In his tulip-garden there by the town,
Overlooking the sluggish stream,
With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown
The old sea-captain, hale and brown,
Walks in a waking dream.

A smile in his gray mustachio lurks
Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain,
And the listed tulips look like Turks,
And the silent gardener as he works
Is changed to the Dean of Jaen.

The windmills on the outermost
Verge of the landscape in the haze,
To him are towers on the Spanish coast,
With whiskered sentinels at their post,
Though this is the river Maese.

But when the winter rains begin,

He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, And old sea-faring men come in, Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin, And rings upon their hands.

They sit there in the shadow and shine

Of the flickering fire of the winter night; Figures in color and design

Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine,
Half darkness and half light.

And they talk of their ventures lost or won,
And their talk is ever and ever the same,
While they drink the red wine of Tarragon,

From the cellars of some Spanish Don,
Or convent set on flame.

Restless at times with heavy strides
He paces his parlor to and fro;
He is like a ship that at anchor rides,
And swings with the rising and falling tides,
And tugs at her anchor-tow.

Voices mysterious far and near,

Sound of the wind and sound of the sea,
Are calling and whispering in his ear,
"Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here?
Come forth and follow me!"

So he thinks he shall take to the sea again
For one more cruise with his buccaneers,
To singe the beard of the king of Spain,
And capture another Dean of Jaen

And sell him in Algiers.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

TO

Hoorn.

THE SHIPS OF HOORN.

heroes Hoorn has given birth,

And gallant souls to man her fleets; The produce of her faithful earth

In distant lands a market meets.
Where'er the moon on far-off lands
Her silvery light benignly sheds,
There, countless as the yellow sands,
The ships of Hoorn her commerce spreads.
Joost van den Vondel. Tr. Annie Wood.

HF

Leyden.

ROBINSON AT LEYDEN.

sleeps not here; in hope and prayer His wandering flock had gone before, But he, the shepherd, might not share Their sorrows on the wintry shore.

Before the Speedwell's anchor swung,

Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was spread, While round his feet the Pilgrims clung, The pastor spake, and thus he said:

"Men, brethren, sisters, children dear!
God calls you hence from over sea;
Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer,
Nor yet along the Zuyder-Zee.

"Ye go to bear the saving word

To tribes unnamed and shores untrod:

Heed well the lessons ye have heard
From those old teachers taught of God.

"Yet think not unto them was lent
All light for all the coming days,
And Heaven's eternal wisdom spent
In making straight the ancient ways:

"The living fountain overflows

For every flock, for every lamb,

Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose,
With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam."

:

He spake with lingering, long embrace,
With tears of love and partings fond,
They floated down the creeping Maas,
Along the isle of Ysselmond.

They passed the frowning towers of Briel,
The "Hook of Holland's " shelf of sand,
And grated soon with lifting keel
The sullen shores of fatherland.

No home for these! too well they knew
The mitred king behind the throne;
The sails were set, the pennons flew,

And westward ho! for worlds unknown.

And these were they who gave us birth,
The Pilgrims of the sunset wave,

Who won for us this virgin earth,

And freedom with the soil they gave.

The pastor slumbers by the Rhine,—
In alien earth the exiles lie,

Their nameless graves our holiest shrine,
His words our noblest battle-cry!

Still cry them, and the world shall hear,
Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea!
Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer,
Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee!