Death, why so cruel? What! no other wayTo manifest thy spleen, but thus to slayOur hopes of safety, liberty, our all,Which, through thy tyranny, with him must fallTo its late chaos? Had thy rigid forceBeen dealt by retail, and not thus in gross,Grief had been silent. Now we must complain,Since thou, in him, hast more than thousands slain,Whose lives and safeties did so much dependOn him their life, with him their lives must end.If 't be a sin to think Death brib'd can beWe must be guilty; say 'twas briberyGuided the fatal shaft. Virginia's foes,To whom for secret crimes just vengeance owesDeservèd plagues, dreading their just desert,Corrupted Death by Paracelsian artHim to destroy; whose well-tried courage such,Their heartless hearts, nor arms, nor strength could touch.Who now must heal those wounds, or stop that bloodThe Heathen made, and drew into a flood?Who is't must plead our cause? nor trump, nor drum,Nor Deputation; these, alas! are dumbAnd cannot speak. Our arms (though ne'er so strong)Will want the aid of his commanding tongue,Which conquer'd more than Cæsar. He o'erthrewOnly the outward frame; this could subdueThe rugged works of nature. Souls repleteWith dull chill cold, he'd animate with heatDrawn forth of reason's limbec. In a word,Mars and Minerva both in him concurredFor arts, for arms, whose pen and sword alikeAs Cato's did, may admiration strikeInto his foes; while they confess withalIt was their guilt styl'd him a criminal.Only this difference does from truth proceed:They in the guilt, he in the name must bleed.While none shall dare his obsequies to singIn deserv'd measures; until time shall bringTruth crown'd with freedom, and from danger freeTo sound his praises to posterity.Here let him rest; while we this truth report,He's gone from hence unto a higher CourtTo plead his cause, where he by this doth knowWhether to Cæsar he was friend or foe.
Death, why so cruel? What! no other wayTo manifest thy spleen, but thus to slayOur hopes of safety, liberty, our all,Which, through thy tyranny, with him must fallTo its late chaos? Had thy rigid forceBeen dealt by retail, and not thus in gross,Grief had been silent. Now we must complain,Since thou, in him, hast more than thousands slain,Whose lives and safeties did so much dependOn him their life, with him their lives must end.If 't be a sin to think Death brib'd can beWe must be guilty; say 'twas briberyGuided the fatal shaft. Virginia's foes,To whom for secret crimes just vengeance owesDeservèd plagues, dreading their just desert,Corrupted Death by Paracelsian artHim to destroy; whose well-tried courage such,Their heartless hearts, nor arms, nor strength could touch.Who now must heal those wounds, or stop that bloodThe Heathen made, and drew into a flood?Who is't must plead our cause? nor trump, nor drum,Nor Deputation; these, alas! are dumbAnd cannot speak. Our arms (though ne'er so strong)Will want the aid of his commanding tongue,Which conquer'd more than Cæsar. He o'erthrewOnly the outward frame; this could subdueThe rugged works of nature. Souls repleteWith dull chill cold, he'd animate with heatDrawn forth of reason's limbec. In a word,Mars and Minerva both in him concurredFor arts, for arms, whose pen and sword alikeAs Cato's did, may admiration strikeInto his foes; while they confess withalIt was their guilt styl'd him a criminal.Only this difference does from truth proceed:They in the guilt, he in the name must bleed.While none shall dare his obsequies to singIn deserv'd measures; until time shall bringTruth crown'd with freedom, and from danger freeTo sound his praises to posterity.Here let him rest; while we this truth report,He's gone from hence unto a higher CourtTo plead his cause, where he by this doth knowWhether to Cæsar he was friend or foe.
Death, why so cruel? What! no other wayTo manifest thy spleen, but thus to slayOur hopes of safety, liberty, our all,Which, through thy tyranny, with him must fallTo its late chaos? Had thy rigid forceBeen dealt by retail, and not thus in gross,Grief had been silent. Now we must complain,Since thou, in him, hast more than thousands slain,Whose lives and safeties did so much dependOn him their life, with him their lives must end.If 't be a sin to think Death brib'd can beWe must be guilty; say 'twas briberyGuided the fatal shaft. Virginia's foes,To whom for secret crimes just vengeance owesDeservèd plagues, dreading their just desert,Corrupted Death by Paracelsian artHim to destroy; whose well-tried courage such,Their heartless hearts, nor arms, nor strength could touch.Who now must heal those wounds, or stop that bloodThe Heathen made, and drew into a flood?Who is't must plead our cause? nor trump, nor drum,Nor Deputation; these, alas! are dumbAnd cannot speak. Our arms (though ne'er so strong)Will want the aid of his commanding tongue,Which conquer'd more than Cæsar. He o'erthrewOnly the outward frame; this could subdueThe rugged works of nature. Souls repleteWith dull chill cold, he'd animate with heatDrawn forth of reason's limbec. In a word,Mars and Minerva both in him concurredFor arts, for arms, whose pen and sword alikeAs Cato's did, may admiration strikeInto his foes; while they confess withalIt was their guilt styl'd him a criminal.Only this difference does from truth proceed:They in the guilt, he in the name must bleed.While none shall dare his obsequies to singIn deserv'd measures; until time shall bringTruth crown'd with freedom, and from danger freeTo sound his praises to posterity.Here let him rest; while we this truth report,He's gone from hence unto a higher CourtTo plead his cause, where he by this doth knowWhether to Cæsar he was friend or foe.
