THREE NAMES.
Reading edition
Virginia in her proud, Colonial days Boasts three great names which full of glory shine; Two glitter like the burnished heads of spears, the third in tender light is half divine. Turning that page my eager fancy hears Trumpets and drums, and fleet on fleet appears.
Those names are graven deep and broad, to last And outlast Ages: while recording Time Hands down their story, worth an Epic Rhyme To light her future by her splendid past: One planned the Saxon's Empire o'er these lands,— The other planted it with valiant hands— The third, with Mercy's soft, celestial beams, Lights fair romances, histories and dreams.
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
Whether in velvet white, slashed, and be-pearled, And rich in knots of clustering gems a-glow: Or, in his rusted armor, he unfurled St. George's Cross by Oronoko's flow; He was a man to note right well as one Who shot his arrows straightway at the sun.
Dark was his hair, his beard all crisp and curled. And narrow-lidded were his piercing eyes, Anhungered in their glances for a world That he might win by daring enterprise,— Explorer, soldier, scholar, poet, he Not only wrote but acted historie!— And that great Captain, of our Saxon stock, Took his last slumber on the ghastly block!
CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH.
A yeoman born, with patrimony small, He held the world at large as his estate; Found fit advices in the bugle's call And took his part in iron-tongued debate Where'er one sword another sword blade notched; Ne'er was he slain, though often he was scotched, Now down, now up, but always fronting fate.
At last a figure resolute, and grand In arms he leaped upon Virginia's strand; Fitted in many schools his course to steer He knew the ax, the musketoon, and brand, How to obey, and better to command; First of his line he stood—a planted spear The New World saw the English Pioneer!
POCAHONTAS.
Her story, sure, was fashioned out above, Ere 't was enacted on the scene below! For 't was a very miracle of love When from the savage hawk's nest came the dove With wings of peace to stay the ordered blow— The hawk's plumes bloody, but the dove's as snow!
And here my heart oppressed by pleasant tears Yields to a young girl's half angelic spell— Yes, for that maiden like a Saint appears; She needs no fresco, stone, nor shrine to tell Her story to the people of this Land— Saint of the Wilderness, enthroned amid The wooded Minster where the Pagan hid!