are full of
hounds and horses. 
Long since the riders have ridden away, yet the houses have not
forgotten,
They are proud of their name and place, and their doors are always open,
For the thing they remember best is the pride of their ancient
hospitality.

In the towns I love the discreet and tranquil Quaker dwellings,
With their demure brick faces and immaculate marble doorsteps;
And the gabled houses of the Dutch, with their high stoops and iron
railings,
(I can see their little brass knobs shining in the morning sunlight);
And the solid self-contained houses of the descendants of the Puritans,
Frowning on the street with their narrow doors and dormer-windows;
And the triple-galleried, many-pillared mansions of Charleston,
Standing open sideways in their gardens of roses and magnolias.

Yes, they are all dear to my heart, and in my eyes they are beautiful;
For under their roofs were nourished the thoughts that have made the
nation;
The glory and strength of America come from her ancestral dwellings.

July, 1909.

HUDSON’S LAST VOYAGE

THE SHALLOP ON HUDSON BAY

June 22, 1611

  One sail in sight upon the lonely sea,
  And only one!  For never ship but mine
  Has dared these waters.  We were first,
  My men, to battle in between the bergs
  And floes to these wide waves.  This gulf is mine;
  I name it! and that flying sail is mine! 
  And there, hull-down below that flying sail,
  The ship that staggers home is mine, mine, mine! 
  My ship Discoverie! 
                        The sullen dogs
  Of mutineers, the bitches’ whelps that snatched
  Their food and bit the hand that nourished them,
  Have stolen her.  You ingrate Henry Greene,
  I picked you from the gutter of Houndsditch,
  And paid your debts, and kept you in my house,
  And brought you here to make a man of you! 
  You Robert Juet, ancient, crafty man,
  Toothless and tremulous, how many times
  Have I employed you as a master’s mate
  To give you bread?  And you Abacuck Prickett,
  You sailor-clerk, you salted puritan,
  You knew the plot and silently agreed,
  Salving your conscience with a pious lie! 
  Yes, all of you—­hounds, rebels, thieves!  Bring back
  My ship! 
            Too late,—­I rave,—­they cannot hear
  My voice:  and if they heard, a drunken laugh
  Would be their answer; for their minds have caught
  The fatal firmness of the fool’s resolve,
  That looks like courage but is only fear. 
  They’ll blunder on, and lose my ship, and drown;
  Or blunder home to England and be hanged. 
  Their skeletons will rattle in the chains
  Of some tall gibbet on the Channel cliffs,
  While passing mariners look up and say: 
  “Those are the rotten bones of Hudson’s men
  Who left their captain in the frozen North!”