Jamestown never recovered from the blow which Bacon dealt it. The location was so unhealthy that it could not attract new settlers, and though some of the houses which had been burned were subsequently rebuilt, the town's day of greatness was past. The seat of government was removed to Williamsburg, and the old settlement dropped gradually to decay.
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 unfurledHer 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 combinedIn 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 barkScudding 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 rangeHis 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 gazeIn wonder or in scorn,As the pale faces sweat to raiseTheir 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 aloneUpon 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 strokeOf sturdy woodman's axe;The earth receives the white man's yoke,And pays her willing taxOf 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 strifeTeems 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 traceThe 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 meMore touching is than poet's rhapsody.They live in millions that now breathe;They live in millions yet unborn,And pious gratitude shall wreatheAs 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 standWithout a moistened eye, a grateful tearOf reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.The mighty shade now hovers round,Of him whose strange, yet bright careerIs written on this sacred groundIn 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 rockTo 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 standWithout 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 mockOld Jamestown's shrine or Plymouth's famous rock.James Kirke Paulding.
Old cradle of an infant world,In which a nestling empire lay,Struggling awhile, ere she unfurledHer 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 combinedIn 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 barkScudding 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 rangeHis 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 gazeIn wonder or in scorn,As the pale faces sweat to raiseTheir 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 aloneUpon 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 strokeOf sturdy woodman's axe;The earth receives the white man's yoke,And pays her willing taxOf 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 strifeTeems 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 traceThe 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 meMore touching is than poet's rhapsody.They live in millions that now breathe;They live in millions yet unborn,And pious gratitude shall wreatheAs 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 standWithout a moistened eye, a grateful tearOf reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.The mighty shade now hovers round,Of him whose strange, yet bright careerIs written on this sacred groundIn 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 rockTo 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 standWithout 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 mockOld Jamestown's shrine or Plymouth's famous rock.James Kirke Paulding.
Old cradle of an infant world,In which a nestling empire lay,Struggling awhile, ere she unfurledHer 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 combinedIn 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 barkScudding 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 rangeHis 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 gazeIn wonder or in scorn,As the pale faces sweat to raiseTheir 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 aloneUpon 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 strokeOf sturdy woodman's axe;The earth receives the white man's yoke,And pays her willing taxOf 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 strifeTeems 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 traceThe 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 meMore touching is than poet's rhapsody.
They live in millions that now breathe;They live in millions yet unborn,And pious gratitude shall wreatheAs 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 standWithout a moistened eye, a grateful tearOf reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.
The mighty shade now hovers round,Of him whose strange, yet bright careerIs written on this sacred groundIn 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 rockTo 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 standWithout 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 mockOld Jamestown's shrine or Plymouth's famous rock.
James Kirke Paulding.
In the early part of the eighteenth century, pirates did a thriving trade along the Americancoast. One of the most redoubtable of these was Captain Teach, better known as "Blackbeard." After a long career of variegated villainy, he was cornered in Pamlico Inlet, in 1718, and killed, together with most of his crew, by a force sent after him by Governor Spottiswood of Virginia. His death was celebrated in a ballad said to have been written by Benjamin Franklin.
In the early part of the eighteenth century, pirates did a thriving trade along the Americancoast. One of the most redoubtable of these was Captain Teach, better known as "Blackbeard." After a long career of variegated villainy, he was cornered in Pamlico Inlet, in 1718, and killed, together with most of his crew, by a force sent after him by Governor Spottiswood of Virginia. His death was celebrated in a ballad said to have been written by Benjamin Franklin.
