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[August 27, 1587]
The home-bound ship stood out to sea,
And on the island's marge,
Sir Richard waited restlessly
To step into the barge.
"The Governor tarrieth long," he chode,
"As he were loth to go:
With food before, and want behind,
There should be haste, I trow."
Even as he spake, the Governor came:—
"Nay, fret not, for the men
Have held me back with frantic let,
To have them home again.
"The women weep;—'Ay, ay, the ship
Will come again' (he saith),
'Before the May;—Before the May
We shall have starved to death!'
"I've sworn return by God's dear leave,
I've vowed by court and crown,
Nor yet appeased them. Comrade, thou,
Mayhap, canst soothe them down."
Sir Richard loosed his helm, and stretched
Impatient hands abroad:—
"Have ye no trust in man?" he cried,
"Have ye no faith in God?
"Your Governor goes, as needs he must,
To bear through royal grace,
Hither, such food-supply, that want
May never blench a face.
"Of freest choice ye willed to leave
What so ye had of ease;
For neither stress of liege nor law
Hath forced you over seas.
"Your Governor leaves fair hostages
As costliest pledge of care,—
His daughter yonder, and her child,
The child Virginia Dare!
"Come hither, little sweetheart! Lo!
Thou'lt be the first, I ween,
To bend the knee, and send through me
Thy birthland's virgin fealty
Unto its Virgin Queen.
"And now, good folk, for my commands:
If ye are fain to roam
Beyond this island's narrow bounds,
To seek elsewhere a home,—
"Upon some pine-tree's smoothen trunk
Score deep the Indian name
Of tribe or village where ye haunt,
That we may read the same.
"And if ye leave your haven here
Through dire distress or loss,
Cut deep within the wood above
The symbol of the cross.
"And now on my good blade, I swear,
And seal it with this sign,
That if the fleet that sails to-day
Return not hither by the May,
The fault shall not be mine!"
II
[August 15, 1590]
The breath of spring was on the sea;
Anon the Governor stepped
His good ship's deck right merrily,—
His promise had been kept.
"See, see! the coast-line comes in view!"
He heard the mariners shout,—
"We'll drop our anchors in the Sound
Before a star is out!"
"Now God be praised!" he inly breathed,
"Who saves from all that harms;
The morrow morn my pretty ones
Will rest within my arms."
At dawn of day they moored their ship,
And dared the breakers' roar:
What meant it? not a man was there
To welcome them ashore!
They sprang to find the cabins rude;
The quick green sedge had thrown
Its knotted web o'er every door,
And climbed the chimney-stone.
The spring was choked with winter's leaves,
And feebly gurgled on;
And from the pathway, strewn with wrack,
All trace of feet was gone.
Their fingers thrid the matted grass,
If there, perchance, a mound
Unseen might heave the broken turf;
But not a grave was found.
They beat the tangled cypress swamp,
If haply in despair
They might have strayed into its glade:
But found no vestige there.
"The pine! the pine!" the Governor groaned;
And there each staring man
Read in a maze, one single word,
Deep carven,—Cro-a-tàn!
But cut above, no cross, no sign,
No symbol of distress;
Naught else beside that mystic line
Within the wilderness!
And where and what was "Cro-a-tàn"?
But not an answer came;
And none of all who read it there
Had ever heard the name.
The Governor drew his jerkin sleeve
Across his misty eyes;
"Some land, maybe, of savagery
Beyond the coast that lies;
"And skulking there the wily foe
In ambush may have lain:
God's mercy! Could such sweetest heads
Lie scalped among the slain?
"O daughter! daughter! with the thought
My harrowed brain is wild!
Up with the anchors! I must find
The mother and the child!"
They scoured the mainland near and far:
The search no tidings brought;
Till mid a forest's dusky tribe
They heard the name they sought.
The kindly natives came with gifts
Of corn and slaughtered deer;
What room for savage treachery
Or foul suspicion here?
