Читать книгу Poems of American History - Группа авторов - Страница 14

Death, why so cruel? What! no other way

To manifest thy spleen, but thus to slay

Our hopes of safety, liberty, our all,

Which, through thy tyranny, with him must fall

To its late chaos? Had thy rigid force

Been dealt by retail, and not thus in gross,

Grief had been silent. Now we must complain,

Since thou, in him, hast more than thousands slain, Whose lives and safeties did so much depend On him their life, with him their lives must end. If 't be a sin to think Death brib'd can be We must be guilty; say 'twas bribery Guided the fatal shaft. Virginia's foes, To whom for secret crimes just vengeance owes Deservèd plagues, dreading their just desert, Corrupted Death by Paracelsian art Him to destroy; whose well-tried courage such, Their heartless hearts, nor arms, nor strength could touch. Who now must heal those wounds, or stop that blood The Heathen made, and drew into a flood? Who is't must plead our cause? nor trump, nor drum, Nor Deputation; these, alas! are dumb And cannot speak. Our arms (though ne'er so strong) Will want the aid of his commanding tongue, Which conquer'd more than Cæsar. He o'erthrew Only the outward frame; this could subdue The rugged works of nature. Souls replete With dull chill cold, he'd animate with heat Drawn forth of reason's limbec. In a word, Mars and Minerva both in him concurred For arts, for arms, whose pen and sword alike As Cato's did, may admiration strike Into his foes; while they confess withal It was their guilt styl'd him a criminal. Only this difference does from truth proceed: They in the guilt, he in the name must bleed. While none shall dare his obsequies to sing In deserv'd measures; until time shall bring Truth crown'd with freedom, and from danger free To sound his praises to posterity. Here let him rest; while we this truth report, He's gone from hence unto a higher Court To plead his cause, where he by this doth know Whether to Cæsar he was friend or foe.

Jamestown never recovered from the blow which Bacon dealt it. The location was so unhealthy that it could not attract new settlers, and though some of the houses which had been burned were subsequently rebuilt, the town's day of greatness was past. The seat of government was removed to Williamsburg, and the old settlement dropped gradually to decay.

ODE TO JAMESTOWN

Old cradle of an infant world,

In which a nestling empire lay,

Struggling awhile, ere she unfurled

Her gallant wing and soared away;

All hail! thou birthplace of the glowing west,

Thou seem'st the towering eagle's ruined nest!

What solemn recollections throng,

What touching visions rise,

As, wandering these old stones among,

I backward turn mine eyes,

And see the shadows of the dead flit round,

Like spirits, when the last dread trump shall sound.

The wonders of an age combined

In one short moment memory supplies;

They throng upon my wakened mind,

As time's dark curtains rise.

The volume of a hundred buried years,

Condensed in one bright sheet, appears.

I hear the angry ocean rave,

I see the lonely little bark

Scudding along the crested wave,

Freighted like old Noah's ark,

As o'er the drownèd earth 'twas hurled,

With the forefathers of another world.

I see the train of exiles stand,

Amid the desert, desolate,

The fathers of my native land,

The daring pioneers of fate,

Who braved the perils of the sea and earth,

And gave a boundless empire birth.

I see the sovereign Indian range

His woodland empire, free as air;

I see the gloomy forest change,

The shadowy earth laid bare;

And where the red man chased the bounding deer,

The smiling labors of the white appear.

I see the haughty warrior gaze

In wonder or in scorn,

As the pale faces sweat to raise

Their scanty fields of corn,

While he, the monarch of the boundless wood,

By sport, or hair-brained rapine, wins his food.

A moment, and the pageant's gone;

The red men are no more;

The pale-faced strangers stand alone

Upon the river's shore;

And the proud wood-king, who their arts disdained,

Finds but a bloody grave where once he reigned.

