AMERICA
Oh, who has not heard of the Northmen of yore,How flew, like the sea-bird, their sails from the shore;How westward they stayed not till, breasting the brine,They hailed Narragansett, the land of the vine?Then the war-songs of Rollo, his pennon and glaive,Were heard as they danced by the moon-lighted wave,And their golden-haired wives bore them sons of the soil,While raged with the redskins their feud and turmoil.And who has not seen, mid the summer's gay crowd,That old pillared tower of their fortalice proud,How it stands solid proof of the sea chieftains' reignEre came with Columbus those galleys of Spain?'Twas a claim for their kindred: an earnest of sway,—By the stout-hearted Cabot made good in its day,—Of the Cross of St. George on the Chesapeake's tide,Where lovely Virginia arose like a bride.Came the pilgrims with Winthrop; and, saint of the West,Came Robert of Jamestown, the brave and the blest;Came Smith, the bold rover, and Rolfe—with his ring,To wed sweet Matoäka, child of a king.Undaunted they came, every peril to dare,Of tribes fiercer far than the wolf in his lair;Of the wild irksome woods, where in ambush they lay;Of their terror by night and their arrow by day.And so where our capes cleave the ice of the poles,Where groves of the orange scent sea-coast and shoals,Where the froward Atlantic uplifts its last crest,Where the sun, when he sets, seeks the East from the West.The clime that from ocean to ocean expands,The fields to the snow-drifts that stretch from the sands,The wilds they have conquered of mountain and plain,Those pilgrims have made them fair Freedom's domain.And the bread of dependence if proudly they spurned,'Twas the soul of their fathers that kindled and burned,'Twas the blood of the Saxon within them that ran;They held—to be free is the birthright of man.So oft the old lion, majestic of mane,Sees cubs of his cave breaking loose from his reign;Unmeet to be his if they braved not his eye,He gave them the spirit his own to defy.Arthur Cleveland Coxe.
Oh, who has not heard of the Northmen of yore,How flew, like the sea-bird, their sails from the shore;How westward they stayed not till, breasting the brine,They hailed Narragansett, the land of the vine?Then the war-songs of Rollo, his pennon and glaive,Were heard as they danced by the moon-lighted wave,And their golden-haired wives bore them sons of the soil,While raged with the redskins their feud and turmoil.And who has not seen, mid the summer's gay crowd,That old pillared tower of their fortalice proud,How it stands solid proof of the sea chieftains' reignEre came with Columbus those galleys of Spain?'Twas a claim for their kindred: an earnest of sway,—By the stout-hearted Cabot made good in its day,—Of the Cross of St. George on the Chesapeake's tide,Where lovely Virginia arose like a bride.Came the pilgrims with Winthrop; and, saint of the West,Came Robert of Jamestown, the brave and the blest;Came Smith, the bold rover, and Rolfe—with his ring,To wed sweet Matoäka, child of a king.Undaunted they came, every peril to dare,Of tribes fiercer far than the wolf in his lair;Of the wild irksome woods, where in ambush they lay;Of their terror by night and their arrow by day.And so where our capes cleave the ice of the poles,Where groves of the orange scent sea-coast and shoals,Where the froward Atlantic uplifts its last crest,Where the sun, when he sets, seeks the East from the West.The clime that from ocean to ocean expands,The fields to the snow-drifts that stretch from the sands,The wilds they have conquered of mountain and plain,Those pilgrims have made them fair Freedom's domain.And the bread of dependence if proudly they spurned,'Twas the soul of their fathers that kindled and burned,'Twas the blood of the Saxon within them that ran;They held—to be free is the birthright of man.So oft the old lion, majestic of mane,Sees cubs of his cave breaking loose from his reign;Unmeet to be his if they braved not his eye,He gave them the spirit his own to defy.Arthur Cleveland Coxe.
Oh, who has not heard of the Northmen of yore,How flew, like the sea-bird, their sails from the shore;How westward they stayed not till, breasting the brine,They hailed Narragansett, the land of the vine?
Then the war-songs of Rollo, his pennon and glaive,Were heard as they danced by the moon-lighted wave,And their golden-haired wives bore them sons of the soil,While raged with the redskins their feud and turmoil.
And who has not seen, mid the summer's gay crowd,That old pillared tower of their fortalice proud,How it stands solid proof of the sea chieftains' reignEre came with Columbus those galleys of Spain?
'Twas a claim for their kindred: an earnest of sway,—By the stout-hearted Cabot made good in its day,—Of the Cross of St. George on the Chesapeake's tide,Where lovely Virginia arose like a bride.
Came the pilgrims with Winthrop; and, saint of the West,Came Robert of Jamestown, the brave and the blest;Came Smith, the bold rover, and Rolfe—with his ring,To wed sweet Matoäka, child of a king.
Undaunted they came, every peril to dare,Of tribes fiercer far than the wolf in his lair;Of the wild irksome woods, where in ambush they lay;Of their terror by night and their arrow by day.
And so where our capes cleave the ice of the poles,Where groves of the orange scent sea-coast and shoals,Where the froward Atlantic uplifts its last crest,Where the sun, when he sets, seeks the East from the West.
The clime that from ocean to ocean expands,The fields to the snow-drifts that stretch from the sands,The wilds they have conquered of mountain and plain,Those pilgrims have made them fair Freedom's domain.
And the bread of dependence if proudly they spurned,'Twas the soul of their fathers that kindled and burned,'Twas the blood of the Saxon within them that ran;They held—to be free is the birthright of man.
So oft the old lion, majestic of mane,Sees cubs of his cave breaking loose from his reign;Unmeet to be his if they braved not his eye,He gave them the spirit his own to defy.
Arthur Cleveland Coxe.
POEMS OF AMERICAN HISTORY
THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA
Bjarni, son of Herjulf, speeding westward from Iceland in 986, to spend the Yuletide in Greenland with his father, encountered foggy weather and steered by guesswork for many days. At last he sighted land, but a land covered with dense woods,—not at all the land of fiords and glaciers he was seeking. So, without stopping, he turned his prow to the north, and ten days later was telling his story to the listening circle before the blazing logs in his father's house at Brattahlid. The tale came, in time, to the ears of Leif, the famous son of Red Eric, and in the year 1000 he set out from Greenland, with a crew of thirty-five, in search of the strange land to the south. He reached the barren coast of Labrador and named it Helluland, or "slate-land;" south of it was a coast so densely wooded that he named it Markland, or "woodland." At last he ran his ship ashore at a spot where "a river, issuing from a lake, fell into the sea." Wild grapes abounded, and he named the country Vinland.
Bjarni, son of Herjulf, speeding westward from Iceland in 986, to spend the Yuletide in Greenland with his father, encountered foggy weather and steered by guesswork for many days. At last he sighted land, but a land covered with dense woods,—not at all the land of fiords and glaciers he was seeking. So, without stopping, he turned his prow to the north, and ten days later was telling his story to the listening circle before the blazing logs in his father's house at Brattahlid. The tale came, in time, to the ears of Leif, the famous son of Red Eric, and in the year 1000 he set out from Greenland, with a crew of thirty-five, in search of the strange land to the south. He reached the barren coast of Labrador and named it Helluland, or "slate-land;" south of it was a coast so densely wooded that he named it Markland, or "woodland." At last he ran his ship ashore at a spot where "a river, issuing from a lake, fell into the sea." Wild grapes abounded, and he named the country Vinland.