Unhindered of a chief or brave,
They searched the wigwam through;
But neither lance nor helm nor spear,
Nor shred of child's nor woman's gear,
Could furnish forth a clue.
How could a hundred souls be caught
Straight out of life, nor find
Device through which to mark their fate,
Or leave some hint behind?
Had winter's ocean inland rolled
An eagre's deadly spray,
That overwhelmed the island's breadth
And swept them all away?
In vain, in vain, their heart-sick search!
No tidings reached them more;
No record save that silent word
Upon that silent shore.
The mystery rests a mystery still,
Unsolved of mortal man:
Sphinx-like untold, the ages hold
The tale of Cro-a-tàn!
Margaret Junkin Preston.
In April, 1606, James I sanctioned the formation of two Virginia colonies, and the first colony set sail on the following New Year's day—three vessels, with one hundred and five men, under command of Christopher Newport. Twelve weeks later, they landed at a place they named "Point Comfort," and proceeded up a great river which they named the King's and afterwards the James. On May 13, 1607, the colonists landed on a low peninsula fifty miles up the river, and Captain Newport selected this, against many protests, as the site for the settlement. They christened the place Jamestown. Captains Newport, Gosnold, Smith, and Sickelmore were named as the resident council for the colony, but time soon proved Smith the ablest man in the company, and the leadership fell to him.
JOHN SMITH'S APPROACH TO JAMESTOWN
[May 13, 1607]
I pause not now to speak of Raleigh's dreams,
Though they might give a loftier bard fit themes:
I pause not now to tell of Ocracock,
Where Saxon spray broke on the red-brown rock;
Nor of my native river which glides down
Through scenes where rose a happy Indian town;
But, leaving these and Chesapeake's broad bay,
Resume my story in the month of May,
Where England's cross—St. George's ensign—flowed
Where ne'er before emblazoned banner glowed;
Where English breasts throbbed fast as English eyes
Looked o'er the waters with a glad surprise,—
Looked gladly out upon the varied scene
Where stretched the woods in all their pomp of green;
Flinging great shadows, beautiful and vast
As e'er upon Arcadian lake were cast.
Turn where they would, in what direction rove,
They found some bay, or wild, romantic cove,
On which they coasted through those forests dim,
Wherein they heard the never-ceasing hymn
That swelled from all the tall, majestic pines,—
Fit choristers of Nature's sylvan shrines.
For though no priest their solitudes had trod,
The trees were vocal in their praise of God.
And then, when, capes and jutting headlands past,
The sails were furled against each idle mast,
They saw the sunset in its pomp descend,
And sky and water gloriously contend
For gorgeousness of colors, red and gold,
And tints of amethyst together rolled,
Making a scene of splendor and of rest
As vanquished day lit camp-fires in the West.
And when the light grew faint on wave and strand,
New beauties woke in this enchanted land,
For through heaven's lattice-work of crimson bars
Like angels looked the bright eternal stars,
And then, when gathered tints of purplish brown,
A golden sickle, reaping darkness down,
The new moon shone above the lofty trees,
Which made low music in the evening breeze,—
The breeze which floating blandly from the shore
The perfumed breath of flowering jasmine bore;
For smiling Spring had kissed its clustering vines,
And breathed her fragrance on the lofty pines.
James Barron Hope.
Captain Smith proved himself an energetic and effective leader, and led numerous expeditions into the country in search of food. On one of these, in December, 1607, he was taken prisoner and was conducted to the camp of Powhatan, over-king of the tribes from the Atlantic coast to the "falls of the river." According to the story he sent to England a few months later, he was well treated, and was sent back to Jamestown with an escort. Eight years afterwards, when writing an account of Powhatan's younger daughter, Pocahontas, who was then in England, for the entertainment of Queen Anne, he embellished this plain and probably truthful tale with the romantic incidents so long received as history.
