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The worthy Sir George Somers knight, and others of com

maund; Maister George Pearcy, which is brother unto Northumber


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

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 worke, to God can be no friend.
There is no feare of hunger here for corne much store here

growes, Much fish the gallant rivers yield, 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 testifie his care
In managing so good a worke, to gallant ships, by name
The Blessing and the Hercules, well fraught, and in the same

Two ships, are these commodities, furres, sturgeon, caviare, Blacke walnut-tree, and some deale boords, with such they

laden are; Some pearle, some wainscot and clapbords, with some sassa

fras 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.



("While the authorship of this beautiful poem has been credited to General Pike, it has also been denied that he wrote it, and he himself is said to have stated that the honor did not belong to him but to a young lady, whose name has never been mentioned, to the knowledge of the editor of this volume." ("General Albert Pike's Poems, Fred W. Allsopp, Publisher: Little Rock, Arkansas, 1900, page 87). The poem first appeared in a short-lived paper published before the War, in Little Rock.]

Where the rocks are gray, and the shore is steep,
And the waters below look dark and deep;
Where the rugged pine in its lonely pride
Leans gloomily over the murky tide;
Where the reeds and rushes are long and lank,
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank;
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,
There lies at its moorings the old canoe.

The useless paddles are idly dropped,
Like a sea-bird's wing that the storm has lopped,
And crossed on the railing one o'er one,
Like the folded hands when the work is done;
While busily back and forth between
The spider stretches his silvery screen,
And the solemn owl, with its dull tu-whoo,
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.

The stern half sunk in the slimy wave
Rots slowly away in its living grave,
And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay,
Hiding its mouldering dust away,
Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower,
Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower;
While many a blossom of loveliest hue
Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe.

The currentless waters are dead and still,
The twilight-wind plays with the boat at will,
And lazily in and out again
It floats the length of its rusty chain;
Like the weary march of the hands of Time
That meet and part at the noontide chime,

As the shore is kissed at each turn anew,
By the dripping bow of the old canoe.
Oh, many a time, with careless hand,
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand !
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick,
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies thick.
And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side,
And looked below in the broken tide,
To see that the faces and boats were two
That were mirrored back from the old canoe.

But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side
And look below in the sluggish tide,
The face that I see there is graver grown,
And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone,
And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings
Have grown familiar with sterner things.
But I love to think of the hours that sped
As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed,
Ere the blossom waved or the green grass grew
O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe.


By ST. GEORGE TUCKER [The author of these lines was born on the island of Bermuda, July 10, 1752, and died in Nelson County, Virginia, November 10, 1828. The poem was a favorite with John Adams and may be found in nearly all anthologies of American verse.]

Days of my youth,

Ye have glided away;
Hairs of my youth,

Ye are frosted and gray;
Eyes of my youth,

Your keen sight is no more;
Cheeks of my youth,

Ye are furrowed all o'er;
Strength of my youth,

All your vigor is gone;
Thoughts of my youth,

Your gay visions are flown.

Days of my youth,

I wish not your recall;
Hairs of my youth,

I'm content ye should fall;
Eyes of my youth,

You much evil have seen;
Cheeks of my youth,

Bathed in tears have you been;
Thoughts of my youth,

You have led me astray;
Strength of my youth,

Why lament your decay?

Days of my age,

Ye will shortly be past;
Pains of my age,

Yet awhile can ye last;
Joys of my age,

In true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age,

Be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age,

Dread ye not the cold sod;
Hopes of my age,

Be ye fixed on your God.


[This poem was written in Lynchburg, Virginia, May 18, 1861, and signed H. M. L. It has been frequently republished but the name of the author remains unknown.]

I give my soldier boy a blade,

In fair Damascus fashioned well ;
Who first the glittering falchion swayed,

Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not: but I hope to know

That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling, base or low,

I give my soldier boy a blade.

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