THE STORY OF VINLAND[1]
From "Psalm of the West"
Far spread, below,The sea that fast hath locked in his loose flowAll secrets of Atlantis' drownèd woeLay bound about with night on every hand,Save down the eastern brink a shining bandOf day made out a little way from land.Then from that shore the wind upbore a cry:Thou Sea, thou Sea of Darkness! why, oh whyDost waste thy West in unthrift mystery?But ever the idiot sea-mouths foam and fill,And never a wave doth good for man, or ill,And Blank is king, and Nothing hath his will;And like as grim-beaked pelicans level fileAcross the sunset toward their nightly isleOn solemn wings that wave but seldom while,So leanly sails the day behind the dayTo where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,And down its mortal fissures sinks away.Master, Master, break this ban:The wave lacks Thee.Oh, is it not to widen manStretches the sea?Oh, must the sea-bird's idle vanAlone be free?Into the Sea of the Dark doth creepBjörne's pallid sail,As the face of a walker in his sleep,Set rigid and most pale,About the night doth peer and peepIn a dream of an ancient tale.Lo, here is made a hasty cry:Land, land, upon the west!—God save such land! Go by, go by:Here may no mortal rest,Where this waste hell of slate doth lieAnd grind the glacier's breast.The sail goeth limp: hey, flap and strain!Round eastward slanteth the mast;As the sleep-walker waked with pain,White-clothed in the midnight blast,Doth stare and quake, and stride againTo houseward all aghast.Yet as—A ghost!his household cry:He hath followed a ghost in flight.Let us see the ghost—his household flyWith lamps to search the night—So Norsemen's sails run out and tryThe Sea of the Dark with light.Stout Are Marson, southward whirledFrom out the tempest's hand,Doth skip the sloping of the worldTo Huitramannaland,Where Georgia's oaks with moss-beards curledWave by the shining strand,And sway in sighs from Florida's SpringOr Carolina's Palm—What time the mocking-bird doth bringThe woods his artist's-balm,Singing the Song of EverythingConsummate-sweet and calm—Land of large merciful-hearted skies,Big bounties, rich increase,Green rests for Trade's blood-shotten eyes,For o'er-beat brains surcease,For Love the dear woods' sympathies,For Grief the wise woods' peace.For Need rich givings of hid powersIn hills and vales quick-won,For Greed large exemplary flowersThat ne'er have toiled nor spun,For Heat fair-tempered winds and showers,For Cold the neighbor sun.*****Then Leif, bold son of Eric the Red,To the South of the West doth flee—Past slaty Helluland is sped,Past Markland's woody lea,Till round about fair Vinland's head,Where Taunton helps the sea,The Norseman calls, the anchor falls,The mariners hurry a-strand:They wassail with fore-drunken skalsWhere prophet wild grapes stand;They lift the Leifsbooth's hasty walls,They stride about the land—New England, thee! whose ne'er-spent wineAs blood doth stretch each vein,And urge thee, sinewed like thy vine,Through peril and all painTo grasp Endeavor's towering Pine,And, once ahold, remain—Land where the strenuous-handed WindWith sarcasm of a friendDoth smite the man would lag behindTo frontward of his end;Yea, where the taunting fall and grindOf Nature's Ill doth sendSuch mortal challenge of a clownRude-thrust upon the soul,That men but smile where mountains frownOr scowling waters roll,And Nature's front of battle downDo hurl from pole to pole.Now long the Sea of Darkness glimmers lowWith sails from Northland flickering to and fro—Thorwald, Karlsefne, and those twin heirs of woe,Hellboge and Finnge, in treasonable bedSlain by the ill-born child of Eric Red,Freydisa false. Till, as much time is fled,Once more the vacant airs with darkness fill,Once more the wave doth never good nor ill,And Blank is king, and Nothing works his will;And leanly sails the day behind the dayTo where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,And down its mortal fissures sinks away,As when the grim-beaked pelicans level fileAcross the sunset to their seaward isleOn solemn wings that wave but seldomwhile.Sidney Lanier.
Far spread, below,The sea that fast hath locked in his loose flowAll secrets of Atlantis' drownèd woeLay bound about with night on every hand,Save down the eastern brink a shining bandOf day made out a little way from land.Then from that shore the wind upbore a cry:Thou Sea, thou Sea of Darkness! why, oh whyDost waste thy West in unthrift mystery?But ever the idiot sea-mouths foam and fill,And never a wave doth good for man, or ill,And Blank is king, and Nothing hath his will;And like as grim-beaked pelicans level fileAcross the sunset toward their nightly isleOn solemn wings that wave but seldom while,So leanly sails the day behind the dayTo where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,And down its mortal fissures sinks away.Master, Master, break this ban:The wave lacks Thee.Oh, is it not to widen manStretches the sea?Oh, must the sea-bird's idle vanAlone be free?Into the Sea of the Dark doth creepBjörne's pallid sail,As the face of a walker in his sleep,Set rigid and most pale,About the night doth peer and peepIn a dream of an ancient tale.Lo, here is made a hasty cry:Land, land, upon the west!—God save such land! Go by, go by:Here may no mortal rest,Where this waste hell of slate doth lieAnd grind the glacier's breast.The sail goeth limp: hey, flap and strain!Round eastward slanteth the mast;As the sleep-walker waked with pain,White-clothed in the midnight blast,Doth stare and quake, and stride againTo houseward all aghast.Yet as—A ghost!his household cry:He hath followed a ghost in flight.Let us see the ghost—his household flyWith lamps to search the night—So Norsemen's sails run out and tryThe Sea of the Dark with light.Stout Are Marson, southward whirledFrom out the tempest's hand,Doth skip the sloping of the worldTo Huitramannaland,Where Georgia's oaks with moss-beards curledWave by the shining strand,And sway in sighs from Florida's SpringOr Carolina's Palm—What time the mocking-bird doth bringThe woods his artist's-balm,Singing the Song of EverythingConsummate-sweet and calm—Land of large merciful-hearted skies,Big bounties, rich increase,Green rests for Trade's blood-shotten eyes,For o'er-beat brains surcease,For Love the dear woods' sympathies,For Grief the wise woods' peace.For Need rich givings of hid powersIn hills and vales quick-won,For Greed large exemplary flowersThat ne'er have toiled nor spun,For Heat fair-tempered winds and showers,For Cold the neighbor sun.*****Then Leif, bold son of Eric the Red,To the South of the West doth flee—Past slaty Helluland is sped,Past Markland's woody lea,Till round about fair Vinland's head,Where Taunton helps the sea,The Norseman calls, the anchor falls,The mariners hurry a-strand:They wassail with fore-drunken skalsWhere prophet wild grapes stand;They lift the Leifsbooth's hasty walls,They stride about the land—New England, thee! whose ne'er-spent wineAs blood doth stretch each vein,And urge thee, sinewed like thy vine,Through peril and all painTo grasp Endeavor's towering Pine,And, once ahold, remain—Land where the strenuous-handed WindWith sarcasm of a friendDoth smite the man would lag behindTo frontward of his end;Yea, where the taunting fall and grindOf Nature's Ill doth sendSuch mortal challenge of a clownRude-thrust upon the soul,That men but smile where mountains frownOr scowling waters roll,And Nature's front of battle downDo hurl from pole to pole.Now long the Sea of Darkness glimmers lowWith sails from Northland flickering to and fro—Thorwald, Karlsefne, and those twin heirs of woe,Hellboge and Finnge, in treasonable bedSlain by the ill-born child of Eric Red,Freydisa false. Till, as much time is fled,Once more the vacant airs with darkness fill,Once more the wave doth never good nor ill,And Blank is king, and Nothing works his will;And leanly sails the day behind the dayTo where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,And down its mortal fissures sinks away,As when the grim-beaked pelicans level fileAcross the sunset to their seaward isleOn solemn wings that wave but seldomwhile.Sidney Lanier.
Far spread, below,The sea that fast hath locked in his loose flowAll secrets of Atlantis' drownèd woeLay bound about with night on every hand,Save down the eastern brink a shining bandOf day made out a little way from land.Then from that shore the wind upbore a cry:Thou Sea, thou Sea of Darkness! why, oh whyDost waste thy West in unthrift mystery?But ever the idiot sea-mouths foam and fill,And never a wave doth good for man, or ill,And Blank is king, and Nothing hath his will;And like as grim-beaked pelicans level fileAcross the sunset toward their nightly isleOn solemn wings that wave but seldom while,So leanly sails the day behind the dayTo where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,And down its mortal fissures sinks away.
Master, Master, break this ban:The wave lacks Thee.Oh, is it not to widen manStretches the sea?Oh, must the sea-bird's idle vanAlone be free?
Into the Sea of the Dark doth creepBjörne's pallid sail,As the face of a walker in his sleep,Set rigid and most pale,About the night doth peer and peepIn a dream of an ancient tale.
Lo, here is made a hasty cry:Land, land, upon the west!—God save such land! Go by, go by:Here may no mortal rest,Where this waste hell of slate doth lieAnd grind the glacier's breast.
The sail goeth limp: hey, flap and strain!Round eastward slanteth the mast;As the sleep-walker waked with pain,White-clothed in the midnight blast,Doth stare and quake, and stride againTo houseward all aghast.
Yet as—A ghost!his household cry:He hath followed a ghost in flight.Let us see the ghost—his household flyWith lamps to search the night—So Norsemen's sails run out and tryThe Sea of the Dark with light.
Stout Are Marson, southward whirledFrom out the tempest's hand,Doth skip the sloping of the worldTo Huitramannaland,Where Georgia's oaks with moss-beards curledWave by the shining strand,
And sway in sighs from Florida's SpringOr Carolina's Palm—What time the mocking-bird doth bringThe woods his artist's-balm,Singing the Song of EverythingConsummate-sweet and calm—
Land of large merciful-hearted skies,Big bounties, rich increase,Green rests for Trade's blood-shotten eyes,For o'er-beat brains surcease,For Love the dear woods' sympathies,For Grief the wise woods' peace.
For Need rich givings of hid powersIn hills and vales quick-won,For Greed large exemplary flowersThat ne'er have toiled nor spun,For Heat fair-tempered winds and showers,For Cold the neighbor sun.
*****
Then Leif, bold son of Eric the Red,To the South of the West doth flee—Past slaty Helluland is sped,Past Markland's woody lea,Till round about fair Vinland's head,Where Taunton helps the sea,
The Norseman calls, the anchor falls,The mariners hurry a-strand:They wassail with fore-drunken skalsWhere prophet wild grapes stand;They lift the Leifsbooth's hasty walls,They stride about the land—
New England, thee! whose ne'er-spent wineAs blood doth stretch each vein,And urge thee, sinewed like thy vine,Through peril and all painTo grasp Endeavor's towering Pine,And, once ahold, remain—
Land where the strenuous-handed WindWith sarcasm of a friendDoth smite the man would lag behindTo frontward of his end;Yea, where the taunting fall and grindOf Nature's Ill doth send
Such mortal challenge of a clownRude-thrust upon the soul,That men but smile where mountains frownOr scowling waters roll,And Nature's front of battle downDo hurl from pole to pole.
Now long the Sea of Darkness glimmers lowWith sails from Northland flickering to and fro—Thorwald, Karlsefne, and those twin heirs of woe,Hellboge and Finnge, in treasonable bedSlain by the ill-born child of Eric Red,Freydisa false. Till, as much time is fled,Once more the vacant airs with darkness fill,Once more the wave doth never good nor ill,And Blank is king, and Nothing works his will;And leanly sails the day behind the dayTo where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray,And down its mortal fissures sinks away,As when the grim-beaked pelicans level fileAcross the sunset to their seaward isleOn solemn wings that wave but seldomwhile.
Sidney Lanier.
Leif and his crew spent the winter in Vinland, and in the following spring took back to Greenland news of the pleasant country they had discovered. Other voyages followed, but the newcomers became embroiled with the natives, who attacked them in such numbers that all projects of colonization were abandoned; and finally, in 1012, the Norsemen sailed away forever from this land of promise.
Leif and his crew spent the winter in Vinland, and in the following spring took back to Greenland news of the pleasant country they had discovered. Other voyages followed, but the newcomers became embroiled with the natives, who attacked them in such numbers that all projects of colonization were abandoned; and finally, in 1012, the Norsemen sailed away forever from this land of promise.
THE NORSEMEN
[On a fragment of statue found at Bradford.]
Gift from the cold and silent Past!A relic to the present cast;Left on the ever-changing strandOf shifting and unstable sand,Which wastes beneath the steady chimeAnd beating of the waves of Time!Who from its bed of primal rockFirst wrenched thy dark, unshapely block?Whose hand, of curious skill untaught,Thy rude and savage outline wrought?The waters of my native streamAre glancing in the sun's warm beam;From sail-urged keel and flashing oarThe circles widen to its shore;And cultured field and peopled townSlope to its willowed margin down.Yet, while this morning breeze is bringingThe home-life sound of school-bells ringing,And rolling wheel, and rapid jarOf the fire-winged and steedless car,And voices from the wayside nearCome quick and blended on my ear,—A spell is in this old gray stone,My thoughts are with the Past alone!A change!—The steepled town no moreStretches along the sail-thronged shore;Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud,Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud:Spectrally rising where they stood,I see the old, primeval wood;Dark, shadow-like, on either handI see its solemn waste expand;It climbs the green and cultured hill,It arches o'er the valley's rill,And leans from cliff and crag to throwIts wild arms o'er the stream below.Unchanged, alone, the same bright riverFlows on, as it will flow forever!I listen, and I hear the lowSoft ripple where its waters go;I hear behind the panther's cry,The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by,And shyly on the river's brinkThe deer is stooping down to drink.But hark!—from wood and rock flung back,What sound comes up the Merrimac?What sea-worn barks are those which throwThe light spray from each rushing prow?Have they not in the North Sea's blastBowed to the waves the straining mast?Their frozen sails the low, pale sunOf Thulë's night has shone upon;Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweepRound icy drift, and headland steep.Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughtersHave watched them fading o'er the waters,Lessening through driving mist and spray,Like white-winged sea-birds on their way!Onward they glide,—and now I viewTheir iron-armed and stalwart crew;Joy glistens in each wild blue eye,Turned to green earth and summer sky.Each broad, seamed breast has cast asideIts cumbering vest of shaggy hide;Bared to the sun and soft warm air,Streams back the Northmen's yellow hair.I see the gleam of axe and spear,A sound of smitten shields I hear,Keeping a harsh and fitting timeTo Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme;Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung,His gray and naked isles among;Or muttered low at midnight hourRound Odin's mossy stone of power.The wolf beneath the Arctic moonHas answered to that startling rune;The Gael has heard its stormy swell,The light Frank knows its summons well;Iona's sable-stoled CuldeeHas heard it sounding o'er the sea,And swept, with hoary beard and hair,His altar's foot in trembling prayer!'Tis past,—the 'wildering vision diesIn darkness on my dreaming eyes!The forest vanishes in air,Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare;I hear the common tread of men,And hum of work-day life again;The mystic relic seems aloneA broken mass of common stone;And if it be the chiselled limbOf Berserker or idol grim,A fragment of Valhalla's Thor,The stormy Viking's god of War,Or Praga of the Runic lay,Or love-awakening Siona,I know not,—for no graven line,Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign,Is left me here, by which to traceIts name, or origin, or place.Yet, for this vision of the Past,This glance upon its darkness cast,My spirit bows in gratitudeBefore the Giver of all good,Who fashioned so the human mind,That, from the waste of Time behind,A simple stone, or mound of earth,Can summon the departed forth;Quicken the Past to life again,The Present lose in what hath been,And in their primal freshness showThe buried forms of long ago.As if a portion of that ThoughtBy which the Eternal will is wrought,Whose impulse fills anew with breathThe frozen solitude of Death,To mortal mind were sometimes lent,To mortal musings sometimes sent,To whisper—even when it seemsBut Memory's fantasy of dreams—Through the mind's waste of woe and sin,Of an immortal origin!