Poems of American History

by Unknown

CHAPTER II

IN THE WAKE OF COLUMBUS

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

THE FIRST VOYAGE OF JOHN CABOT

[1497]

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

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

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

THE LEGEND OF WAUKULLA

[1513]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hezekiah Butterworth.

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

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

A DREAM OF PONCE DE LEON

[1513]

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

Hezekiah Butterworth.

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

PONCE DE LEON

[1521]

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

Edith M. Thomas.

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

BALBOA

[September 25, 1513]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nora Perry.

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

WITH CORTEZ IN MEXICO

[1519]

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

W. W. Campbell.

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

THE LUST OF GOLD

From "The West Indies"

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

James Montgomery.

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

VERAZZANO

AT RHODES AND RHODE ISLAND

[1524]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hezekiah Butterworth.

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

ORTIZ

[1528]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hezekiah Butterworth.

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

THE FALL OF MAUBILA

[October 18, 1540]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thomas Dunn English.

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

QUIVÍRA

[1540-1541]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arthur Guiterman.

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

NOREMBEGA

[c. 1543]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John Greenleaf Whittier.

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

SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT

[1583]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

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

THE FIRST AMERICAN SAILORS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wallace Rice.

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