Westward they steered their tiny bark, Westward through weary weeks they sped, Till the cold gray strand of a stranger-land Loomed through the mist ahead. League after league they hugged the coast, And their Captain never left his post: "O Pilot, see you yet the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?" "I see but the rocks and the barren shore; no strait is there," quoth he. They sailed to the North--they sailed to the South-- And at last they rounded an arm of sand Which held the sea from a harbor's mouth-- The loveliest in the land; They kept their course across the bay, And the shore before them fell away: "O Pilot, see you not the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?" "Hold the rudder true! Praise Christ Jesu! the strait is here," said he. Onward they glide with wind and tide, Past marshes gray and crags sun-kist; They skirt the sills of green-clad hills, And meadows white with mist-- But alas! the hope and the brave, brave dream! For rock and shallow bar the stream: "O Pilot, can this be the strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?" "Nay, Captain, nay; 'tis not this way; turn back we must," said he. Full sad was Hudson's heart as he turned The Half Moon's prow to the South once more; He saw no beauty in crag or hill, No beauty in curving shore; For they shut him away from that fabled main He sought his whole life long, in vain: "O Pilot, say, can there be a strait that leads to the Eastern Sea?" "God's crypt is sealed! 'Twill stand revealed in His own good time," quoth he. BURTON EGBERT STEVENSON. A few days were spent in exploring the bay, and on September 6 occurred the only fatality that marked the voyage. A seaman named John Colman, with four sailors, was sent out in a small boat to sound the Narrows, and encountered some Indians, who sent a flight of arrows toward the strangers. One of the arrows pierced Colman's throat, killing him. THE DEATH OF COLMAN [September 6, 1609] 'Twas Juet spoke--the Half Moon's mate And they who Holland's ship of state Compass'd with wisdom, listening sate: Discovery's near-extinguished spark Flared up into a blaze, When Man-na-hat-ta's virgin hills, Enriched by Autumn's days, First fell on our impatient sight, And soothed us with a strange delight. Bidden by fevered trade, our keel Had ploughed unbeaten deeps; From many a perfume-laden isle To the dark land that sleeps Forever in its winter robe, Th' unsocial hermit of the globe. But we, who sought for China's strand By ocean ways untried, Forgot our mission when we cast Our anchor in a tide That kissed a gem too wondrous fair For any eastern sea to wear!