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| IN the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims, | |
| To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling, | |
| Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather, | |
| Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain. | |
| Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing | 5 |
| Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare, | |
| Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,— | |
| Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus, | |
| Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence, | |
| While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock. | 10 |
| Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, | |
| Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron; | |
| Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already | |
| Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November. | |
| Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion, | 15 |
| Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window; | |
| Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion, | |
| Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives | |
| Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, “Not Angles, but Angels.” | |
| Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower. | 20 |
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| Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting, | |
| Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth. | |
| “Look at these arms,” he said, “the warlike weapons that hang here | |
| Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection! | |
| This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate, | 25 |
| Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish; | |
| Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet | |
| Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero. | |
| Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish | |
| Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses.” | 30 |
| Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing: | |
| “Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet; | |
| He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!” | |
| Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling: | |
| “See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging; | 35 |
| That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others. | |
| Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage; | |
| So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn. | |
| Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army, | |
| Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock, | 40 |
| Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage, | |
| And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!” | |
| This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams | |
| Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment. | |
| Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued: | 45 |
| “Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted | |
| High on the roof of the church, a preacher who speaks to the purpose, | |
| Steady, straightforward, and strong, with irresistible logic, | |
| Orthodox, flashing conviction right into the hearts of the heathen. | |
| Now we are ready, I think, for any assault of the Indians; | 50 |
| Let them come, if they like, and the sooner they try it the better,— | |
| Let them come, if they like, be it sagamore, sachem, or pow-wow, | |
| Aspinet, Samoset, Corbitant, Squanto, or Tokamahamon!” | |
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| Long at the window he stood, and wistfully gazed on the landscape, | |
| Washed with a cold gray mist, the vapory breath of the east-wind, | 55 |
| Forest and meadow and hill, and the steel-blue rim of the ocean, | |
| Lying silent and sad, in the afternoon shadows and sunshine. | |
| Over his countenance flitted a shadow like those on the landscape, | |
| Gloom intermingled with light; and his voice was subdued with emotion, | |
| Tenderness, pity, regret, as after a pause he proceeded: | 60 |
| “Yonder there, on the hill by the sea, lies buried Rose Standish; | |
| Beautiful rose of love, that bloomed for me by the wayside! | |
| She was the first to die of all who came in the Mayflower! | |
| Green above her is growing the field of wheat we have sown there, | |
| Better to hide from the Indian scouts the graves of our people, | 65 |
| Lest they should count them and see how many already have perished!” | |
| Sadly his face he averted, and strode up and down, and was thoughtful. | |
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| Fixed to the opposite wall was a shelf of books, and among them | |
| Prominent three, distinguished alike for bulk and for binding; | |
| Bariffe’s Artillery Guide, and the Commentaries of Cæsar | 70 |
| Out of the Latin translated by Arthur Goldinge of London, | |
| And, as if guarded by these, between them was standing the Bible. | |
| Musing a moment before them, Miles Standish paused, as if doubtful | |
| Which of the three he should choose for his consolation and comfort, | |
| Whether the wars of the Hebrews, the famous campaigns of the Romans, | 75 |
| Or the Artillery practice, designed for belligerent Christians. | |
| Finally down from its shelf he dragged the ponderous Roman, | |
| Seated himself at the window, and opened the book, and in silence | |
| Turned o’er the well-worn leaves, where thumb-marks thick on the margin, | |
| Like the trample of feet, proclaimed the battle was hottest. | 80 |
| Nothing was heard in the room but the hurrying pen of the stripling, | |
| Busily writing epistles important, to go by the Mayflower, | |
| Ready to sail on the morrow, or next day at latest, God willing! | |
| Homeward bound with the tidings of all that terrible winter, | |
| Letters written by Alden, and full of the name of Priscilla! | 85 |
| Full of the name and the fame of the Puritan maiden Priscilla! | |
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