THE DOWNFALL OF PIRACY
[November 22, 1718]
Will you hear of a bloody Battle,Lately fought upon the Seas?It will make your Ears to rattle,And your Admiration cease;Have you heard ofTeachthe 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,CaptainTeach, with all his Men,UntoCarolinasteered,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 atCarolina,There the Governor did sendTo the Governor ofVirginia,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 commandedBoth the Sloops, and you shall hearHow, before he landed,He suppress'd them without fear.ValiantMaynardas he sailed,Soon the Pirate did espy,With his Trumpet he then hailed,And to him they did reply:CaptainTeachis our Commander,Maynardsaid, he is the ManWhom I am resolv'd to hang, Sir,Let him do the best he can.Teachreplyed untoMaynard,You no Quarter here shall see,But be hang'd on the Mainyard,You and all your Company;Maynardsaid, I none desireOf such Knaves as thee and thine,None I'll give,Teachthen replyed,My Boys, give me a Glass of Wine.He took the Glass, and drank DamnationUntoMaynardand his Crew;To himself and Generation,Then the Glass away he threw;BraveMaynardwas resolv'd to have him,Tho' he'd Cannons nine or ten;Teacha broadside quickly gave him,Killing sixteen valiant Men.Maynardboarded him, and to itThey fell with Sword and Pistol too;They had Courage, and did show it,Killing of the Pirate's Crew.TeachandMaynardon the Quarter,Fought it out most manfully,Maynard'sSword 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'sHead was made a Cover,To the Jack Staff of the Ship;Thus they sailed toVirginia,And when they the Story told,How they kill'd the Pirates many,They'd Applause from young and old.Benjamin Franklin.(?)
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 ofTeachthe 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,CaptainTeach, with all his Men,UntoCarolinasteered,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 atCarolina,There the Governor did sendTo the Governor ofVirginia,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 commandedBoth the Sloops, and you shall hearHow, before he landed,He suppress'd them without fear.ValiantMaynardas he sailed,Soon the Pirate did espy,With his Trumpet he then hailed,And to him they did reply:CaptainTeachis our Commander,Maynardsaid, he is the ManWhom I am resolv'd to hang, Sir,Let him do the best he can.Teachreplyed untoMaynard,You no Quarter here shall see,But be hang'd on the Mainyard,You and all your Company;Maynardsaid, I none desireOf such Knaves as thee and thine,None I'll give,Teachthen replyed,My Boys, give me a Glass of Wine.He took the Glass, and drank DamnationUntoMaynardand his Crew;To himself and Generation,Then the Glass away he threw;BraveMaynardwas resolv'd to have him,Tho' he'd Cannons nine or ten;Teacha broadside quickly gave him,Killing sixteen valiant Men.Maynardboarded him, and to itThey fell with Sword and Pistol too;They had Courage, and did show it,Killing of the Pirate's Crew.TeachandMaynardon the Quarter,Fought it out most manfully,Maynard'sSword 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'sHead was made a Cover,To the Jack Staff of the Ship;Thus they sailed toVirginia,And when they the Story told,How they kill'd the Pirates many,They'd Applause from young and old.Benjamin Franklin.(?)
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 ofTeachthe 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,CaptainTeach, with all his Men,UntoCarolinasteered,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 atCarolina,There the Governor did sendTo the Governor ofVirginia,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 commandedBoth the Sloops, and you shall hearHow, before he landed,He suppress'd them without fear.
ValiantMaynardas he sailed,Soon the Pirate did espy,With his Trumpet he then hailed,And to him they did reply:CaptainTeachis our Commander,Maynardsaid, he is the ManWhom I am resolv'd to hang, Sir,Let him do the best he can.
Teachreplyed untoMaynard,You no Quarter here shall see,But be hang'd on the Mainyard,You and all your Company;Maynardsaid, I none desireOf such Knaves as thee and thine,None I'll give,Teachthen replyed,My Boys, give me a Glass of Wine.
He took the Glass, and drank DamnationUntoMaynardand his Crew;To himself and Generation,Then the Glass away he threw;BraveMaynardwas resolv'd to have him,Tho' he'd Cannons nine or ten;Teacha broadside quickly gave him,Killing sixteen valiant Men.
Maynardboarded him, and to itThey fell with Sword and Pistol too;They had Courage, and did show it,Killing of the Pirate's Crew.TeachandMaynardon the Quarter,Fought it out most manfully,Maynard'sSword 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'sHead was made a Cover,To the Jack Staff of the Ship;Thus they sailed toVirginia,And when they the Story told,How they kill'd the Pirates many,They'd Applause from young and old.
Benjamin Franklin.(?)
On the twenty-second day of February, 1732 (February 12, O. S.), there was born in Westmoreland County, Virginia, a son to Augustine and Mary (Ball) Washington. The baby waschristened George, and lived to become the most famous personage in American history.
On the twenty-second day of February, 1732 (February 12, O. S.), there was born in Westmoreland County, Virginia, a son to Augustine and Mary (Ball) Washington. The baby waschristened George, and lived to become the most famous personage in American history.
