

Years after, when the Sieur ChamplainSailed up the unknown stream,And Norembega proved againA shadow and a dream,

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

The cross-boughed tree that marked the spotAnd made it holy ground:He needs the earthly city notWho hath the heavenly found.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

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

SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT

[1583]

Southward with fleet of iceSailed the corsair Death;Wild and fast blew the blast,And the east-wind was his breath.His lordly ships of iceGlisten in the sun;On each side, like pennons wide,Flashing crystal streamlets run.His sails of white sea-mistDripped with silver rain;But where he passed there were castLeaden shadows o'er the main.Eastward from CampobelloSir 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 starWere 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-StreamSinking, vanish all away.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

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

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

His sails of white sea-mistDripped with silver rain;But where he passed there were castLeaden shadows o'er the main.

Eastward from CampobelloSir 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 starWere 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-StreamSinking, vanish all away.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

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

THE FIRST AMERICAN SAILORS

Five fearless knights of the first renownIn Elizabeth's great array,From Plymouth in Devon sailed up and down—American sailors they;Who went to the West,For they all knew bestWhere the silver was grayAs a moonlit night,And the gold as brightAs a midsummer day—A-sailing awayThrough the salt sea spray,The first American sailors.SirHumphrey Gilbert, he wasONEAnd Devon was heaven to him,He loved the sea as he loved the sunAnd 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 coastFor he was one of America's host—And now there is nothing but English speechFor leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,From near the Equator away to the Pole;While the billows beat and the oceans rollOn the Three Americas.SirFrancis Drake, and he wasTWOAnd Devon was heaven to him,He loved in his heart the waters blueAnd 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 speechFor leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,From California away to the Pole;While the billows beat and the oceans rollOn the Three Americas.SirWalter Raleigh, he wasTHREEAnd 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 toreOn 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 speechFor leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,From Guiana northward to the Pole;While the billows beat and the oceans rollOn the Three Americas.SirRichard Grenville, he wasFOURAnd Devon was heaven to him,He loved the waves and their windy roarAnd 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 speechFor leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,From the Old Dominion away to the Pole;While the billows beat and the oceans rollOn the Three Americas.And SirJohn Hawkins, he wasFIVEAnd Devon was heaven to him,He worshipped the water while he was aliveAnd 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 speechFor leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,From the Rio Grandè away to the Pole;While the billows beat and the oceans rollOn 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 WestIs their valor blest,Where a banner brightWith the ocean's blueAnd the red wrack's hueAnd the spoondrift's whiteIs smiling to-dayThrough the salt sea sprayUpon American sailors.Wallace Rice.

SirHumphrey Gilbert, he wasONEAnd Devon was heaven to him,He loved the sea as he loved the sunAnd 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 coastFor he was one of America's host—And now there is nothing but English speechFor leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,From near the Equator away to the Pole;While the billows beat and the oceans rollOn the Three Americas.

SirFrancis Drake, and he wasTWOAnd Devon was heaven to him,He loved in his heart the waters blueAnd 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 speechFor leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,From California away to the Pole;While the billows beat and the oceans rollOn the Three Americas.

SirWalter Raleigh, he wasTHREEAnd 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 toreOn 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 speechFor leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,From Guiana northward to the Pole;While the billows beat and the oceans rollOn the Three Americas.

SirRichard Grenville, he wasFOURAnd Devon was heaven to him,He loved the waves and their windy roarAnd 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 speechFor leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,From the Old Dominion away to the Pole;While the billows beat and the oceans rollOn the Three Americas.

And SirJohn Hawkins, he wasFIVEAnd Devon was heaven to him,He worshipped the water while he was aliveAnd 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 speechFor leagues and leagues, and reach on reach,From the Rio Grandè away to the Pole;While the billows beat and the oceans rollOn 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 WestIs their valor blest,Where a banner brightWith the ocean's blueAnd the red wrack's hueAnd the spoondrift's whiteIs smiling to-dayThrough the salt sea sprayUpon American sailors.

Wallace Rice.

THE SETTLEMENT OF VIRGINIA

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

THE MYSTERY OF CRO-A-TÀN

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