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Gift from the cold and silent Past!A relic to the present cast;Left on the ever-changing strandOf shifting and unstable sand,Which wastes beneath the steady chimeAnd beating of the waves of Time!Who from its bed of primal rockFirst wrenched thy dark, unshapely block?Whose hand, of curious skill untaught,Thy rude and savage outline wrought?The waters of my native streamAre glancing in the sun's warm beam;From sail-urged keel and flashing oarThe circles widen to its shore;And cultured field and peopled townSlope to its willowed margin down.Yet, while this morning breeze is bringingThe home-life sound of school-bells ringing,And rolling wheel, and rapid jarOf the fire-winged and steedless car,And voices from the wayside nearCome quick and blended on my ear,—A spell is in this old gray stone,My thoughts are with the Past alone!A change!—The steepled town no moreStretches along the sail-thronged shore;Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud,Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud:Spectrally rising where they stood,I see the old, primeval wood;Dark, shadow-like, on either handI see its solemn waste expand;It climbs the green and cultured hill,It arches o'er the valley's rill,And leans from cliff and crag to throwIts wild arms o'er the stream below.Unchanged, alone, the same bright riverFlows on, as it will flow forever!I listen, and I hear the lowSoft ripple where its waters go;I hear behind the panther's cry,The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by,And shyly on the river's brinkThe deer is stooping down to drink.But hark!—from wood and rock flung back,What sound comes up the Merrimac?What sea-worn barks are those which throwThe light spray from each rushing prow?Have they not in the North Sea's blastBowed to the waves the straining mast?Their frozen sails the low, pale sunOf Thulë's night has shone upon;Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweepRound icy drift, and headland steep.Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughtersHave watched them fading o'er the waters,Lessening through driving mist and spray,Like white-winged sea-birds on their way!Onward they glide,—and now I viewTheir iron-armed and stalwart crew;Joy glistens in each wild blue eye,Turned to green earth and summer sky.Each broad, seamed breast has cast asideIts cumbering vest of shaggy hide;Bared to the sun and soft warm air,Streams back the Northmen's yellow hair.I see the gleam of axe and spear,A sound of smitten shields I hear,Keeping a harsh and fitting timeTo Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme;Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung,His gray and naked isles among;Or muttered low at midnight hourRound Odin's mossy stone of power.The wolf beneath the Arctic moonHas answered to that startling rune;The Gael has heard its stormy swell,The light Frank knows its summons well;Iona's sable-stoled CuldeeHas heard it sounding o'er the sea,And swept, with hoary beard and hair,His altar's foot in trembling prayer!'Tis past,—the 'wildering vision diesIn darkness on my dreaming eyes!The forest vanishes in air,Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare;I hear the common tread of men,And hum of work-day life again;The mystic relic seems aloneA broken mass of common stone;And if it be the chiselled limbOf Berserker or idol grim,A fragment of Valhalla's Thor,The stormy Viking's god of War,Or Praga of the Runic lay,Or love-awakening Siona,I know not,—for no graven line,Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign,Is left me here, by which to traceIts name, or origin, or place.Yet, for this vision of the Past,This glance upon its darkness cast,My spirit bows in gratitudeBefore the Giver of all good,Who fashioned so the human mind,That, from the waste of Time behind,A simple stone, or mound of earth,Can summon the departed forth;Quicken the Past to life again,The Present lose in what hath been,And in their primal freshness showThe buried forms of long ago.As if a portion of that ThoughtBy which the Eternal will is wrought,Whose impulse fills anew with breathThe frozen solitude of Death,To mortal mind were sometimes lent,To mortal musings sometimes sent,To whisper—even when it seemsBut Memory's fantasy of dreams—Through the mind's waste of woe and sin,Of an immortal origin!John Greenleaf Whittier.
Gift from the cold and silent Past!A relic to the present cast;Left on the ever-changing strandOf shifting and unstable sand,Which wastes beneath the steady chimeAnd beating of the waves of Time!Who from its bed of primal rockFirst wrenched thy dark, unshapely block?Whose hand, of curious skill untaught,Thy rude and savage outline wrought?
The waters of my native streamAre glancing in the sun's warm beam;From sail-urged keel and flashing oarThe circles widen to its shore;And cultured field and peopled townSlope to its willowed margin down.Yet, while this morning breeze is bringingThe home-life sound of school-bells ringing,And rolling wheel, and rapid jarOf the fire-winged and steedless car,And voices from the wayside nearCome quick and blended on my ear,—A spell is in this old gray stone,My thoughts are with the Past alone!
A change!—The steepled town no moreStretches along the sail-thronged shore;Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud,Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud:Spectrally rising where they stood,I see the old, primeval wood;Dark, shadow-like, on either handI see its solemn waste expand;It climbs the green and cultured hill,It arches o'er the valley's rill,And leans from cliff and crag to throwIts wild arms o'er the stream below.Unchanged, alone, the same bright riverFlows on, as it will flow forever!I listen, and I hear the lowSoft ripple where its waters go;I hear behind the panther's cry,The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by,And shyly on the river's brinkThe deer is stooping down to drink.
But hark!—from wood and rock flung back,What sound comes up the Merrimac?What sea-worn barks are those which throwThe light spray from each rushing prow?Have they not in the North Sea's blastBowed to the waves the straining mast?Their frozen sails the low, pale sunOf Thulë's night has shone upon;Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweepRound icy drift, and headland steep.Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughtersHave watched them fading o'er the waters,Lessening through driving mist and spray,Like white-winged sea-birds on their way!
Onward they glide,—and now I viewTheir iron-armed and stalwart crew;Joy glistens in each wild blue eye,Turned to green earth and summer sky.Each broad, seamed breast has cast asideIts cumbering vest of shaggy hide;Bared to the sun and soft warm air,Streams back the Northmen's yellow hair.I see the gleam of axe and spear,A sound of smitten shields I hear,Keeping a harsh and fitting timeTo Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme;Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung,His gray and naked isles among;Or muttered low at midnight hourRound Odin's mossy stone of power.The wolf beneath the Arctic moonHas answered to that startling rune;The Gael has heard its stormy swell,The light Frank knows its summons well;Iona's sable-stoled CuldeeHas heard it sounding o'er the sea,And swept, with hoary beard and hair,His altar's foot in trembling prayer!
'Tis past,—the 'wildering vision diesIn darkness on my dreaming eyes!The forest vanishes in air,Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare;I hear the common tread of men,And hum of work-day life again;The mystic relic seems aloneA broken mass of common stone;And if it be the chiselled limbOf Berserker or idol grim,A fragment of Valhalla's Thor,The stormy Viking's god of War,Or Praga of the Runic lay,Or love-awakening Siona,I know not,—for no graven line,Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign,Is left me here, by which to traceIts name, or origin, or place.Yet, for this vision of the Past,This glance upon its darkness cast,My spirit bows in gratitudeBefore the Giver of all good,Who fashioned so the human mind,That, from the waste of Time behind,A simple stone, or mound of earth,Can summon the departed forth;Quicken the Past to life again,The Present lose in what hath been,And in their primal freshness showThe buried forms of long ago.As if a portion of that ThoughtBy which the Eternal will is wrought,Whose impulse fills anew with breathThe frozen solitude of Death,To mortal mind were sometimes lent,To mortal musings sometimes sent,To whisper—even when it seemsBut Memory's fantasy of dreams—Through the mind's waste of woe and sin,Of an immortal origin!
John Greenleaf Whittier.
