There the moccasin of Winginia
Had left its picture in the sand.
In the heart of the sheltered island
Lay the speechless lips of his people.
No more will the shout of the Croatans
Rock the somber leaves of the cedars.
Only Manteo is left as an echo
Of all their greatness and glory.”
No moan from the colonists answered the lament of Manteo. They had drunk to the dregs of the cup of sorrow. Eyes in which the light of hope had been frozen into stony despair gazed out upon the eastern horizon, but no sail broke the blank expanse of water.