FROM POTOMAC TO MERRIMAC
[February 11, 1732]
I. POTOMAC SIDE
Do you know how the people of all the landKnew at last that the time was at handWhen He should be sent to give commandTo armies and people, to father and son!How the glad tidings of joy should runWhich tell of the birth of Washington?Three women keep watch of the midnight skyWhere Potomac ripples below;They watch till the light in the window hard byThe 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 pileFor the birthday's welcome flame,That the light may show for many a mileTo tell when the baby came!And south and northThe word go forthThat the boy is bornOn that blessèd morn;The boy of deathless fame!
Do you know how the people of all the landKnew at last that the time was at handWhen He should be sent to give commandTo armies and people, to father and son!How the glad tidings of joy should runWhich tell of the birth of Washington?Three women keep watch of the midnight skyWhere Potomac ripples below;They watch till the light in the window hard byThe 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 pileFor the birthday's welcome flame,That the light may show for many a mileTo tell when the baby came!And south and northThe word go forthThat the boy is bornOn that blessèd morn;The boy of deathless fame!
Do you know how the people of all the landKnew at last that the time was at handWhen He should be sent to give commandTo armies and people, to father and son!How the glad tidings of joy should runWhich tell of the birth of Washington?
Three women keep watch of the midnight skyWhere Potomac ripples below;They watch till the light in the window hard byThe 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 pileFor the birthday's welcome flame,That the light may show for many a mileTo tell when the baby came!And south and northThe word go forthThat the boy is bornOn that blessèd morn;The boy of deathless fame!
II. SIGNAL FIRES
The watchmen have waited on Capitol HillAnd they light the signal flame;And at Baltimore Bay they waited tillThe welcome tidings came;And then across the starlit night,At the head of Elk the joyful lightTold to the Quaker town the storyOf new-born life and coming glory!To Trenton Ferry and Brooklyn HeightThey sent the signal clear and bright,And far away,Before the day,To Kaatskill and Greylock the joyful flameAnd everywhere the message came,As the signal flewThe people knewThat the man of men was born!
The watchmen have waited on Capitol HillAnd they light the signal flame;And at Baltimore Bay they waited tillThe welcome tidings came;And then across the starlit night,At the head of Elk the joyful lightTold to the Quaker town the storyOf new-born life and coming glory!To Trenton Ferry and Brooklyn HeightThey sent the signal clear and bright,And far away,Before the day,To Kaatskill and Greylock the joyful flameAnd everywhere the message came,As the signal flewThe people knewThat the man of men was born!
The watchmen have waited on Capitol HillAnd they light the signal flame;And at Baltimore Bay they waited tillThe welcome tidings came;And then across the starlit night,At the head of Elk the joyful lightTold to the Quaker town the storyOf new-born life and coming glory!To Trenton Ferry and Brooklyn HeightThey sent the signal clear and bright,And far away,Before the day,To Kaatskill and Greylock the joyful flameAnd everywhere the message came,As the signal flewThe people knewThat 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 HeightWhile the Merrimac rolls below.The cheery fireRose higher and higher,Monadnock and Carrigain catch the flame,And on and on, and on it came,And as men lookFar away in the northThe word goes forth,To Agiochook.The welcome fireFlashed higher and higherTo our mountain ways,And the dome, and Moat and Pequawket blaze!So the farmers in the IntervaleSee the light that shall never fail,The beacon light which shines to tellTo all the world to sayThat the boy has been bornOn that winter's mornBy Potomac far away.Whose great commandShall bless that landWhom the land shall blessIn joy and distressForever and a day!Edward Everett Hale.
So it is, they say, that the men in the bay,In winter's ice and snow,See the welcome light on Wachusett HeightWhile the Merrimac rolls below.The cheery fireRose higher and higher,Monadnock and Carrigain catch the flame,And on and on, and on it came,And as men lookFar away in the northThe word goes forth,To Agiochook.The welcome fireFlashed higher and higherTo our mountain ways,And the dome, and Moat and Pequawket blaze!So the farmers in the IntervaleSee the light that shall never fail,The beacon light which shines to tellTo all the world to sayThat the boy has been bornOn that winter's mornBy Potomac far away.Whose great commandShall bless that landWhom the land shall blessIn joy and distressForever and a day!Edward Everett Hale.
So it is, they say, that the men in the bay,In winter's ice and snow,See the welcome light on Wachusett HeightWhile the Merrimac rolls below.The cheery fireRose higher and higher,Monadnock and Carrigain catch the flame,And on and on, and on it came,And as men lookFar away in the northThe word goes forth,To Agiochook.The welcome fireFlashed higher and higherTo our mountain ways,And the dome, and Moat and Pequawket blaze!
