: The White Doe The Fate of Virginia Dare by Cotten Sallie Southall - Dare Virginia 1587- Poetry

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THE SEEDS OF TRUTH 23

THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE DOE

Frontispiece from an original drawing by May Louise Barrett.

In the tomb of vanished ages sleep th' ungarnered truths of Time, Where the pall of silence covers deeds of honor and of crime; Deeds of sacrifice and danger, which the careless earth forgets, There, in ever-deep'ning shadows, lie embalmed in mute regrets. Would-be-gleaners of the Present vainly grope amid this gloom; Flowers of Truth to be immortal must be gathered while they bloom, Else they pass into the Silence, man's neglect their only blight, And the Gleaner of the Ages stores them far from human sight. Yet a perfume, sweet and subtle, lingers where each flower grew, Rising from the shattered petals, bathed and freshened by the dew; And this perfume, in the twilight, forms a mist beneath the skies, Out of which, like airy phantoms, legends and traditions rise; For the Seeds of Truth are buried in a legend's inmost heart, To transplant them in the sunlight justifies the poet's art.

THE SEEDS OF TRUTH

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.

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.

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