Many a captain is fallen and drowned,

And many a knight is dead,

And many die in the misty dawn
While forts are burning red.

The blood ran off our spears all night
As the rain runs off the roofs-
God rest their souls that fell i̇' the fight
Among our horses' hoofs!

They came to rob us of our own

With sword and spear and lance,

They fell and clutched the stubborn earth,
And bit the dust of France!

We fought across the moonless dark
Against their unseen hands-
A knight came out of Paradise
And fought among our bands.
Fight on, O maiden knight of God,
Fight on and do not tire-
For lo! the misty break o' the day
Sees all their forts on fire!

Sixty forts around Orleans town,
And sixty forts of stone!

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,
For there a robed and stately crowd

Pressed on in long array.

A mariner with simple chart

Confronts that conclave high,

While strong ambition stirs his heart,
And burning thoughts of wonder part
From lip and sparkling eye.

What hath he said? With frowning face,

In whispered tones they speak,
And lines upon their tablets trace,
Which flush each ashen cheek;
The Inquisition's mystic doom
Sits on their brows severe,

And bursting forth in visioned gloom,
Sad heresy from burning tomb
Groans on the startled ear.

Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time
Thy splendid dream shall crown;
Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,
Where unshorn forests frown,
The awful Andes' cloud-wrapped brow,
The Indian hunter's bow,

Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,
And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou
To thankless Spain shalt show.

Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!
In Fate's unfolding scroll,
Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read,

That rack the noble soul.
On! on! Creation's secrets probe,
Then drink thy cup of scorn,

And wrapped in fallen Cæsar's robe,
Sleep like that master of the globe,

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 not the ghost of shores,

Before him only shoreless seas.

The good mate said: "Now must we pray,
For lo! the very stars are gone.
Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?"
"Why, say 'Sail on! sail on! and on!""

"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,
Until at last the blanched mate said:
"Why, now not even God would know
Should I and all my men fall dead.

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:
What shall we do when hope is gone?"
The words leapt like a leaping sword:
"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,
And peered through darkness. Ah, that night
Of all dark nights! And then a speck-
A light! a light! a light! a light!

It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn.

He gained a world; he gave that world
Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"

Joaquin Miller [1841-1913]

A LAMENT FOR FLODDEN

[SEPTEMBER 9, 1513]

I'VE heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a-lilting before dawn o' day;

But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning:
"The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away."

At buchts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning,
Lasses are lanely and dowie and wae;

Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglen and hies her away.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
The bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray:
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae swankies are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;

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 English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime o' our land, lie cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning:
"The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away."

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
Leaden shadows o'er the main.

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.