III.


SMITH AND NEWPORT.


News of Smith's escape from cruel death ere long
Reached the eager ears of England's Scottish king
(He who wrote the scathing Counterblast to smoke),
And he straightway sent a brilliant scarlet robe
Present for the Indian "Emperor Powhatan,"
Ordering that the royal native should be crowned.

"On fool's errand dost thou come, Captain Newport,"
Quoth John Smith with rising ire as he read
Quaintly worded mandate from across the sea.
"What is this that we must vainly search for next?
'Gold mines, South Sea Islands, and lost colonists!'
Daily have we much ado to keep ourselves,
What with starving, mutiny, and Indian raids,
Questions vexed that keep our minds from roving far
From these palisades our toiling hands have reared,
Come, Newport, we'll set our wits to work at once
To unravel from this web of words the sense
That our monarch would impart.
Come, sit you down,
Let us gaily fill our pipes with fragrant weed
Such as natives grow--perchance its soothing power
Anger will assuage; vexations disappear