POCAHONTAS
[January 5, 1608]
Wearied arm and broken sword
Wage in vain the desperate fight;
Round him press a countless horde,
He is but a single knight.
Hark! a cry of triumph shrill
Through the wilderness resounds,
As, with twenty bleeding wounds,
Sinks the warrior, fighting still.
Now they heap the funeral pyre,
And the torch of death they light;
Ah! 'tis hard to die by fire!
Who will shield the captive knight?
Round the stake with fiendish cry
Wheel and dance the savage crowd,
Cold the victim's mien and proud,
And his breast is bared to die.
Who will shield the fearless heart?
Who avert the murderous blade?
From the throng with sudden start
See, there springs an Indian maid.
Quick she stands before the knight:
"Loose the chain, unbind the ring!
I am daughter of the king,
And I claim the Indian right!"
Dauntlessly aside she flings
Lifted axe and thirsty knife,
Fondly to his heart she clings,
And her bosom guards his life!
In the woods of Powhatan,
Still 'tis told by Indian fires
How a daughter of their sires
Saved a captive Englishman.
William Makepeace Thackeray.
The way in which the Pocahontas incident has been handled by the poets is an interesting and joyous study. These stanzas of Morris's are too delicious to be omitted.
POCAHONTAS
Upon the barren sand
A single captive stood;
Around him came, with bow and brand,
The red men of the wood.
Like him of old, his doom he hears,
Rock-bound on ocean's brim—
The chieftain's daughter knelt in tears,
And breathed a prayer for him.
Above his head in air
The savage war-club swung:
The frantic girl, in wild despair,
Her arms about him flung.
Then shook the warriors of the shade,
Like leaves on aspen limb,
Subdued by that heroic maid
Who breathed a prayer for him!
"Unbind him!" gasped the chief:
"It is your king's decree!"
He kiss'd away the tears of grief,
And set the captive free!
'Tis ever thus, when in life's storm
Hope's star to man grows dim,
An angel kneels, in woman's form,
And breathes a prayer for him.
George Pope Morris.
The colony did not flourish as had been hoped, and in May, 1609, the King granted a new charter with larger powers and privileges, and a new company was formed, of which Sir Thomas Gates, Lord De La Warr, and Sir George Somers were made the officers. A large expedition sailed from England June 2, 1609, in charge of Gates, Somers, and Captain Newport, who were on the Sea Venture. During a violent hurricane, their ship was separated from the rest of the fleet and cast ashore upon the Bermudas, whose beauties were so eloquently sung by Andrew Marvell.
BERMUDAS
Where the remote Bermudas ride
In the ocean's bosom unespied,
From a small boat, that rowed along,
The listening winds received this song:
"What should we do but sing His praise,
That led us through the watery maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs,
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelates' rage.
He gave us this eternal Spring
Which here enamels every thing,
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air;
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows;
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars chosen by His hand
From Lebanon He stores the land,
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergris on shore;
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel's pearl upon our coast,
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound His name.
Oh! let our voice His praise exalt, Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, Which thence (perhaps) rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique Bay."
Thus sung they, in the English boat,
A holy and a cheerful note:
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.
Andrew Marvell.
The passengers and crew of the Sea Venture managed to get to land, and finally built two pinnaces, in which they reached Virginia May 24, 1610. They found the colonists in a desolate and miserable condition, and only the timely arrival of Lord De La Warr in the following month (June 9, 1610), with fresh supplies and colonists, prevented them from burning the town and sailing back to England. Among the passengers on the Sea Venture was one Richard Rich. He shared in all the adventures and hardships of the voyage, and finally got back to England in the fall of 1610. On October 1 he published an account of the voyage, called "Newes from Virginia," the first poem written by a visitor to America.
NEWES FROM VIRGINIA
[September, 1610]
It is no idle fabulous tale, nor is it fayned newes:
For Truth herself is heere arriv'd, because you should not muse.