So the farmers in the IntervaleSee the light that shall never fail,The beacon light which shines to tellTo all the world to sayThat the boy has been bornOn that winter's mornBy Potomac far away.Whose great commandShall bless that landWhom the land shall blessIn joy and distressForever and a day!
Edward Everett Hale.
THE DUTCH AT NEW AMSTERDAM
On the fourth day of April, 1609, there put out from the port of Amsterdam a little craft of about eighty tons, called the Half Moon. It had been chartered by the Dutch East India Company to search for the Northwest Passage. Its captain was Henry Hudson, and on September 3 he cast anchor inside Sandy Hook.
On the fourth day of April, 1609, there put out from the port of Amsterdam a little craft of about eighty tons, called the Half Moon. It had been chartered by the Dutch East India Company to search for the Northwest Passage. Its captain was Henry Hudson, and on September 3 he cast anchor inside Sandy Hook.
HENRY HUDSON'S QUEST
[1609]
Out from the harbor of AmsterdamThe Half Moon turned her prow to sea;The coast of Norway dropped behind,Yet Northward still kept sheThrough 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-landLoomed 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 sandWhich 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 turnedThe 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 mainHe 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.
Out from the harbor of AmsterdamThe Half Moon turned her prow to sea;The coast of Norway dropped behind,Yet Northward still kept sheThrough 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-landLoomed 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 sandWhich 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 turnedThe 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 mainHe 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.
Out from the harbor of AmsterdamThe Half Moon turned her prow to sea;The coast of Norway dropped behind,Yet Northward still kept sheThrough 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-landLoomed 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 sandWhich 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 turnedThe 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 mainHe sought his whole life long, in vain:"O Pilot, say, can there be a strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?""God's crypt is sealed! 'Twill stand revealed in His own good time," quoth he.
Burton Egbert Stevenson.
A few days were spent in exploring the bay, and on September 6 occurred the only fatality that marked the voyage. A seaman named John Colman, with four sailors, was sent out in a small boat to sound the Narrows, and encountered some Indians, who sent a flight of arrows toward the strangers. One of the arrows pierced Colman's throat, killing him.
A few days were spent in exploring the bay, and on September 6 occurred the only fatality that marked the voyage. A seaman named John Colman, with four sailors, was sent out in a small boat to sound the Narrows, and encountered some Indians, who sent a flight of arrows toward the strangers. One of the arrows pierced Colman's throat, killing him.
THE DEATH OF COLMAN
[September 6, 1609]
'Twas Juet spoke—the Half Moon's mateAnd they who Holland's ship of stateCompass'd with wisdom, listening sate:Discovery's near-extinguished sparkFlared 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 keelHad ploughed unbeaten deeps;From many a perfume-laden isleTo the dark land that sleepsForever in its winter robe,Th' unsocial hermit of the globe.But we, who sought for China's strandBy ocean ways untried,Forgot our mission when we castOur anchor in a tideThat kissed a gem too wondrous fairFor any eastern sea to wear!Entranced, we saw the golden woodsSlope gently to the sands;The grassy meads, the oaks that dwarfedTheir kin of other lands;And from the shore the balmy windBlew sweeter than the spice of Ind.As he whose eyes, though opened wide,Are fixed upon a dream,So Colman—one who long had heldOur Hudson's warm esteem—Gazed on the gorgeous scene, and said,"Ere even's shades are overspread,"Proudly our flag on yonder heightShall tell of Holland's gain;Proclaiming her to all the earthThe sovereign of the main."And quickly from the Half Moon's bowWe turned the longboat's yielding prow.The measured flashing of the oarsBroke 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 dreadTook direful form and sound.For from a near nook's rocky shade,Swift as pursuing hound,A savage shallop sped, to holdFrom stranger feet that strand of gold.And rageful cries disturbed the peaceThat 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 skiffShot out into the bay;And swiftly, sadly, pulled we backTo 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 sailWith woful hearts we threw;And anchored near a sandy stripThat 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 leftThe dark sea with her dead;For—God of Waves!—none could repressOne choking thought—the loneliness!Thomas Frost.
