Classic Poem

Skipper Cornelis Mey, hardy sea-rover of Holland,
Clutches with horny hand the galliot's squeaking tiller,
Whistling a viking's prayer to indolent elves of breezes,
Marking the shaking sails and the streaky foam of the currents;
Whiles, in the hollowing waist, sombre of visage and vesture,
Marvelling, stand the Walloons, dumb as if carven in marble,
Watching the oncoming point of a hazy, forested island,
Dotted with cabins of bark, where salvages scream and signal
Wild invitation—to what? barter? or cannibal battle?

Wandering, swarthy Walloons, born of pre-Aryan races,
Chased from Numidian plains to Europe in mythical aeons;
Hunters primeval beside the Tagus and Guadalquivir,
Threading the bald Pyrenees, the forests of Gaul and Arden;
Scattering Teuton and Kimber, yielding to Caesar and Clovis,
Torn by unwearying war, shared among chaffering princes,
Yet still existent, nor quite forgetful of name and glory;
Whither betide you at last? sons of the Belgae—my fathers—
Tracking the occident wave under the lion of Holland.

“Tumults and terrors we leave, flying from Spain the destroyer
Drunken with blood of the saints, thirsting for blood forever;
Battle-trod Europe we leave, seeking the shores of Atlantis,
Daring the grave-digging sea, the deadly breath of morasses,
Daring the puma and bear, the wolf and furtive Mohican;
Hoping, at least, to obtain peace from the warrings of nations,
Peace from the scaffold and stake; yea, freedom of word and worship.”
So answer the dark Walloons, pilgrims of numerous ages,
Hunted from land unto land by stress of following peoples