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IN the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims,
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordo
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber,—
Cutlass and corslet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner,
were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic, Broad in the shoulders, deepchested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend, and househoid companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a
table of pine by the window;
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty
thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the May Flower.