With her both Gates and Newport come, to tell Report doth lye, Which did divulge unto the world, that they at sea did dye.
Tis true that eleaven months and more, these gallant worthy wights War in the shippe Sea-venture nam'd depriv'd Virginia's sight. And bravely did they glyde the maine, till Neptune gan to frowne, As if a courser proudly backt would throwe his ryder downe.
The seas did rage, the windes did blowe, distressèd were they then;
Their ship did leake, her tacklings breake, in daunger were her men.
But heaven was pylotte in this storme, and to an iland nere,
Bermoothawes call'd, conducted then, which did abate their feare.
But yet these worthies forcèd were, opprest with weather againe,
To runne their ship betweene two rockes, where she doth still remaine.
And then on shoare the iland came, inhabited by hogges, Some foule and tortoyses there were, they only had one dogge.
To kill these swyne, to yeild them foode that little had to eate,
Their store was spent, and all things scant, alas! they wanted meate.
A thousand hogges that dogge did kill, their hunger to sustaine,
And with such foode did in that ile two and forty weekes remaine.
And there two gallant pynases did build of seader-tree;
The brave Deliverance one was call'd; of seaventy tonne was shee.
The other Patience had to name, her burthen thirty tonne;
Two only of their men which there pale death did overcome.
And for the losse of these two soules, which were accounted deere,
A son and daughter then was borne, and were baptizèd there. The two and forty weekes being past, they hoyst sayle and away; Their ships with hogges well freighted were, their harts with mickle joy.
And so unto Virginia came, where these brave soldiers finde
The English-men opprest with greife and discontent in minde.
They seem'd distracted and forlorne, for those two worthyes losse,
Yet at their home returne they joy'd, among'st them some were crosse.
And in the mid'st of discontent came noble Delaware;
He heard the greifes on either part, and sett them free from care.
He comforts them and cheeres their hearts, that they abound with joy;
He feedes them full and feedes their souls with Gods word every day.
A discreet counsell he creates of men of worthy fame,
That noble Gates leiftenant was the admirall had to name.
The worthy Sir George Somers knight, and others of commaund;
Maister Georg Pearcy, which is brother unto Northumberland.
Sir Fardinando Wayneman Knight, and others of good fame,
That noble lord his company, which to Virginia came,
And landed there; his number was one hundred seaventy; then
Ad to the rest, and they make full foure hundred able men.
Where they unto their labour fall, as men that meane to thrive;
Let's pray that heaven may blesse them all, and keep them long alive.
Those men that vagrants liv'd with us, have there deserved well;
Their governour writes in their praise, as divers letters tel.
And to th' adventurers thus he writes be not dismayed at all,
For scandall cannot doe us wrong, God will not let us fall.
Let England knowe our willingnesse, for that our worke is goode;
Wee hope to plant a nation, where none before hath stood.
To glorifie the lord tis done; and to no other end;
He that would crosse so good a work, to God can be no friend.
There is no feare of hunger here for corne much store here growes,
Much fish the gallant rivers yeild, tis truth without suppose.
Great store of fowle, of venison, of grapes and mulberries,
Of chestnuts, walnuts, and such like, of fruits and strawberries,
There is indeed no want at all, but some, condiciond ill,
That wish the worke should not goe on with words doe seeme to kill.
And for an instance of their store, the noble Delaware
Hath for the present hither sent, to testify his care
In mannaging so good a worke, to gallant ships, by name,
The Blessing and the Hercules, well fraught, and in the same
Two ships, as these commodities, furres, sturgeon, caviare,
Black walnut-tree, and some deale boards, with such they laden are;
Some pearle, some wainscot and clapboards, with some sassafras wood,
And iron promist, for tis true their mynes are very good.
Then maugre scandall, false report, or any opposition,
Th' adventurers doe thus devulge to men of good condition,
That he that wants shall have reliefe, be he of honest minde,
Apparel, coyne, or any thing, to such they will be kinde.