This, in mere outline, is the story of Vinland, as told in the Icelandic Chronicle. Of its substantial accuracy there can be little doubt. Many proofs of Norse occupation have been found on the shores of Massachusetts Bay. The "skeleton in armor," however, which was unearthed in 1835 near Fall River, Mass., was probably that of an Indian.
This, in mere outline, is the story of Vinland, as told in the Icelandic Chronicle. Of its substantial accuracy there can be little doubt. Many proofs of Norse occupation have been found on the shores of Massachusetts Bay. The "skeleton in armor," however, which was unearthed in 1835 near Fall River, Mass., was probably that of an Indian.
THE SKELETON IN ARMOR
"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!Who, with thy hollow breastStill in rude armor drest,Comest to daunt me!Wrapt not in Eastern balms,But with thy fleshless palmsStretched, as if asking alms,Why dost thou haunt me?"Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water's flowUnder December's snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart's chamber."I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou dost the tale rehearse,Else dread a dead man's curse;For this I sought thee."Far in the Northern Land,By the wild Baltic's strand,I, with my childish hand,Tamed the gerfalcon;And, with my skates fast-bound,Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on."Oft to his frozen lairTracked I the grisly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf's bark,Until the soaring larkSang from the meadow."But when I older grew,Joining a corsair's crew,O'er the dark sea I flewWith the marauders.Wild was the life we led;Many the souls that sped,Many the hearts that bled,By our stern orders."Many a wassail-boutWore the long winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk's taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Filled to o'erflowing."Once as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning yet tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor."I wooed the blue-eyed maid,Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest's shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosened vestFluttered her little breast,Like birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted."Bright in her father's hallShields gleamed upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chanting his glory;When of old HildebrandI asked his daughter's hand,Mute did the minstrels standTo hear my story."While the brown ale he quaffed,Loud then the champion laughed,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly."She was a Prince's child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blushed and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-mew's flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?"Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!When on the white sea-strand,Waving his armèd hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen."Then launched they to the blast,Bent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind failed us;And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hailed us."And as to catch the galeRound veered the flapping sail,'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,'Death without quarter!'Mid-ships with iron keelStruck we her ribs of steel!Down her black hulk did reelThrough the black water!"As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky haunt,With his prey laden.—So toward the open main,Beating to sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden."Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o'er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to leeward;There for my lady's bowerBuilt Ithe lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking seaward."There lived we many years;Time dried the maiden's tears;She had forgot her fears,She was a mother;Death closed her mild blue eyes,Under that tower she lies;Ne'er shall the sun ariseOn such another!"Still grew my bosom then,Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sunlight hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,Oh, death was grateful!"Thus, seamed with many scars,Bursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior's soul,Skoal!to the Northland!skoal!"Thus the tale ended.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!Who, with thy hollow breastStill in rude armor drest,Comest to daunt me!Wrapt not in Eastern balms,But with thy fleshless palmsStretched, as if asking alms,Why dost thou haunt me?"Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water's flowUnder December's snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart's chamber."I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou dost the tale rehearse,Else dread a dead man's curse;For this I sought thee."Far in the Northern Land,By the wild Baltic's strand,I, with my childish hand,Tamed the gerfalcon;And, with my skates fast-bound,Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on."Oft to his frozen lairTracked I the grisly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf's bark,Until the soaring larkSang from the meadow."But when I older grew,Joining a corsair's crew,O'er the dark sea I flewWith the marauders.Wild was the life we led;Many the souls that sped,Many the hearts that bled,By our stern orders."Many a wassail-boutWore the long winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk's taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Filled to o'erflowing."Once as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning yet tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor."I wooed the blue-eyed maid,Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest's shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosened vestFluttered her little breast,Like birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted."Bright in her father's hallShields gleamed upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chanting his glory;When of old HildebrandI asked his daughter's hand,Mute did the minstrels standTo hear my story."While the brown ale he quaffed,Loud then the champion laughed,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly."She was a Prince's child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blushed and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-mew's flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?"Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!When on the white sea-strand,Waving his armèd hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen."Then launched they to the blast,Bent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind failed us;And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hailed us."And as to catch the galeRound veered the flapping sail,'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,'Death without quarter!'Mid-ships with iron keelStruck we her ribs of steel!Down her black hulk did reelThrough the black water!"As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky haunt,With his prey laden.—So toward the open main,Beating to sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden."Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o'er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to leeward;There for my lady's bowerBuilt Ithe lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking seaward."There lived we many years;Time dried the maiden's tears;She had forgot her fears,She was a mother;Death closed her mild blue eyes,Under that tower she lies;Ne'er shall the sun ariseOn such another!"Still grew my bosom then,Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sunlight hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,Oh, death was grateful!"Thus, seamed with many scars,Bursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior's soul,Skoal!to the Northland!skoal!"Thus the tale ended.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
"Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!Who, with thy hollow breastStill in rude armor drest,Comest to daunt me!Wrapt not in Eastern balms,But with thy fleshless palmsStretched, as if asking alms,Why dost thou haunt me?"
Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water's flowUnder December's snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart's chamber.
"I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou dost the tale rehearse,Else dread a dead man's curse;For this I sought thee.
"Far in the Northern Land,By the wild Baltic's strand,I, with my childish hand,Tamed the gerfalcon;And, with my skates fast-bound,Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on.
"Oft to his frozen lairTracked I the grisly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf's bark,Until the soaring larkSang from the meadow.
"But when I older grew,Joining a corsair's crew,O'er the dark sea I flewWith the marauders.Wild was the life we led;Many the souls that sped,Many the hearts that bled,By our stern orders.
"Many a wassail-boutWore the long winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk's taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Filled to o'erflowing.
"Once as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning yet tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor.
"I wooed the blue-eyed maid,Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest's shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosened vestFluttered her little breast,Like birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted.
"Bright in her father's hallShields gleamed upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chanting his glory;When of old HildebrandI asked his daughter's hand,Mute did the minstrels standTo hear my story.
"While the brown ale he quaffed,Loud then the champion laughed,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly.
"She was a Prince's child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blushed and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-mew's flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?
"Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!When on the white sea-strand,Waving his armèd hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen.
"Then launched they to the blast,Bent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind failed us;And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hailed us.
"And as to catch the galeRound veered the flapping sail,'Death!' was the helmsman's hail,'Death without quarter!'Mid-ships with iron keelStruck we her ribs of steel!Down her black hulk did reelThrough the black water!
"As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky haunt,With his prey laden.—So toward the open main,Beating to sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden.
"Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o'er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to leeward;There for my lady's bowerBuilt Ithe lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking seaward.
"There lived we many years;Time dried the maiden's tears;She had forgot her fears,She was a mother;Death closed her mild blue eyes,Under that tower she lies;Ne'er shall the sun ariseOn such another!
"Still grew my bosom then,Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sunlight hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,Oh, death was grateful!
"Thus, seamed with many scars,Bursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior's soul,Skoal!to the Northland!skoal!"Thus the tale ended.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
The centuries passed, and no more of the white-skinned race came to the New World. But a new era was at hand; the day drew near when a little fleet was to put out from Spain and turn its prows westward on the grandest voyage the world has ever known.
The centuries passed, and no more of the white-skinned race came to the New World. But a new era was at hand; the day drew near when a little fleet was to put out from Spain and turn its prows westward on the grandest voyage the world has ever known.
PROPHECY
From "Il Morgante Maggiore"
1485
His barkThe daring mariner shall urge far o'erThe Western wave, a smooth and level plain.Albeit the earth is fashioned like a wheel.Man was in ancient days of grosser mould,And Hercules might blush to learn how farBeyond the limits he had vainly setThe dullest sea-boat soon shall wing her way.Man shall descry another hemisphere,Since to one common centre all things tend.So earth, by curious mystery divineWell balanced, hangs amid the starry spheres.At our antipodes are cities, states,And throngèd empires, ne'er divined of yore.But see, the sun speeds on his western pathTo glad the nations with expected light.Luigi Pulci.
