PS 3515 
 .fl72 S2 
 1910 
 Copy 1 
 
Class _BS_3Xl5l 
 Rook . hni- ^-i 
 
 fapyrif^htN" l^iO 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
SAN SALVADOR 
 
 ARTHUR M. HARRIS 
 
 S E ATTL E : 
 
 INGHRAM HUGHES, PRINTER. 
 
 MC MX. 
 

 Copyright Applied For. 
 
 ©CI.A2S8844 
 
San Salvador! Jesu's sweet Name 
 Forever shall this Island bless, 
 
 Whither through grace His servants came 
 Bearing the Word, in humbleness. 
 
 San Salvador! The Pinta's crew 
 Fain would honor Jesu's mother. 
 
 Truly the Gentle Virgin knew 
 Why Her servant spake the Other. 
 
 San Salvador ! The dove that flew 
 Athwart our west' ring prow and clung 
 To sea-wet rigging whilst we drew 
 With aching eyes to land — some said 
 Was that pure Spirito Sanctu 
 Which brooded o'er our Savior's head 
 On Jordan day. The midnight flame, 
 Seen by the watch while we w^ere still 
 At sea, the Pentecostal Name 
 Upon this land should write. 'Twas meet, 
 They said, to honor Spain's great king, 
 Who from Palos had served the fleet 
 
At His command. Nought me prevailed 
 Who only knew how in the night 
 Of woe His mercy for me strave — 
 The Holy Name I spoke with tears : 
 San Salvador ! For He shall save 
 His people. 
 
 The day we sailed, mine heavy eyes 
 Seemed o'er their reddened lids like suns 
 Which on a misty morning rise 
 Behind vermilion clouds. The night 
 Had seen me take the Sacrament : 
 Upon the altar steps I prayed 
 Alone, nor from the chapel went 
 Till I had seen the Sign : A child 
 Who, laughing, bore Plenty's full horn 
 And many fed, and led the wild 
 Asturian bull in yoke of flowers. 
 No cross I saw, save when the moon, 
 Westward creeping, between the towers 
 With blue beam pierced the incens'd 
 gloom 
 
Lighting the carven ivory face 
 Of our dear Lord, Whose gentle eyes 
 Turned slowly on me, full of grace. 
 The seamen, murmuring, said the day 
 Was holy on which Jesu died. 
 Nor should we fare upon our way 
 Lest evil hap should come to pass. 
 While others sighed to keep the fast 
 At home, and sing the solemn Mass 
 In their accustomed seats. To such 
 I softly spoke : 'Tis truly meet 
 This day to sail. Blessed the day. 
 And blessed by Holy Church our fleet. 
 Not for small gain is this our quest : 
 Servants of God, His Word we take 
 East, through the portals of the West, 
 Which first throughout the East He 
 
 spake. 
 Still downcast, I spoke of ingots 
 Rich — forgive me — straight they smiled. 
 All in their hearts Iscariots. 
 
Thus we left the bar at Saltes, 
 Ere the ruddy autumn sun peeped 
 O'er the city's spires; the cool air 
 Of morning into our sails creeped, 
 Sweet laden with the fervent prayer 
 Of watchers on the shore, and clear 
 The ringing of the Matin's bell 
 The passing fishers paused to hear 
 With reverent sign ; the first beams fell 
 Across the deck and shadows made 
 Of giant height. Ocean's deep swell 
 Upheaved our prows; her salty breath 
 To me was sweeter than the kiss 
 Of unspot womanhood. I knew 
 That my poor life had been for this 
 Great hour preserved : of all the seas 
 High Admiral, and ennobled Don, 
 The servant that their Majesties 
 Deemed best to lay the honor on : 
 To the Great Chan their greetings bear 
 And Jesu's Word to speak; the flag 
 Of mighty Spain to outfling there — 
 
A voice below spake to its mate : 
 Our Master says the Earth is round, 
 
 And it be not, our rotting bones 
 Shall never lie in holy ground. 
 
 At setting sun the evening breeze 
 
 Scarce stirred the silken pennants that. 
 
 With legend wove, like an old frieze. 
 
 Hung drooping from the masts — a gift 
 
 The saintly ladies of the court 
 
 Of Ysabel, with fair white hands 
 
 On oaken looms had gracious wrought. 
 
 And to our ropes with silver strands 
 
 Blushing had tied them. Not that I 
 
 Had eyes for women's cheeks, but so 
 
 The face of Mary must have flamed 
 
 When winged herald to her named 
 
 The First Born Child. It was our wont, 
 
 All kneeling on the deck, to sing 
 
 At eventide our evensong. 
 
 Praying our Holy Lord to bring 
 
 Us safely through. Then my three ships 
 
Would gently rock on ocean's knee 
 
 The while the sacrifice of praise 
 
 Rose sweetly o'er the listening sea, 
 
 Led by the modest Manuel — 
 
 A boy to whom an angel gave 
 
 His heavenly voice — the child I loved, 
 
 So innocent, so childly grave. 
 
 The night watch lit the flaring torch, 
 And from the darkling dusk one spake : 
 Yonder there floats a lonely spar 
 Upon this dreary waste. I quake 
 Lest my poor carcass drift afar. 
 
 At Gomera we lay awhile; 
 The owner of the Pinta swore 
 His ship would not obey the hand, 
 No strand of sail would he raise more 
 Till she was whole, nor leave the land 
 Without new helm. Him, I forbore 
 To chide. He did the Lord's command 
 Unwilling — but the ship to him 
 
Belonged. He was full loath to come, 
 
 Yet feared to stay, lest o'er the rim 
 
 Of Earth she fall through careless hand. 
 
 Here with some masters of the art 
 
 Of figures I conversed and drew 
 
 With their kind help on parchment chart 
 
 New lines for men to find their way 
 
 Across these seas — whose only path 
 
 Was marked by the pole-star's ray. 
 
 These grave men said 'Twas current talk 
 
 That untrod land lay to the west 
 
 Which some years since a man had prayed 
 
 The King of Spain for ships to test 
 
 The truth thereof. Some of my men 
 
 AfTrighted by the market tales 
 
 Of fierce sea beasts, came not again 
 
 Unto the ships. I sighed to leave 
 
 God's holy house; no more to hear 
 
 The songs of Zion, nor the chant 
 
 Of sweet voiced choir rising clear 
 
 Into the dim and echoing dome 
 
 Embellished by the artist's craft 
 
who gave to God his best. Ah, me! 
 Thrice did I leave the church, and thrice 
 Turned back, again to bend the knee 
 In further prayer. The pilots came 
 And said a favoring wind w^as sprung 
 Up — then I praised His Name 
 For His Answer, and so departed. 
 
 Past TeneriflEe's far flaming crown 
 We took a westward course ; the land 
 Slow o'er our stern was merged in sea. 
 The seamen wept, nor put their hand 
 Unto the working of their ships. 
 But woful gazed with wistful eyes 
 Eastward, and clustered on the poop 
 And highest spars, with every rise 
 Of our low hull to see fair Spain 
 Where they had lived their length of years 
 Nor knew they loved till the broad main 
 Between them rolled. The singing boy — 
 So constant brave — sang the sweet strain 
 Of War, of Love, of Hearth and Home, 
 
which moves the simple folk of Spain. 
 I spoke again of the great wealth 
 Of India — how the meanest man 
 Eateth from plates of gold ; of stones 
 Most precious that their mighty Chan 
 Uses to pave his tropic gardens, 
 Ivory walled; the housewife's pan 
 Of common use was copper beat 
 Fine ; the common horse they work for 
 
 draft 
 Strikes fire from flint with silvered feet. 
 
 I heard three birds pass in the night, 
 With pallid cheeks the watchman said : 
 One for each ship; their throaty cries 
 Seemed like the whining of the dead. 
 
 So we stood out on silent seas, 
 
 So silent still our strained ears 
 
 Beat 'gainst their drums to catch some 
 
 sound, 
 Like one who in the woodland rears 
 
His head, alarmed, fearing the bound 
 Of lurking beast. No more the bells 
 From spired church on quiet Sabbath 
 
 morn — 
 No more the cheerful noise that swells 
 From bustling market and down the 
 
 streets 
 Adjacent overflows — the horn 
 Of wine-seller — the venders' cries 
 That make the city's song. The wind 
 Broods o'er this placid waste; we rise 
 And fall, day after day, and find 
 No land — Dawn flames across the skies 
 To be encloaked of Night, as one 
 With unseen hand these sheets unrolled 
 And painted with the red-brushed sun. 
 
 Yet me it served to strike my way — 
 E'en as the ancient ball of flame — 
 God's later children to the land 
 He told me of in dreams, and came 
 Ever before me. Soft the stream 
 
In laving ripple flowed around 
 The intrusive prow^. Of all men, we 
 The first to smell this brine, to feel 
 Against our cheeks the breath of sea — 
 The first to thrust our venturous keel 
 Toward Earth's edge. So mild the clime, 
 The days so clear, so full the night 
 Of clustering stars, that Manuel, 
 The boy I spoke of, with delight 
 Fancied that Spring in Andalusia 
 Was not more sweet, save in the dusk 
 We hear no nightingale. Methought 
 That though he smiled with bright 
 
 conceit 
 The laughter in his throat was caught 
 Half way by sobs. I scanned his face, 
 Nor could he hide the tears, but blushed 
 That I, the Admiral, a trace 
 Of girlish weakness in him saw. 
 
 A steersman whispered to the rest 
 
 They should betake themselves to prayer, 
 
For all were lost— a full point west 
 The compass finger was outsprung, 
 Nor pointed, quivering, to the North 
 Where God had put it. So they cried 
 That He Who brought His children forth 
 From the Red Sea, their souls to shrive 
 If they must die, and many vows 
 They made should they be saved alive. 
 They, muttering, menaced me. I knew 
 The cause, and lifted up my heart 
 With joy, in that the Word was true 
 He gave me; the years of labor 
 Body and mind had suffered through 
 With the full flower of fruition 
 Would now be crowned. At my behest 
 They came, a rugged group, at dawn 
 And, beard to beard, with anxious eyes 
 Bent o'er the box where I had drawn 
 With careful hand the Earth's degrees; 
 The sun upshot, uprose their cry : 
 Sancta Maria! This fleur-de-lys. 
 With magnet tip points to the sky 
 
where shines the bright pole-star ! I 
 
 proved 
 The star, and not the needle, moved. 
 
 Full thirty days we labored on ; 
 My ruddy hair vi^as streaked white 
 With watching, for I seldom slept, 
 E'en grudged the time to break my fast, 
 But morn and night I stedfast kept 
 Count of the passing way. Each day 
 Upon the mast the people notched 
 The daily distance. Jesu, I pray 
 Forgiveness — them I never told 
 True tally of the miles: they'd say 
 Too many leagues of ocean rolled 
 ' Twixt holy Spain and dark Cathay. 
 
 Through gaping seams the water crept 
 High and still higher. Our dwindling 
 
 grain. 
 Brine sod, we, natheless, hungry ate ; 
 Thirsty, we prayed the blessed rain 
 
Would drop from heaven's glowing grate 
 Where constant burned the sun. Now 
 
 dark 
 Mutiny's murderous whisper spread 
 To willing ears : the people said 
 A Ninevite slept in the bark. 
 
 For three days more we'll go with thee, 
 
 The sullen crew, emboldened, spake: 
 
 An we come not to drink and food, 
 
 Jesu upon thee mercy take. 
 
 Then swore I by the holy Rood 
 
 That I would go to India yet 
 
 To take God's word; the king's command 
 
 I would obey. Their hell-born threat 
 
 Was treason — or to lift the hand 
 
 Against the great king's admiral. 
 
 To saintly Ysabel I 'd vowed 
 
 To bring the unbleached pearl, to add 
 
 Domain, splendid and vast, to proud 
 
 Spain, and on Saint Peter's altar lay, 
 
 As token of the church's zeal. 
 
This land whose darkened children kneel 
 Before unhearing gods. 
 
 One, wearied at the pumping, said: 
 Our bodies yet may make a bread 
 More carnal that^the Sacred Word, 
 With which these heathen may be fed. 
 
 The days had taled the Savior's span 
 Of earthly years, since distant Spain 
 We left. Despair in every man 
 Hatched its dark brood of boding fears ; 
 The pumps, o'erclung with sea-vine, 
 
 clanked 
 Unmanned ; with eyes too dry for tears. 
 And gaping mouths, they watched the 
 
 clouds. 
 As they had done in boyish years 
 Upon the hills of Spain. The shrouds 
 Beat idly 'gainst the sun-split spar. 
 Then, quivering, drooped — a throbbing 
 
 calm 
 
Fell o'er the waters near and far, 
 Anchoring the fleet with misty arm 
 More fixed than if iron tooth 
 Bit Neptune's loaf. Ah, woe was me 
 Had not the wind sprung from the West, 
 Ploughing with winged share the sea, 
 Strewing in every breaking breast 
 The gentle seed of hope. 
 
 One, casting dice for water, said : 
 
 The wind is ever from the East, 
 
 An it be true it never veers. 
 
 In Spain we'll ne'er keep Christmas feast. 
 
 A wild rose branch of fragrant scent. 
 The child Manuel, joyous, drew 
 From its brine-bed, some angel threw 
 Upon the waters for a sign 
 Of God's near shore — it's leaves 
 He kissed, the pliant stem did twine 
 In shape of a small cross, to grace 
 The bosom of another child. 
 
Then, flying came the white-breast dove, 
 Pure symbol of His Love Whose hand 
 At flaming sunrise to us gave 
 For Christ and Crov^n the Western Land. 
 
JUL 7 ^8^0 
 
One copy del. to Cat, Div. 
 
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