To such as to Virginia do purpose to repaire;
And when that they shall hither come, each man shall have his share.
Day wages for the laborer, and for his more content,
A house and garden plot shall have; besides, tis further ment
That every man shall have a part, and not thereof denaid,
Of generall profit, as if that he twelve pounds ten shillings paid;
And he that in Virginia shall copper coyne receive,
For hyer or commodities, and will the country leave
Upon delivery of such coyne unto the Governour,
Shall by exchange at his returne be by their treasurer
Paid him in London at first sight, no man shall cause to grieve,
For tis their generall will and wish that every man should live.
The number of adventurers, that are for this plantation,
Are full eight hundred worthy men, some noble, all of fashion.
Good, discreete, their worke is good, and as they have begun,
May Heaven assist them in their worke, and thus our newes is done.
Richard Rich.
Lord Delaware's stay in Virginia marked the turning-point in the fortunes of the colony. New settlements were made, tobacco culture was begun, and Virginia seemed at last fairly started on the road to prosperity.
TO THE VIRGINIAN VOYAGE
[1611]
You brave heroic minds,
Worthy your country's name,
That honor still pursue,
Go and subdue,
Whilst loitering hinds
Lurk here at home, with shame.
Britons, you stay too long:
Quickly aboard bestow you,
And with a merry gale
Swell your stretch'd sail,
With vows as strong
As the winds that blow you.
Your course securely steer,
West and by south forth keep!
Rocks, lee-shores, nor shoals,
When Eolus scowls,
You need not fear,
So absolute the deep.
And cheerfully at sea,
Success you still entice,
To get the pearl and gold,
And ours to hold
Virginia,
Earth's only paradise.
Where nature hath in store
Fowl, venison, and fish,
And the fruitful'st soil,
Without your toil,
Three harvests more,
All greater than your wish.
And the ambitious vine
Crowns with his purple mass
The cedar reaching high
To kiss the sky,
The cypress, pine,
And useful sassafras.
To whom the Golden Age
Still nature's laws doth give,
No other cares attend,
But them to defend
From winter's rage,
That long there doth not live.
When as the luscious smell
Of that delicious land,
Above the seas that flows,
The clear wind throws,
Your hearts to swell
Approaching the dear strand;
In kenning of the shore
(Thanks to God first given)
O you the happiest men,
Be frolic then!
Let cannons roar,
Frighting the wide heaven;
And in regions far
Such heroes bring ye forth
As those from whom we came,
And plant our name
Under that star
Not known unto our North;
And as there plenty grows
Of laurel everywhere,—
Apollo's sacred tree,—
You it may see,
A poet's brows
To crown, that may sing there.
Thy Voyages attend Industrious Hackluit, Whose reading shall inflame Men to seek fame, And much commend To after-times thy wit.
Michael Drayton.
Among the planters at Jamestown was John Rolfe, a zealous Christian, who became interested in Pocahontas. Finally, either captivated by her grace and beauty as the romancists believe, or in spite of personal scruples and "for the good of the colony," as Hamor wrote, he proposed marriage. The Princess was willing, her father consented, though he refused to be present at the ceremony (April 5, 1614), and the bride was given away by her uncle Opachisco. They had one son, Thomas Rolfe, whose descendants are still living in Virginia.
THE MARRIAGE OF POCAHONTAS
[April 5, 1614]
That balmy eve, within a trellised bower,
Rudely constructed on the sounding shore,
Her plighted troth the forest maiden gave
Ere sought the skiff that bore them o'er the wave
To the dark home-bound ship, whose restless sway
Rocked to the winds and waves, impatient of delay.
* * * * *
Short was the word that pledged triumphant love;
That vow, that claims its registry above.
And low the cadence of that hymn of praise
Whose hallowed incense rose, as rose its lays;
And few the worshippers 'neath that pure cope
Which emblems to the soul eternal hope.
