The Courtship of Miles Standish. Генри Уодсуорт Лонгфелло

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      “CUTLASS.”

      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, deep-chested, 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 household companion,

      Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window;

      Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,

      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.

      “MILES STANDISH.”

      Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,

      Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.

      “Look at these arms,” he said, “the warlike weapons that hang here

      Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!

      This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,

      Well I remember the day! once saved my life in a skirmish;

      Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet

      Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.

      Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish

      Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses.”

      Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:

      “Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;

      He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!”

      Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:

      “See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;

      That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.

      Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;

      So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your ink-horn.

      Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,

      Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,

      Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,

      And, like Cæsar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!”

      This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams

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