Many a captain is fallen and drowned, And many a knight is dead, And many die in the misty dawn The blood ran off our spears all night They came to rob us of our own With sword and spear and lance, They fell and clutched the stubborn earth, We fought across the moonless dark Sixty forts around Orleans town, Sixty forts at our gates last night To-day there is not one! A. Mary F. Robinson [1857 COLUMBUS [JANUARY, 1487] ST. STEPHEN'S cloistered hall was proud In learning's pomp that day, Pressed on in long array. A mariner with simple chart Confronts that conclave high, While strong ambition stirs his heart, What hath he said? With frowning face, In whispered tones they speak, And bursting forth in visioned gloom, Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time Bold streams untamed by helm or prow, Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need! That rack the noble soul. And wrapped in fallen Cæsar's robe, All glorious, yet forlorn. Lydia Huntly Sigourney [1791-1865] COLUMBUS [AUGUST 3-OCTOBER 12, 1492] BEHIND him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now must we pray, "My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?” "Why, you shall say at break of day, 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"" They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now. speak, brave Admiral, speak and say”— He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!" They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. He curls his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Admiral, say but one good word: Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. He gained a world; he gave that world Joaquin Miller [1841-1913] A LAMENT FOR FLODDEN [SEPTEMBER 9, 1513] I'VE heard them lilting at our ewe-milking, But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning: At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning, Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing, In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering, At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming But ilk ane sits eerie, lamenting her dearie The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away. Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, We'll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking; Jane Elliot [1727-1805] 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 was cast Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed; Three days or more seaward he bore, Alas! the land-wind failed, And ice-cold grew the night; He sat upon the deck, The Book was in his hand; In the first watch of the night, 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. |