One native maiden waited the command
Of the young Princess of Virginia's strand;
And that dark youth, the Page of Cedar Isle,
Who wept her woes, and shared her sad exile,
With his loved bride, who owned the royal blood,
And near the forest Queen majestically stood.
Some others bent beside the rural shrine
In adoration to the Power divine;
When at the altar knelt, with minds serene,
The gallant Soldier and the dark-browed Queen.
These, for the love they bore her guileless youth,
Paid the high fealty of the warm heart's truth;
And with its homage satisfied, gone o'er
Each vision bright that graced their natal shore.
Those, with forebodings dread and brimful eyes,
Bade holy angels guard the destinies
Of one on whom had fallen the chrism of light
With unction pure; the youthful neophyte
Of that fair clime where millions yet unborn
Shall raise the choral hymn from eve till morn.
Mrs. M. M. Webster.
In 1616 Pocahontas was taken to England, where she was received with marked attention by the Queen and court. She renewed her acquaintance with Captain John Smith, who was busy weaving fairy tales about her, had her portrait painted and led a fashionable life generally. It did not agree with her, she developed consumption, and died at Gravesend, March 27, 1617.
THE LAST MEETING OF POCAHONTAS AND THE GREAT CAPTAIN
[June, 1616]
In a stately hall at Brentford, when the English June was green,
Sat the Indian Princess, summoned that her graces might be seen,
For the rumor of her beauty filled the ear of court and Queen.
There for audience as she waited, with half-scornful, silent air
All undazzled by the splendor gleaming round her everywhere,
Dight in broidered hose and doublet, came a courtier down the stair.
As with striding step he hasted, burdened with the Queen's command,
Loud he cried, in tones that tingled, "Welcome, welcome, to my land!" But a tremor seized the Princess, and she drooped upon her hand.
"What! no word, my Sparkling-Water? must I come on bended knee? I were slain within the forest, I were dead beyond the sea; On the banks of wild Pamunkey, I had perished but for thee.
"Ah, I keep a heart right loyal, that can never more forget!
I can hear the rush, the breathing; I can see the eyelids wet;
I can feel the sudden tightening of thine arms about me yet.
"Nay, look up. Thy father's daughter never feared the face of man,
Shrank not from the forest darkness when her doe-like footsteps ran
To my cabin, bringing tidings of the craft of Powhatan."
With extended arms, entreating, stood the stalwart Captain there,
While the courtiers press around her, and the passing pages stare;
But no sign gave Pocahontas underneath her veil of hair.
All her lithe and willowy figure quivered like an aspen-leaf,
And she crouched as if she shrivelled, frost-touched by some sudden grief,
Turning only on her husband, Rolfe, one glance, sharp, searching, brief.
At the Captain's haughty gesture, back the curious courtiers fell,
And with soothest word and accent he besought that she would tell
Why she turned away, nor greeted him whom she had served so well.
But for two long hours the Princess dumbly sate and bowed her head,
Moveless as the statue near her. When at last she spake, she said:
"White man's tongue is false. It told me—told me—that my brave was dead.
"And I lay upon my deer-skins all one moon of falling leaves
(Who hath care for song or corn-dance, when the voice within her grieves?),
Looking westward where the souls go, up the path the sunset weaves.
"Call me 'child' now. It is over. On my husband's arm I lean;
Never shadow, Nenemoosa, our twain hearts shall come between; Take my hand, and let us follow the great Captain to his Queen."
Margaret Junkin Preston.
In 1676 the colony was shaken by a struggle which presaged that other one which was to occur just a century later. An Indian war had broken out along the frontier, but Governor Berkeley disbanded the forces gathered to repress it. Whereupon a young man named Nathaniel Bacon gathered a force of his own, marched against the Indians, and was proclaimed a rebel and traitor by the royal governor, who had collected at Jamestown a force of nearly a thousand men. Bacon, after a campaign in which the hostile Indians were practically wiped out of existence, marched back to Jamestown and besieged the place. After a sally in which he was repulsed, Berkeley sailed away and left the town to its fate. Bacon entered it next morning (September 19, 1676), and, deciding that he could not hold it, set fire to it that evening. It was totally destroyed.
