Creator.”  And St. Francis went and made nests for them all:  and they abiding therein, began to lay their eggs and hatch them before the eyes of the brothers:  and so tame were they, they dwelt with St. Francis and all the other brothers as though they had been fowls that had always fed from their hands, and never did they go away until St. Francis with his blessing gave them leave to go.  And to the young man who had given them to him, St. Francis said:  “My little son, thou wilt yet be a brother in this Order and do precious service unto Jesu Christ.”  And so it came to pass; for the said youth became a brother and lived in the Order in great sanctity.

SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA

Where the remote Bermudas ride
In the ocean’s bosom unespied,
From a small boat that row’d along
The listening winds received this song: 
“What should we do but sing His praise
That led us through the watery maze
Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks
That lift the deep upon their backs,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own? 
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelate’s rage: 
He gave us this eternal spring
Which here enamels everything,
And sends the fowls to us in care
On daily visits through the air. 
He hangs in shades the orange bright
Like golden lamps in a green night,
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet,
And throws the melons at our feet;
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice! 
With cedars chosen by his hand
From Lebanon he stores the land;
And makes the hollow seas that roar
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple where to sound His name. 
O let our voice His praise exalt
Till it arrive at Heaven’s vault,
Which then perhaps rebounding may
Echo beyond the Mexique bay!”
—­Thus sung they in the English boat
A holy and a cheerful note: 
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

_—­A.  Marvell_

LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND

The breaking waves dash’d high
  On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
  Their giant branches toss’d;

And the heavy night hung dark
  The hills and waters o’er,
When a band of exiles moor’d their bark
  On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,
  They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
  And the trumpet that sings of fame;

Not as the flying come,
  In silence and in fear;—­
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
  With their hymns of lofty cheer.