'Twas Juet spoke—the Half Moon's mateAnd they who Holland's ship of stateCompass'd with wisdom, listening sate:Discovery's near-extinguished sparkFlared 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 keelHad ploughed unbeaten deeps;From many a perfume-laden isleTo the dark land that sleepsForever in its winter robe,Th' unsocial hermit of the globe.But we, who sought for China's strandBy ocean ways untried,Forgot our mission when we castOur anchor in a tideThat kissed a gem too wondrous fairFor any eastern sea to wear!Entranced, we saw the golden woodsSlope gently to the sands;The grassy meads, the oaks that dwarfedTheir kin of other lands;And from the shore the balmy windBlew sweeter than the spice of Ind.As he whose eyes, though opened wide,Are fixed upon a dream,So Colman—one who long had heldOur Hudson's warm esteem—Gazed on the gorgeous scene, and said,"Ere even's shades are overspread,"Proudly our flag on yonder heightShall tell of Holland's gain;Proclaiming her to all the earthThe sovereign of the main."And quickly from the Half Moon's bowWe turned the longboat's yielding prow.The measured flashing of the oarsBroke 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 dreadTook direful form and sound.For from a near nook's rocky shade,Swift as pursuing hound,A savage shallop sped, to holdFrom stranger feet that strand of gold.And rageful cries disturbed the peaceThat 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 skiffShot out into the bay;And swiftly, sadly, pulled we backTo 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 sailWith woful hearts we threw;And anchored near a sandy stripThat 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 leftThe dark sea with her dead;For—God of Waves!—none could repressOne choking thought—the loneliness!Thomas Frost.
'Twas Juet spoke—the Half Moon's mateAnd they who Holland's ship of stateCompass'd with wisdom, listening sate:
Discovery's near-extinguished sparkFlared 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 keelHad ploughed unbeaten deeps;From many a perfume-laden isleTo the dark land that sleepsForever in its winter robe,Th' unsocial hermit of the globe.
But we, who sought for China's strandBy ocean ways untried,Forgot our mission when we castOur anchor in a tideThat kissed a gem too wondrous fairFor any eastern sea to wear!
Entranced, we saw the golden woodsSlope gently to the sands;The grassy meads, the oaks that dwarfedTheir kin of other lands;And from the shore the balmy windBlew sweeter than the spice of Ind.
As he whose eyes, though opened wide,Are fixed upon a dream,So Colman—one who long had heldOur Hudson's warm esteem—Gazed on the gorgeous scene, and said,"Ere even's shades are overspread,
"Proudly our flag on yonder heightShall tell of Holland's gain;Proclaiming her to all the earthThe sovereign of the main."And quickly from the Half Moon's bowWe turned the longboat's yielding prow.
The measured flashing of the oarsBroke 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 dreadTook direful form and sound.For from a near nook's rocky shade,Swift as pursuing hound,A savage shallop sped, to holdFrom stranger feet that strand of gold.
And rageful cries disturbed the peaceThat 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 skiffShot out into the bay;And swiftly, sadly, pulled we backTo 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 sailWith woful hearts we threw;And anchored near a sandy stripThat 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 leftThe dark sea with her dead;For—God of Waves!—none could repressOne choking thought—the loneliness!
Thomas Frost.
Hudson ascended the river to a point a little above the present town of Albany, then turned back and returned to Holland. His report of the rich country he had discovered was received with enthusiasm there, and preparations were begun on an extensive scale to colonize the new country. Dutch voyagers explored all the adjacent coasts, among the most active being Adrian Block.
Hudson ascended the river to a point a little above the present town of Albany, then turned back and returned to Holland. His report of the rich country he had discovered was received with enthusiasm there, and preparations were begun on an extensive scale to colonize the new country. Dutch voyagers explored all the adjacent coasts, among the most active being Adrian Block.
ADRIAN BLOCK'S SONG
[July, 1615]
Hard aport! Now close to shore sail!Starboard now, and drop your foresail!See, boys, what yon bay discloses,What yon open bay discloses!Where the breeze so gently blows isHeaven'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.
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 isHeaven'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.
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 isHeaven's own land of ruddy roses.
Past the Cormorant we sail,Past the rippling Beaver Tail,Green with summer, red with flowers,Green with summer, fresh with showers,Sweet with song and red with flowers,Is this new-found land of ours!
Roses close above the sand,Roses on the trees on land,I shall take this land for my land,Rosy beach and rosy highland,And I name it Roses Island.
Edward Everett Hale.
But troubles at home prevented any extensive effort at colonization until 1621, when the States-General chartered the Dutch West India Company, which in 1623 sent Captain Cornelius Jacobsen Mey, with thirty families, to start the colony.
But troubles at home prevented any extensive effort at colonization until 1621, when the States-General chartered the Dutch West India Company, which in 1623 sent Captain Cornelius Jacobsen Mey, with thirty families, to start the colony.