THE BURNING OF JAMESTOWN
[September 19, 1676]
Mad Berkeley believed, with his gay cavaliers,
And the ruffians he brought from the Accomac shore,
He could ruffle our spirit by rousing our fears,
And lord it again as he lorded before:
It was—"Traitors, be dumb!"
And—"Surrender, ye scum!"
And that Bacon, our leader, was rebel, he swore.
A rebel? Not he! He was true to the throne;
For the King, at a word, he would lay down his life;
But to listen unmoved to the piteous moan
When the redskin was plying the hatchet and knife,
And shrink from the fray,
Was not the man's way—
It was Berkeley, not Bacon, who stirred up the strife.
On the outer plantations the savages burst,
And scattered around desolation and woe;
And Berkeley, possessed by some spirit accurst,
Forbade us to deal for our kinsfolk a blow;
Though when, weapons in hand,
We made our demand,
He sullenly suffered our forces to go.
Then while we were doing our work for the crown,
And risking our lives in the perilous fight,
He sent lying messengers out, up and down,
To denounce us as outlaws—mere malice and spite;
Then from Accomac's shore
Brought a thousand or more,
Who swaggered the country around, day and night.
Returning in triumph, instead of reward
For the marches we made and the battles we won,
There were threats of the fetters or bullet or sword—
Were these a fair guerdon for what we had done?
When this madman abhorred
Appealed to the sword,
And our leader said "fight!" did he think we would run?
Battle-scarred, and a handful of men as we were,
We feared not to combat with lord or with lown,
So we took the old wretch at his word—that was fair;
But he dared not come out from his hold in the town
Where he lay with his men,
Like a wolf in his den;
And in siege of the place we sat steadily down.
He made a fierce sally,—his force was so strong
He thought the mere numbers would put us to flight,—
But we met in close column his ruffianly throng,
And smote it so sore that we filled him with fright;
Then while ready we lay
For the storming next day,
He embarked in his ships, and escaped in the night.
The place was our own; could we hold it? why, no!
Not if Berkeley should gather more force and return;
But one course was left us to baffle the foe—
The birds would not come if the nest we should burn;
So the red, crackling fire
Climbed to roof-top and spire,
A lesson for black-hearted Berkeley to learn.
That our torches destroyed what our fathers had raised
On that beautiful isle, is it matter of blame?
That the houses we dwelt in, the church where they praised
The God of our Fathers, we gave to the flame?
That we smiled when there lay
Smoking ruins next day,
And nothing was left of the town but its name?
We won; but we lost when brave Nicholas died;
The spirit that nerved us was gone from us then;
And Berkeley came back in his arrogant pride
To give to the gallows the best of our men;
But while the grass grows
And the clear water flows,
The town shall not rise from its ashes again.
So, you come for your victim! I'm ready; but, pray,
Ere I go, some good fellow a full goblet bring.
Thanks, comrade! Now hear the last words I shall say
With the last drink I take. Here's a health to the King,
Who reigns o'er a land
Where, against his command,
The rogues rule and ruin, while honest men swing.
Thomas Dunn English.
Jamestown soon avenged itself. Before Bacon left the place he was ill with fever, and on the first day of October, at the house of a friend in Gloucester County, he "surrendered up that fort he was no longer able to keep, into the hands of the grim and all-conquering Captain, Death." His death was celebrated in a poem which is perhaps the most brilliant example of sustained poetic art produced in Colonial America. It was written "by his man," of whom absolutely nothing is known.
BACON'S EPITAPH, MADE BY HIS MAN
[October 1, 1676]
