Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DEATH OF COLMAN, by THOMAS FROST


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE DEATH OF COLMAN, by                    
First Line: Twas juet spoke - the half moon's mate
Last Line: One choking thought -- the loneliness!
Subject(s): Hudson, Henry (1550-1611); Native Americans; Sailing & Sailors; Solitude; Indians Of America; American Indians; Indians Of South America; Seamen; Sails; Loneliness


'T WAS Juet spoke -- the Half Moon's mate:
And they who Holland's ship of state
Compass'd with wisdom, listening sate:

Discovery's near-extinguished spark
Flared up into a blaze,
When Man-na-hat-ta's virgin hills,
Enriched by Autumn's days,
First fell on our impatient sight,
And soothed us with a strange delight

Bidden by fevered trade, our keel
Had ploughed unbeaten deeps;
From many a perfume-laden isle
To the dark land that sleeps
Forever in its winter robe,
Th' unsocial hermit of the globe.

But we, who sought for China's strand
By ocean ways untried,
Forgot our mission when we cast
Our anchor in a tide
That kissed a gem too wondrous fair
For any eastern sea to wear!

Entranced, we saw the golden woods
Slope gently to the sands;
The grassy meads, the oaks that dwarfed
Their kin of other lands;
And from the shore the balmy wind
Blew sweeter than the spice of Ind.

As he whose eyes, though opened wide,
Are fixed upon a dream,
So Colman -- one who long had held
Our Hudson's warm esteem --
Gazed on the gorgeous scene, and said,
"Ere even's shades are overspread,

"Proudly our flag on yonder height
Shall tell of Holland's gain;
Proclaiming her to all the earth
The sovereign of the main."
And quickly from the Half Moon's bow
We turned the longboat's yielding prow.

The measured flashing of the oars
Broke harshly on the ear;
And eye asked eye -- for lips were mute --
What Holland hearts should fear;
For true it is our hearts were soft,
Save his, who held the flag aloft.

And suddenly our unshaped dread
Took direful form and sound.
For from a near nook's rocky shade,
Swift as pursuing hound,
A savage shallop sped, to hold
From stranger feet that strand of gold.

And rageful cries disturbed the peace
That on the waters slept;
And Echo whispered on the hills,
As though an army crept,
With flinty axe and brutal blade,
Through the imperforate forest shade.

"What! are ye cravens?" Colman said;
For each had shipped his oar.
He waved the flag: "For Netherland,
Pull for yon jutting shore!"
Then prone he fell within the boat,
A flinthead arrow through his throat!

And now full many a stealthy skiff
Shot out into the bay;
And swiftly, sadly, pulled we back
To where the Half Moon lay;
But he was dead -- our master wept --
He smiled, brave heart, as though he slept.

Then to the seaward breeze our sail
With woful hearts we threw;
And anchored near a sandy strip
That looks o'er ocean blue:
And there we kissed and buried him,
While surges sang his funeral hymn.

And many a pitying glance we gave,
And many a prayer we said,
As from that grave we turned, and left
The dark sea with her dead;
For -- God of Waves! -- none could repress
One choking thought -- the loneliness!





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