His barkThe daring mariner shall urge far o'erThe Western wave, a smooth and level plain.Albeit the earth is fashioned like a wheel.Man was in ancient days of grosser mould,And Hercules might blush to learn how farBeyond the limits he had vainly setThe dullest sea-boat soon shall wing her way.Man shall descry another hemisphere,Since to one common centre all things tend.So earth, by curious mystery divineWell balanced, hangs amid the starry spheres.At our antipodes are cities, states,And throngèd empires, ne'er divined of yore.But see, the sun speeds on his western pathTo glad the nations with expected light.Luigi Pulci.
His barkThe daring mariner shall urge far o'erThe Western wave, a smooth and level plain.Albeit the earth is fashioned like a wheel.Man was in ancient days of grosser mould,And Hercules might blush to learn how farBeyond the limits he had vainly setThe dullest sea-boat soon shall wing her way.Man shall descry another hemisphere,Since to one common centre all things tend.So earth, by curious mystery divineWell balanced, hangs amid the starry spheres.At our antipodes are cities, states,And throngèd empires, ne'er divined of yore.But see, the sun speeds on his western pathTo glad the nations with expected light.
Luigi Pulci.
About 1436 a son was born to Dominico Colombo, wool-comber, of Genoa, and in due time christened Cristoforo. Of his boyhood little is known save that he early went to sea. About 1470 he followed his brother Bartholomew to Lisbon, and in 1474 he was given a map by Toscanelli, the Florentine astronomer, showing Japan and the Indies directly west of Portugal, together with a long letter in which Toscanelli explained his reasons for believing that by sailing west one could reach the East. Columbus, studying the problem month by month, became convinced of the feasibility of such a route to the Indies, and determined himself to traverse it.
About 1436 a son was born to Dominico Colombo, wool-comber, of Genoa, and in due time christened Cristoforo. Of his boyhood little is known save that he early went to sea. About 1470 he followed his brother Bartholomew to Lisbon, and in 1474 he was given a map by Toscanelli, the Florentine astronomer, showing Japan and the Indies directly west of Portugal, together with a long letter in which Toscanelli explained his reasons for believing that by sailing west one could reach the East. Columbus, studying the problem month by month, became convinced of the feasibility of such a route to the Indies, and determined himself to traverse it.
THE INSPIRATION
From "The West Indies"
Long lay the ocean-paths from man conceal'd;Light came from heaven,—the magnet was reveal'd,A surer star to guide the seaman's eyeThan the pale glory of the northern sky;Alike ordain'd to shine by night and day,Through calm and tempest, with unsetting ray;Where'er the mountains rise, the billows roll,Still with strong impulse turning to the pole,True as the sun is to the morning true,Though light as film, and trembling as the dew.Then man no longer plied with timid oar,And failing heart, along the windward shore;Broad to the sky he turn'd his fearless sail,Defied the adverse, woo'd the favoring gale,Bared to the storm his adamantine breast,Or soft on ocean's lap lay down to rest;While free, as clouds the liquid ether sweep,His white-wing'd vessels coursed the unbounded deep;From clime to clime the wanderer loved to roam,The waves his heritage, the world his home.Then first Columbus, with the mighty handOf grasping genius, weigh'd the sea and land;The floods o'erbalanced:—where the tide of light,Day after day, roll'd down the gulf of night,There seem'd one waste of waters:—long in vainHis spirit brooded o'er the Atlantic main;When sudden, as creation burst from nought,Sprang a new world through his stupendous thought,Light, order, beauty!—While his mind exploredThe unveiling mystery, his heart adored;Where'er sublime imagination trod,He heard the voice, he saw the face of God.Far from the western cliffs he cast his eye,O'er the wide ocean stretching to the sky:In calm magnificence the sun declined,And left a paradise of clouds behind:Proud at his feet, with pomp of pearl and gold,The billows in a sea of glory roll'd."—Ah! on this sea of glory might I sail,Track the bright sun, and pierce the eternal veilThat hides those lands, beneath Hesperian skies,Where daylight sojourns till our morrow rise!"Thoughtful he wander'd on the beach alone;Mild o'er the deep the vesper planet shone,The eye of evening, brightening through the westTill the sweet moment when it shut to rest:"Whither, O golden Venus! art thou fled?Not in the ocean-chambers lies thy bed;Round the dim world thy glittering chariot drawnPursues the twilight, or precedes the dawn;Thy beauty noon and midnight never see,The morn and eve divide the year with thee."Soft fell the shades, till Cynthia's slender bowCrested the furthest wave, then sunk below:"Tell me, resplendent guardian of the night,Circling the sphere in thy perennial flight,What secret path of heaven thy smiles adorn,What nameless sea reflects thy gleaming horn?"Now earth and ocean vanish'd, all sereneThe starry firmament alone was seen;Through the slow, silent hours, he watch'd the hostOf midnight suns in western darkness lost,Till Night himself, on shadowy pinions borne,Fled o'er the mighty waters, and the mornDanced on the mountains:—"Lights of heaven!" he cried,"Lead on;—I go to win a glorious bride;Fearless o'er gulfs unknown I urge my way,Where peril prowls, and shipwreck lurks for prey:Hope swells my sail;—in spirit I beholdThat maiden-world, twin-sister of the old,By nature nursed beyond the jealous sea,Denied to ages, but betroth'd to me."James Montgomery.
Long lay the ocean-paths from man conceal'd;Light came from heaven,—the magnet was reveal'd,A surer star to guide the seaman's eyeThan the pale glory of the northern sky;Alike ordain'd to shine by night and day,Through calm and tempest, with unsetting ray;Where'er the mountains rise, the billows roll,Still with strong impulse turning to the pole,True as the sun is to the morning true,Though light as film, and trembling as the dew.Then man no longer plied with timid oar,And failing heart, along the windward shore;Broad to the sky he turn'd his fearless sail,Defied the adverse, woo'd the favoring gale,Bared to the storm his adamantine breast,Or soft on ocean's lap lay down to rest;While free, as clouds the liquid ether sweep,His white-wing'd vessels coursed the unbounded deep;From clime to clime the wanderer loved to roam,The waves his heritage, the world his home.Then first Columbus, with the mighty handOf grasping genius, weigh'd the sea and land;The floods o'erbalanced:—where the tide of light,Day after day, roll'd down the gulf of night,There seem'd one waste of waters:—long in vainHis spirit brooded o'er the Atlantic main;When sudden, as creation burst from nought,Sprang a new world through his stupendous thought,Light, order, beauty!—While his mind exploredThe unveiling mystery, his heart adored;Where'er sublime imagination trod,He heard the voice, he saw the face of God.Far from the western cliffs he cast his eye,O'er the wide ocean stretching to the sky:In calm magnificence the sun declined,And left a paradise of clouds behind:Proud at his feet, with pomp of pearl and gold,The billows in a sea of glory roll'd."—Ah! on this sea of glory might I sail,Track the bright sun, and pierce the eternal veilThat hides those lands, beneath Hesperian skies,Where daylight sojourns till our morrow rise!"Thoughtful he wander'd on the beach alone;Mild o'er the deep the vesper planet shone,The eye of evening, brightening through the westTill the sweet moment when it shut to rest:"Whither, O golden Venus! art thou fled?Not in the ocean-chambers lies thy bed;Round the dim world thy glittering chariot drawnPursues the twilight, or precedes the dawn;Thy beauty noon and midnight never see,The morn and eve divide the year with thee."Soft fell the shades, till Cynthia's slender bowCrested the furthest wave, then sunk below:"Tell me, resplendent guardian of the night,Circling the sphere in thy perennial flight,What secret path of heaven thy smiles adorn,What nameless sea reflects thy gleaming horn?"Now earth and ocean vanish'd, all sereneThe starry firmament alone was seen;Through the slow, silent hours, he watch'd the hostOf midnight suns in western darkness lost,Till Night himself, on shadowy pinions borne,Fled o'er the mighty waters, and the mornDanced on the mountains:—"Lights of heaven!" he cried,"Lead on;—I go to win a glorious bride;Fearless o'er gulfs unknown I urge my way,Where peril prowls, and shipwreck lurks for prey:Hope swells my sail;—in spirit I beholdThat maiden-world, twin-sister of the old,By nature nursed beyond the jealous sea,Denied to ages, but betroth'd to me."James Montgomery.
