ROANOAK, 1587

Shimmering waters, aweary of tossing,
Hopeful of rest, ripple on to the shore;
Dimpling with light, as they waver and quiver,
Echoing faintly the ocean’s wild roar.
Locked in the arms of the tremulous waters
Nestles an island, with beauty abloom,
Where the warm kiss of an amorous summer
Fills all the air with a languid perfume.
Windward, the roar of the turbulent breakers
Warns of the dangers of rock and of reef;
Burdened with mem’ries of sorrowful shipwreck,
They break on the sands in torrents of grief.
Leeward, the forest, grown giant in greenness,
Shelters a land where a fervid sun shines;
Wild with the beauty of riotous nature,
Thick with the tangles of fruit-laden vines.
From fragrant clusters, grown purple with ripeness,
Rare, spicy odors float out to the sea,
Where the gray gulls flit with restless endeavor,
Skimming the waves in their frolicsome glee.

Out from the shore stalks the stately white heron,
Seeking his food from the deep without fear,
Gracefully waving wide wings as he rises
When the canoe of the Indian draws near.
Through reedy brake and the tangled sea-grasses
Wander the stag and the timid-eyed doe
Down to the water’s edge, watchful and wary
For arrows that fly from the red hunter’s bow.
Fearless Red Hunter! his birthright the forest,
Lithe as the antelope, joyous and free.
Trusting his bow for his food and his freedom,
Wresting a tribute from forest and sea,
No chilling forecast of doom in the future
Daunts his brave spirit, by freedom made bold.
Far o’er the wildwood he roams at his pleasure,
The fierce, brawny Red Man is king of the wold.

Lo! in the offing the white sails are gleaming,
Ships from afar to the land drawing nigh;
Laden with men, strong and brave to meet danger,
Stalwart of form, fair of skin, blue of eye.
Boldly they land where the white man is alien;
Women are with them, with hearts true and brave;
Sadly they stand where their countrymen perished,
Seeking a home where they found but a grave.

Friendly red hunters greet them with kindness,
Tell the sad tale how their countrymen died,
Beg for a token of friendship and safety,
Promise in love and in peace to abide.
Manteo’s heart glows with friendly remembrance,
He greets them as brothers and offers good cheer;
No thrill of welcome is felt by Wanchese,
His heart is bitter with malice and fear.
Envying men his superiors in wisdom,
Fearing a race his superiors in skill;
Sullen and silent he watches the strangers,
Whom from the first he determines to kill.

Then the sign of the Cross, on the brow of the Indian,
Seals to the savage the promise of life;
Sweet symbol of sacrifice, emblem of duty,
Standard of Peace, though borne amidst strife:
Draped with the sombre, stained banner of Conquest,
Dark with the guilt of man’s murder and greed,
Yet bright with God’s message of love and forgiveness
Unto a universe welded to creed.

Gently the morning breeze tosses the tree-tops,
Low ebbs the tide on the outlying sand;
When a tiny white babe opens eyes to the sunlight,
Heaven’s sweet pledge for the weal of the land.
Babe of the Wilderness! tenderly cherished!
Signed with the Cross on the next Sabbath Day;
Brave English Mother! through danger and sorrow,
For a nation of Christians thou leadest the way.

Back to the home-land, across the deep water,
Goes the wise leader, their needs to abate;
Leaving with sorrow the babe and its mother
In a strange land as a hostage to Fate.
Many long months pass in busy home-making,
Sweet English customs prevail on the isle;
Anxious eyes watch for the ship in the offing,
Saddened hearts droop, but the lips bravely smile.

Gone are the sweet dreamy days of the summer,
In from the ocean the winter winds shriek;
Dangers encompass and enemies threaten,
Mother and child other refuge must seek.
Mother and child, as in Bethlehem story,
Flee from the hate of their blood-thirsty foes;
Hopeless of help from their own land and people,
They seek friendly tribes to find rest from their woes.

To the fair borders of Croatoan Island,
Over the night-covered waters they flee;
Seeking for safety with Manteo’s people,
Leaving the word “Croatoan on a tree.
Name of the refuge in which they sought shelter,
Only the name of a tribe, nothing more;
Sign whereby those who would seek them might follow
To their new home on the Croatoan’s shore.

Why did they leave the rude fort they had builded?
Why did they seek far away a new home?
O innocent babe! Roanoak’s lost nestling!
How shall we learn where thy footsteps did roam?
’Mid the rude tribes of the primeval forest,
Bearing the signet of Christ on thy brow,
Wert thou the teacher and guide of the savage?
Who, of thy mission, can aught tell us now?
Through the dim ages comes only the perfume,
Left where the flowers of Truth fell to earth;
With ne’er a gleaner to treasure the blossoms,
Save the sweet petals of baptism and birth.
Vainly we seek on Time’s shore for thy footprints,
Hid in a mist of pathos is thy fate;
Yet of a life under savage enchantment
Quaint Indian legends do strangely relate.