THE PRAISE OF NEW NETHERLAND
With sharpened pen and wit, one tunes his lays,To sing the vanity of fame and praise;His moping thoughts, bewildered in a maze,In darkness wander.What brings disgrace, what constitutes a wrong,These form the burden of the tuneful song:And honor saved, his senses then amongThe 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 forthThe 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 senseOf all the four: fails not in their defence,Before free juries.YourAir, so clear, so sharp to penetrate,The western breezes softly moderate;And, tempering the heat, they separateIt 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 bewailsIn expiating.Your Sun, th' original ofFireand 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, supplyThe 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.TheWaterclear 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.TheEarthin soils of different shades appears,Black, blue and white, and red; its bosom bearsAbundant harvests; and, what pleases, sparesNot to surrender.No bounds exist to their variety.They nourishment afford most plenteouslyTo creatures which, in turn, man's wants supplyAnd health engender.O fruitful land! heaped up with blessings kind,Whoe'er your several virtues brings to mind,—Its proper value to each gift assigned,Will soon discover,If ever land perfection have attained,That you in all things have that glory gained;Ungrateful mortal, who, your worth disdained,Would pass you over.In North America, behold yourSeat,Where all that heart can wish you satiate,And where oppressed with wealth inordinate,You have the powerTo bless the people with whate'er they need,The melancholy, from their sorrows lead,The light of heart, exulting pleasures cede,Who never cower.TheOceanlaves 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.
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 amongThe 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 forthThe 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 senseOf all the four: fails not in their defence,Before free juries.YourAir, so clear, so sharp to penetrate,The western breezes softly moderate;And, tempering the heat, they separateIt 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 bewailsIn expiating.Your Sun, th' original ofFireand 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, supplyThe 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.TheWaterclear 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.TheEarthin soils of different shades appears,Black, blue and white, and red; its bosom bearsAbundant harvests; and, what pleases, sparesNot to surrender.No bounds exist to their variety.They nourishment afford most plenteouslyTo creatures which, in turn, man's wants supplyAnd health engender.O fruitful land! heaped up with blessings kind,Whoe'er your several virtues brings to mind,—Its proper value to each gift assigned,Will soon discover,If ever land perfection have attained,That you in all things have that glory gained;Ungrateful mortal, who, your worth disdained,Would pass you over.In North America, behold yourSeat,Where all that heart can wish you satiate,And where oppressed with wealth inordinate,You have the powerTo bless the people with whate'er they need,The melancholy, from their sorrows lead,The light of heart, exulting pleasures cede,Who never cower.TheOceanlaves 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.
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 amongThe 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 forthThe 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 senseOf all the four: fails not in their defence,Before free juries.YourAir, so clear, so sharp to penetrate,The western breezes softly moderate;And, tempering the heat, they separateIt 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 bewailsIn expiating.Your Sun, th' original ofFireand 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, supplyThe 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.TheWaterclear 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.TheEarthin soils of different shades appears,Black, blue and white, and red; its bosom bearsAbundant harvests; and, what pleases, sparesNot to surrender.No bounds exist to their variety.They nourishment afford most plenteouslyTo creatures which, in turn, man's wants supplyAnd health engender.O fruitful land! heaped up with blessings kind,Whoe'er your several virtues brings to mind,—Its proper value to each gift assigned,Will soon discover,If ever land perfection have attained,That you in all things have that glory gained;Ungrateful mortal, who, your worth disdained,Would pass you over.In North America, behold yourSeat,Where all that heart can wish you satiate,And where oppressed with wealth inordinate,You have the powerTo bless the people with whate'er they need,The melancholy, from their sorrows lead,The light of heart, exulting pleasures cede,Who never cower.TheOceanlaves secure the outer shore,Which, like a dyke, is raised your fields before;And streams, like arteries, all veinèd o'er,The woods refreshing;And rolling down from mountains and the hills,Afford, upon their banks, fit sites for mills;And furnish, what the heart with transport fills,The finest fishing.
Jacob Steendam.
Other expeditions followed, but though the colony prospered, the mother country could provide little means of defence, and it was practically at the mercy of the English—the "swine" of Steendam's verses.
Other expeditions followed, but though the colony prospered, the mother country could provide little means of defence, and it was practically at the mercy of the English—the "swine" of Steendam's verses.