Long lay the ocean-paths from man conceal'd;Light came from heaven,—the magnet was reveal'd,A surer star to guide the seaman's eyeThan the pale glory of the northern sky;Alike ordain'd to shine by night and day,Through calm and tempest, with unsetting ray;Where'er the mountains rise, the billows roll,Still with strong impulse turning to the pole,True as the sun is to the morning true,Though light as film, and trembling as the dew.
Then man no longer plied with timid oar,And failing heart, along the windward shore;Broad to the sky he turn'd his fearless sail,Defied the adverse, woo'd the favoring gale,Bared to the storm his adamantine breast,Or soft on ocean's lap lay down to rest;While free, as clouds the liquid ether sweep,His white-wing'd vessels coursed the unbounded deep;From clime to clime the wanderer loved to roam,The waves his heritage, the world his home.
Then first Columbus, with the mighty handOf grasping genius, weigh'd the sea and land;The floods o'erbalanced:—where the tide of light,Day after day, roll'd down the gulf of night,There seem'd one waste of waters:—long in vainHis spirit brooded o'er the Atlantic main;When sudden, as creation burst from nought,Sprang a new world through his stupendous thought,Light, order, beauty!—While his mind exploredThe unveiling mystery, his heart adored;Where'er sublime imagination trod,He heard the voice, he saw the face of God.
Far from the western cliffs he cast his eye,O'er the wide ocean stretching to the sky:In calm magnificence the sun declined,And left a paradise of clouds behind:Proud at his feet, with pomp of pearl and gold,The billows in a sea of glory roll'd.
"—Ah! on this sea of glory might I sail,Track the bright sun, and pierce the eternal veilThat hides those lands, beneath Hesperian skies,Where daylight sojourns till our morrow rise!"
Thoughtful he wander'd on the beach alone;Mild o'er the deep the vesper planet shone,The eye of evening, brightening through the westTill the sweet moment when it shut to rest:"Whither, O golden Venus! art thou fled?Not in the ocean-chambers lies thy bed;Round the dim world thy glittering chariot drawnPursues the twilight, or precedes the dawn;Thy beauty noon and midnight never see,The morn and eve divide the year with thee."
Soft fell the shades, till Cynthia's slender bowCrested the furthest wave, then sunk below:"Tell me, resplendent guardian of the night,Circling the sphere in thy perennial flight,What secret path of heaven thy smiles adorn,What nameless sea reflects thy gleaming horn?"
Now earth and ocean vanish'd, all sereneThe starry firmament alone was seen;Through the slow, silent hours, he watch'd the hostOf midnight suns in western darkness lost,Till Night himself, on shadowy pinions borne,Fled o'er the mighty waters, and the mornDanced on the mountains:—"Lights of heaven!" he cried,"Lead on;—I go to win a glorious bride;Fearless o'er gulfs unknown I urge my way,Where peril prowls, and shipwreck lurks for prey:Hope swells my sail;—in spirit I beholdThat maiden-world, twin-sister of the old,By nature nursed beyond the jealous sea,Denied to ages, but betroth'd to me."
James Montgomery.
In 1484 Columbus laid his plan before King John II, of Portugal, but became so disgusted with his treachery and double-dealing, that he left Portugal and entered the service of Ferdinand and Isabella. The Spanish monarchs listened to him with attention, and ordered that the greatest astronomers and cosmographers of the kingdom should assemble at Salamanca and pass upon the feasibility of the project.
In 1484 Columbus laid his plan before King John II, of Portugal, but became so disgusted with his treachery and double-dealing, that he left Portugal and entered the service of Ferdinand and Isabella. The Spanish monarchs listened to him with attention, and ordered that the greatest astronomers and cosmographers of the kingdom should assemble at Salamanca and pass upon the feasibility of the project.
COLUMBUS
[January, 1487]
St. Stephen's cloistered hallwas proudIn learning's pomp that day,For there a robed and stately crowdPressed on in long array.A mariner with simple chartConfronts that conclave high,While strong ambition stirs his heart,And burning thoughts of wonder partFrom lip and sparkling eye.What hath he said? With frowning face,In whispered tones they speak,And lines upon their tablets trace,Which flush each ashen cheek;The Inquisition's mystic doomSits on their brows severe,And bursting forth in visioned gloom,Sad heresy from burning tombGroans on the startled ear.Courage, thou Genoese! Old TimeThy splendid dream shall crown;Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,Where unshorn forests frown,The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow,The Indian hunter's bow,Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,And rocks of gold and diamonds, thouTo thankless Spain shalt show.Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!In Fate's unfolding scroll,Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read,That rack the noble soul.On! on! Creation's secrets probe,Then drink thy cup of scorn,And wrapped in fallen Cæsar's robe,Sleep like that master of the globe,All glorious,—yet forlorn.Lydia Huntley Sigourney.
St. Stephen's cloistered hallwas proudIn learning's pomp that day,For there a robed and stately crowdPressed on in long array.A mariner with simple chartConfronts that conclave high,While strong ambition stirs his heart,And burning thoughts of wonder partFrom lip and sparkling eye.What hath he said? With frowning face,In whispered tones they speak,And lines upon their tablets trace,Which flush each ashen cheek;The Inquisition's mystic doomSits on their brows severe,And bursting forth in visioned gloom,Sad heresy from burning tombGroans on the startled ear.Courage, thou Genoese! Old TimeThy splendid dream shall crown;Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,Where unshorn forests frown,The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow,The Indian hunter's bow,Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,And rocks of gold and diamonds, thouTo thankless Spain shalt show.Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!In Fate's unfolding scroll,Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read,That rack the noble soul.On! on! Creation's secrets probe,Then drink thy cup of scorn,And wrapped in fallen Cæsar's robe,Sleep like that master of the globe,All glorious,—yet forlorn.Lydia Huntley Sigourney.
St. Stephen's cloistered hallwas proudIn learning's pomp that day,For there a robed and stately crowdPressed on in long array.A mariner with simple chartConfronts that conclave high,While strong ambition stirs his heart,And burning thoughts of wonder partFrom lip and sparkling eye.
What hath he said? With frowning face,In whispered tones they speak,And lines upon their tablets trace,Which flush each ashen cheek;The Inquisition's mystic doomSits on their brows severe,And bursting forth in visioned gloom,Sad heresy from burning tombGroans on the startled ear.
Courage, thou Genoese! Old TimeThy splendid dream shall crown;Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,Where unshorn forests frown,The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow,The Indian hunter's bow,Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,And rocks of gold and diamonds, thouTo thankless Spain shalt show.
Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!In Fate's unfolding scroll,Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read,That rack the noble soul.On! on! Creation's secrets probe,Then drink thy cup of scorn,And wrapped in fallen Cæsar's robe,Sleep like that master of the globe,All glorious,—yet forlorn.
Lydia Huntley Sigourney.
The council convened at Salamanca and examined Columbus; but it presented to him an almost impenetrable wall of bigotry and prejudice. Long delays and adjournments followed; and for three years the suppliant was put off with excuses and evasions. At last, worn out with waiting and anxiety, he appealed to Ferdinand to give him a definite answer.
