New York Bay in 1624

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 savages scream and signal
Wild invitation — to what? barter? or cannibal battle?

Wandering, swarthy Walloons, born of pre-Aryan races,
Chased from NumidianSo say Collignon and others, while Ripley and others say Armenian. 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.