THE COMPLAINT OF NEW AMSTERDAM
[1659]
I'm a grandchild of the godsWho 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 weanedOft have I my fate bemoaned.From my youth up left alone,Naught save hardship have I known;Dangers have beset my wayFrom 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 spentIn the loins of warlike Mars.'T seems my mother, seized with fears,Prematurely brought me forth.But I now am very lothTo inform how this befel;Though 'twas thus, I know full well,Bacchus, too,—it is no dream,—First beheld the daylight's beamFrom 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 provenFriend to me in my misfortune.Now the midwife who received me,Was Bellona; in suspense, sheLong 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 supplyBetter my necessity;They sustained my feeble life;They procured a bounteous wifeAs my nurse, who did not spareTo my lips her paps to bear.This was Ceres; freely sheRendered 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 SapawnAnd 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 skillMe 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 treasureTo enjoy their wanton pleasure.They, my orchards too, would plunder,Truly 'tis a special wonder,That a maid with such a portionDoes not suffer more misfortune:For, I venture to proclaim,No one can a maiden nameWho with richer land is blessedThan th' estate by me possessed.See: two streams my garden bind,From the East and North they wind,—Rivers pouring in the sea,Rich in fish, beyond degree.Milk and butter: fruits to eatNo 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 swineTrample down these crops of mine;Up-root, too, my choicest land;Still and dumb, the while, I stand,In the hope, my mother's armWill 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 furnishWith my knick-knacks, with my surplus;With tobacco, furs and grain;So that Prussia she'll disdain.Jacob Steendam,noch vaster.
I'm a grandchild of the godsWho 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 weanedOft have I my fate bemoaned.From my youth up left alone,Naught save hardship have I known;Dangers have beset my wayFrom 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 spentIn the loins of warlike Mars.'T seems my mother, seized with fears,Prematurely brought me forth.But I now am very lothTo inform how this befel;Though 'twas thus, I know full well,Bacchus, too,—it is no dream,—First beheld the daylight's beamFrom 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 provenFriend to me in my misfortune.Now the midwife who received me,Was Bellona; in suspense, sheLong 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 supplyBetter my necessity;They sustained my feeble life;They procured a bounteous wifeAs my nurse, who did not spareTo my lips her paps to bear.This was Ceres; freely sheRendered 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 SapawnAnd 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 skillMe 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 treasureTo enjoy their wanton pleasure.They, my orchards too, would plunder,Truly 'tis a special wonder,That a maid with such a portionDoes not suffer more misfortune:For, I venture to proclaim,No one can a maiden nameWho with richer land is blessedThan th' estate by me possessed.See: two streams my garden bind,From the East and North they wind,—Rivers pouring in the sea,Rich in fish, beyond degree.Milk and butter: fruits to eatNo 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 swineTrample down these crops of mine;Up-root, too, my choicest land;Still and dumb, the while, I stand,In the hope, my mother's armWill 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 furnishWith my knick-knacks, with my surplus;With tobacco, furs and grain;So that Prussia she'll disdain.Jacob Steendam,noch vaster.
I'm a grandchild of the godsWho 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 weanedOft have I my fate bemoaned.From my youth up left alone,Naught save hardship have I known;Dangers have beset my wayFrom 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 spentIn the loins of warlike Mars.'T seems my mother, seized with fears,Prematurely brought me forth.But I now am very lothTo inform how this befel;Though 'twas thus, I know full well,Bacchus, too,—it is no dream,—First beheld the daylight's beamFrom 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 provenFriend to me in my misfortune.Now the midwife who received me,Was Bellona; in suspense, sheLong 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 supplyBetter my necessity;They sustained my feeble life;They procured a bounteous wifeAs my nurse, who did not spareTo my lips her paps to bear.This was Ceres; freely sheRendered 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 SapawnAnd 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 skillMe 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 treasureTo enjoy their wanton pleasure.They, my orchards too, would plunder,Truly 'tis a special wonder,That a maid with such a portionDoes not suffer more misfortune:For, I venture to proclaim,No one can a maiden nameWho with richer land is blessedThan th' estate by me possessed.See: two streams my garden bind,From the East and North they wind,—Rivers pouring in the sea,Rich in fish, beyond degree.Milk and butter: fruits to eatNo 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 swineTrample down these crops of mine;Up-root, too, my choicest land;Still and dumb, the while, I stand,In the hope, my mother's armWill 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 furnishWith my knick-knacks, with my surplus;With tobacco, furs and grain;So that Prussia she'll disdain.
Jacob Steendam,
noch vaster.
In spite of this neglect, the new town thrived apace. Friendly relations were established with the settlers at Plymouth, and the colony seemed to be moving steadily toward a golden future. In May, 1647, there arrived from Holland the new director, Peter Stuyvesant. He ruled supreme until 1664, when New Amsterdam surrendered to an English fleet.
In spite of this neglect, the new town thrived apace. Friendly relations were established with the settlers at Plymouth, and the colony seemed to be moving steadily toward a golden future. In May, 1647, there arrived from Holland the new director, Peter Stuyvesant. He ruled supreme until 1664, when New Amsterdam surrendered to an English fleet.
PETER STUYVESANT'S NEW YEAR'S CALL
[I. Jan.A. C.1661]