The council convened at Salamanca and examined Columbus; but it presented to him an almost impenetrable wall of bigotry and prejudice. Long delays and adjournments followed; and for three years the suppliant was put off with excuses and evasions. At last, worn out with waiting and anxiety, he appealed to Ferdinand to give him a definite answer.
COLUMBUS TO FERDINAND
[January, 1491]
Illustrious monarch of Iberia's soil,Too long I wait permission to depart;Sick of delays, I beg thy list'ning ear—Shine forth the patron and the prince of art.While yet Columbus breathes the vital air,Grant his request to pass the western main:Reserve this glory for thy native soil,And what must please thee more—for thy own reign.Of this huge globe, how small a part we know—Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny?—How disproportion'd to the mighty deepThe lands that yet in human prospect lie!Does Cynthia, when to western skies arriv'd,Spend her sweet beam upon the barren main,And ne'er illume with midnight splendor, she,The natives dancing on the lightsome green?—Should the vast circuit of the world containSuch wastes of ocean, and such scanty land?—'Tis reason's voice that bids me think not so,I think more nobly of the Almighty hand.Does yon fair lamp trace half the circle roundTo light the waves and monsters of the seas?—No—be there must beyond the billowy wasteIslands, and men, and animals, and trees.An unremitting flame my breast inspiresTo seek new lands amidst the barren waves,Where falling low, the source of day descends,And the blue sea his evening visage laves.Hear, in his tragic lay,Cordova's sage:"The time shall come, when numerous years are past,The ocean shall dissolve the bonds of things,And an extended region rise at last;"And Typhis shall disclose the mighty landFar, far away, where none have rov'd before;Nor shall the world's remotest region beGibraltar's rock, or Thule's savage shore."Fir'd at the theme, I languish to depart,Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail;He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep;Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.Nor does he dread to lose the intended course,Though far from land the reeling galley stray,And skies above and gulphy seas belowBe the sole objects seen for many a day.Think not that Nature has unveil'd in vainThe mystic magnet to the mortal eye:So late have we the guiding needle plann'dOnly to sail beneath our native sky?Ere this wasfound, the ruling power of allFound for our use an ocean in the land,Its breadth so small we could not wander long,Nor long be absent from the neighboring strand.Short was the course, and guided by the stars,But stars no more shall point our daring way;The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drown'd,And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea,When southward we shall steer—O grant my wish,Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail,He dreads no tempests on the untravell'd deep,Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.Philip Freneau.
Illustrious monarch of Iberia's soil,Too long I wait permission to depart;Sick of delays, I beg thy list'ning ear—Shine forth the patron and the prince of art.While yet Columbus breathes the vital air,Grant his request to pass the western main:Reserve this glory for thy native soil,And what must please thee more—for thy own reign.Of this huge globe, how small a part we know—Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny?—How disproportion'd to the mighty deepThe lands that yet in human prospect lie!Does Cynthia, when to western skies arriv'd,Spend her sweet beam upon the barren main,And ne'er illume with midnight splendor, she,The natives dancing on the lightsome green?—Should the vast circuit of the world containSuch wastes of ocean, and such scanty land?—'Tis reason's voice that bids me think not so,I think more nobly of the Almighty hand.Does yon fair lamp trace half the circle roundTo light the waves and monsters of the seas?—No—be there must beyond the billowy wasteIslands, and men, and animals, and trees.An unremitting flame my breast inspiresTo seek new lands amidst the barren waves,Where falling low, the source of day descends,And the blue sea his evening visage laves.Hear, in his tragic lay,Cordova's sage:"The time shall come, when numerous years are past,The ocean shall dissolve the bonds of things,And an extended region rise at last;"And Typhis shall disclose the mighty landFar, far away, where none have rov'd before;Nor shall the world's remotest region beGibraltar's rock, or Thule's savage shore."Fir'd at the theme, I languish to depart,Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail;He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep;Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.Nor does he dread to lose the intended course,Though far from land the reeling galley stray,And skies above and gulphy seas belowBe the sole objects seen for many a day.Think not that Nature has unveil'd in vainThe mystic magnet to the mortal eye:So late have we the guiding needle plann'dOnly to sail beneath our native sky?Ere this wasfound, the ruling power of allFound for our use an ocean in the land,Its breadth so small we could not wander long,Nor long be absent from the neighboring strand.Short was the course, and guided by the stars,But stars no more shall point our daring way;The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drown'd,And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea,When southward we shall steer—O grant my wish,Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail,He dreads no tempests on the untravell'd deep,Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.Philip Freneau.
Illustrious monarch of Iberia's soil,Too long I wait permission to depart;Sick of delays, I beg thy list'ning ear—Shine forth the patron and the prince of art.
While yet Columbus breathes the vital air,Grant his request to pass the western main:Reserve this glory for thy native soil,And what must please thee more—for thy own reign.
Of this huge globe, how small a part we know—Does heaven their worlds to western suns deny?—How disproportion'd to the mighty deepThe lands that yet in human prospect lie!
Does Cynthia, when to western skies arriv'd,Spend her sweet beam upon the barren main,And ne'er illume with midnight splendor, she,The natives dancing on the lightsome green?—
Should the vast circuit of the world containSuch wastes of ocean, and such scanty land?—'Tis reason's voice that bids me think not so,I think more nobly of the Almighty hand.
Does yon fair lamp trace half the circle roundTo light the waves and monsters of the seas?—No—be there must beyond the billowy wasteIslands, and men, and animals, and trees.
An unremitting flame my breast inspiresTo seek new lands amidst the barren waves,Where falling low, the source of day descends,And the blue sea his evening visage laves.
Hear, in his tragic lay,Cordova's sage:"The time shall come, when numerous years are past,The ocean shall dissolve the bonds of things,And an extended region rise at last;
"And Typhis shall disclose the mighty landFar, far away, where none have rov'd before;Nor shall the world's remotest region beGibraltar's rock, or Thule's savage shore."
Fir'd at the theme, I languish to depart,Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail;He fears no storms upon the untravell'd deep;Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.
Nor does he dread to lose the intended course,Though far from land the reeling galley stray,And skies above and gulphy seas belowBe the sole objects seen for many a day.
Think not that Nature has unveil'd in vainThe mystic magnet to the mortal eye:So late have we the guiding needle plann'dOnly to sail beneath our native sky?
Ere this wasfound, the ruling power of allFound for our use an ocean in the land,Its breadth so small we could not wander long,Nor long be absent from the neighboring strand.
Short was the course, and guided by the stars,But stars no more shall point our daring way;The Bear shall sink, and every guard be drown'd,And great Arcturus scarce escape the sea,
When southward we shall steer—O grant my wish,Supply the barque, and bid Columbus sail,He dreads no tempests on the untravell'd deep,Reason shall steer, and skill disarm the gale.
Philip Freneau.
Early in 1491 the council of Salamanca reported that the proposed enterprise was vain and impossible of execution, and Ferdinand accepted the decision. Indignant at thought of the years he had wasted, Columbus started for Paris, to lay his plan before the King of France. He was accompanied by his son, Diego, and stopped one night at the convent of La Rabida, near Palos, to ask for food and shelter. The prior, Juan Perez de Marchena, became interested in his project, detained him, and finally secured for him another audience of Isabella.
Early in 1491 the council of Salamanca reported that the proposed enterprise was vain and impossible of execution, and Ferdinand accepted the decision. Indignant at thought of the years he had wasted, Columbus started for Paris, to lay his plan before the King of France. He was accompanied by his son, Diego, and stopped one night at the convent of La Rabida, near Palos, to ask for food and shelter. The prior, Juan Perez de Marchena, became interested in his project, detained him, and finally secured for him another audience of Isabella.
COLUMBUS AT THE CONVENT
[July, 1491]