The forest reels beneath the stroke

Of sturdy woodman's axe;

The earth receives the white man's yoke,

And pays her willing tax

Of fruits, and flowers, and golden harvest fields,

And all that nature to blithe labor yields.

Then growing hamlets rear their heads,

And gathering crowds expand,

Far as my fancy's vision spreads,

O'er many a boundless land,

Till what was once a world of savage strife

Teems with the richest gifts of social life.

Empire to empire swift succeeds,

Each happy, great, and free;

One empire still another breeds,

A giant progeny,

Destined their daring race to run,

Each to the regions of yon setting sun.

Then, as I turn my thoughts to trace

The fount whence these rich waters sprung,

I glance towards this lonely place,

And find it these rude stones among.

Here rest the sires of millions, sleeping round,

The Argonauts, the golden fleece that found.

Their names have been forgotten long;

The stone, but not a word, remains;

They cannot live in deathless song,

Nor breathe in pious strains.

Yet this sublime obscurity to me

More touching is than poet's rhapsody.

They live in millions that now breathe;

They live in millions yet unborn,

And pious gratitude shall wreathe

As bright a crown as e'er was worn,

And hang it on the green-leaved bough,

That whispers to the nameless dead below.

No one that inspiration drinks,

No one that loves his native land,

No one that reasons, feels, or thinks,

Can mid these lonely ruins stand

Without a moistened eye, a grateful tear

Of reverent gratitude to those that moulder here.

The mighty shade now hovers round,

Of him whose strange, yet bright career

Is written on this sacred ground

In letters that no time shall sere;

Who in the Old World smote the turbaned crew,

And founded Christian empires in the New.

And she! the glorious Indian maid,

The tutelary of this land,

The angel of the woodland shade,

The miracle of God's own hand,

Who joined man's heart to woman's softest grace,

And thrice redeemed the scourges of her race.

Sister of charity and love,

Whose life-blood was soft Pity's tide,

Dear goddess of the sylvan grove,

Flower of the forest, nature's pride,

He is no man who does not bend the knee,

And she no woman who is not like thee!

Jamestown, and Plymouth's hallowed rock

To me shall ever sacred be,—

I care not who my themes may mock,

Or sneer at them and me.

I envy not the brute who here can stand

Without a thrill for his own native land.

And if the recreant crawl her earth,

Or breathe Virginia's air,

Or in New England claim his birth,

From the old pilgrims there,

He is a bastard if he dare to mock

Old Jamestown's shrine or Plymouth's famous rock.

James Kirke Paulding.

In the early part of the eighteenth century, pirates did a thriving trade along the American coast. One of the most redoubtable of these was Captain Teach, better known as "Blackbeard." After a long career of variegated villainy, he was cornered in Pamlico Inlet, in 1718, and killed, together with most of his crew, by a force sent after him by Governor Spottiswood of Virginia. His death was celebrated in a ballad said to have been written by Benjamin Franklin.

THE DOWNFALL OF PIRACY

[November 22, 1718]

Will you hear of a bloody Battle,

Lately fought upon the Seas?

It will make your Ears to rattle,

And your Admiration cease;

Have you heard of Teach the Rover, And his Knavery on the Main; How of Gold he was a Lover, How he lov'd all ill-got Gain?

When the Act of Grace appeared,

Captain Teach, with all his Men, Unto Carolina steered, Where they kindly us'd him then; There he marry'd to a Lady, And gave her five hundred Pound, But to her he prov'd unsteady, For he soon march'd off the Ground.

And returned, as I tell you,

To his Robbery as before,

Burning, sinking Ships of value,

Filling them with Purple Gore;

When he was at Carolina, There the Governor did send To the Governor of Virginia, That he might assistance lend.

Then the Man-of-War's Commander,

Two small Sloops he fitted out,

Fifty Men he put on board, Sir,

Who resolv'd to stand it out;

The Lieutenant he commanded

Both the Sloops, and you shall hear

How, before he landed,

He suppress'd them without fear.

