Gently the morning breeze tosses the tree-tops, Low ebbs the tide on the outlying sand; When a tiny white babe opens eyes to the sunlight,[I] Heaven's sweet pledge for the weal of the land. Babe of the Wilderness! tenderly cherished! Signed with the Cross on the next Sabbath Day; Brave English Mother! through danger and sorrow, For a nation of Christians thou leadest the way. Back to the home-land, across the deep water, Goes the wise leader, their needs to abate;[J] Leaving with sorrow the babe and its mother In a strange land as a hostage to Fate. Many long months pass in busy home-making, Sweet English customs prevail on the isle; Anxious eyes watch for the ship in the offing, Saddened hearts droop, but the lips bravely smile. Gone are the sweet dreamy days of the summer, In from the ocean the winter winds shriek; Dangers encompass and enemies threaten, Mother and child other refuge must seek. Mother and child, as in Bethlehem story, Flee from the hate of their blood-thirsty foes; Hopeless of help from their own land and people, They seek friendly tribes to find rest from their woes. To the fair borders of Croatoan Island, Over the night-covered waters they flee; Seeking for safety with Manteo's people, Leaving the word "Croatoan" on a tree.[K] Name of the refuge in which they sought shelter, Only the name of a tribe, nothing more;[L] Sign whereby those who would seek them might follow To their new home on the Croatoan's shore. Why did they leave the rude fort they had builded? Why did they seek far away a new home? O innocent babe! Roanoak's lost nestling! How shall we learn where thy footsteps did roam? 'Mid the rude tribes of the primeval forest, Bearing the signet of Christ on thy brow, Wert thou the teacher and guide of the savage? Who, of thy mission, can aught tell us now? Through the dim ages comes only the perfume, Left where the flowers of Truth fell to earth; With ne'er a gleaner to treasure the blossoms, Save the sweet petals of baptism and birth. Vainly we seek on Time's shore for thy footprints, Hid in a mist of pathos is thy fate; Yet of a life under savage enchantment Quaint Indian legends do strangely relate. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote A: See Appendix, Note _a_.] [Footnote B: See Appendix, Note _b_.] [Footnote C: See Appendix, Note _c_.] [Footnote D: See Appendix, Note _d_.] [Footnote E: See Appendix, Note _e_.] [Footnote F: See Appendix, Note _e_.] [Footnote G: Pronounced Wan-chess-e.] [Footnote H: See Appendix, Note _f_.] [Footnote I: See Appendix, Note _g_.] [Footnote J: See Appendix, Note _h_.] [Footnote K: See Appendix, Note _k_.] [Footnote L: See Appendix, Note _k_.] THE LEGEND OF THE WHITE DOE I THE REFUGEES