December’s sun is pale and low,
Chilly and raw the north winds blow,
Dark threatening clouds are floating by,
And Jamestown’s sons with sadden’d eye
Look out upon the dreary wild
Of woods and waters, where exiled,
And distant far from friends and home,
They see the storms of winter come.
One half their number they had lost,
Since on this wild and desert coast
They first set foot; and ere the spring
Fresh fruits and flowers again would bring,
They felt that others too must fall:
For though their number was but small,
Their store of food was smaller still;
And oft this thought a deadly chill
Sent to each heart: they saw the hour
Was coming soon, when famine’s power
Must sweep them off, as leaves are cast
On the cold earth by autumn’s blast.
But mid this gloom and prospect dread,
That o’er all hearts a sadness shed,
No matter by what foe assail’d,
Sir John’s brave spirit never quail’d.
Early and late he knew no rest;
He nursed the sick, sooth’d the distress’d,
Cheer’d the despairing, and anon,
With gun in hand, away has gone
To seek the wild duck on the wave,
Or game within the darksome wood,
The famish’d colonists to save,
And spread their common board with food.