Valiant Maynard as he sailed, Soon the Pirate did espy, With his Trumpet he then hailed, And to him they did reply: Captain Teach is our Commander, Maynard said, he is the Man Whom I am resolv'd to hang, Sir, Let him do the best he can.

Teach replyed unto Maynard, You no Quarter here shall see, But be hang'd on the Mainyard, You and all your Company; Maynard said, I none desire Of such Knaves as thee and thine, None I'll give, Teach then replyed, My Boys, give me a Glass of Wine.

He took the Glass, and drank Damnation

Unto Maynard and his Crew; To himself and Generation, Then the Glass away he threw; Brave Maynard was resolv'd to have him, Tho' he'd Cannons nine or ten; Teach a broadside quickly gave him, Killing sixteen valiant Men.

Maynard boarded him, and to it They fell with Sword and Pistol too; They had Courage, and did show it, Killing of the Pirate's Crew. Teach and Maynard on the Quarter, Fought it out most manfully, Maynard's Sword did cut him shorter, Losing his head, he there did die.

Every Sailor fought while he, Sir,

Power had to wield the Sword,

Not a Coward could you see, Sir,

Fear was driven from aboard;

Wounded Men on both Sides fell, Sir,

'Twas a doleful Sight to see,

Nothing could their Courage quell, Sir,

O, they fought courageously.

When the bloody Fight was over,

We're informed by a Letter writ,

Teach's Head was made a Cover, To the Jack Staff of the Ship; Thus they sailed to Virginia, And when they the Story told, How they kill'd the Pirates many, They'd Applause from young and old.

Benjamin Franklin. (?)

On the twenty-second day of February, 1732 (February 12, O. S.), there was born in Westmoreland County, Virginia, a son to Augustine and Mary (Ball) Washington. The baby was christened George, and lived to become the most famous personage in American history.

FROM POTOMAC TO MERRIMAC

[February 11, 1732]

I. POTOMAC SIDE

Do you know how the people of all the land

Knew at last that the time was at hand

When He should be sent to give command

To armies and people, to father and son!

How the glad tidings of joy should run

Which tell of the birth of Washington?

Three women keep watch of the midnight sky

Where Potomac ripples below;

They watch till the light in the window hard by

The birth of the child shall show.

Is it peace? Is it strife?

Is it death? Is it life?

The light in the window shall show!

Weal or woe!

We shall know!

The women have builded a signal pile

For the birthday's welcome flame,

That the light may show for many a mile

To tell when the baby came!

And south and north

The word go forth

That the boy is born

On that blessèd morn;

The boy of deathless fame!

II. SIGNAL FIRES

The watchmen have waited on Capitol Hill

And they light the signal flame;

And at Baltimore Bay they waited till

The welcome tidings came;

And then across the starlit night,

At the head of Elk the joyful light

Told to the Quaker town the story

Of new-born life and coming glory!

To Trenton Ferry and Brooklyn Height

They sent the signal clear and bright,

And far away,

Before the day,

To Kaatskill and Greylock the joyful flame

And everywhere the message came,

As the signal flew

The people knew

That the man of men was born!

III. MERRIMAC SIDE, AND AGIOCHOOK

So it is, they say, that the men in the bay,

In winter's ice and snow,

See the welcome light on Wachusett Height

While the Merrimac rolls below.

The cheery fire

Rose higher and higher,

Monadnock and Carrigain catch the flame,

And on and on, and on it came,

And as men look

Far away in the north

The word goes forth,

To Agiochook.

The welcome fire

Flashed higher and higher

To our mountain ways,

And the dome, and Moat and Pequawket blaze!

So the farmers in the Intervale

See the light that shall never fail,

The beacon light which shines to tell

To all the world to say

That the boy has been born

On that winter's morn

By Potomac far away.

Whose great command

Shall bless that land

Whom the land shall bless

In joy and distress

Forever and a day!

Edward Everett Hale.