Classic Poem

It was the month, the saddest one
Of all the varied year;
The slant beams of the setting sun
Touched the long vapors, thick and dun,
Like hope that brightens fear.
And far and near, with dash and moan,
The waves, like prisoners, dungeon-pent,
Beat on the rocky bars;
When forth upon my voyage I went,
Companioned, yet alone!
Friends made I of the stars;
For, ere the day had slowly rolled,
The mists were all bedecked with gold,
And when dark shadows grew,
Those lustrous children of the Night
Looked with their tender eyes of light
Serenely from the blue.
I was no sage astrologer,
Yet in their pure and brilliant lore,
Without one cloud the page to blur,
As gently, smoothly, softly o'er
Now sparkling waves our vessel flowed,
Could I a radiant story see
Of that not far futurity,
That longed-for, sighed-for, dear abode,
From which, forlorn, I had departed,
To drink awhile the healing airs,
To taste the effluence, which imparted,
In answer to unfaltering prayers.

Joy to the storm-tost mariner,
When, dimly far, C OLUMBUS spied
The blue line of San Salvador
Lift o'er the golden tide!

Yes, hopes and wishes fell like rays
Upon me from that starry blaze;
And well I knew that I should turn
Safely my homeward prow once more,
And once more view their glory burn,
Silvering the billows toward the shore
Of Northern climes, to which my soul
Still pointed with magnetic power;
Though soft the scene and fair the hour,
And though the billows' murmuring roll
Lulled every sense in deep repose,
And winds, that seemed to waft the rose,
Came to me through the Tropic night,
Suggesting visions of delight,
And rapturous dreams of beauty bright,
In Southern chambers, never known
To dwellers in the Temperate zone.

And so we sailed — on — on — while smiles
Dimpled each billow's azure cheek,
And then we hailed those happy isles
That Nature's fond enthusiasts seek,
Because perpetual Summer dwells
In all their flower-besprinkled dells,
And lifts his banners green above
Their hills and woods, and hangs his wreaths
In all their bowers — where lasting love
The incense of fruition breathes.

It is, in truth, a fairy clime,
With all its beauty spared by Time.
Though Cultivation o'er the land
Hath sown its seeds with liberal hand;
Though, in the lapse of many a year
The Spirit of the Storm appear,
And hurl destruction far and near,
So rapidly is life regained
By tree and herbage, that the field
Where the swift deluge fiercest rained,
Will all its vegetation yield,
With more luxuriance than the first
New morn the faithful soil was nursed.

Long graceful lines of coast were seen,
Fringed with the deepest tints of green;
The waves ran up and kissed the shore,
As if inspired with child-like glee,
Then, laughing at the robbery, bore
Leaves, buds, and blossoms out to sea.
It was a heartfelt joy to hear
Their merry voices; to behold
Gleaming upon their foreheads clear,
Circlets of silver, wreaths of gold;
To deem them living creatures, blest
With the soft airs and genial glow
Of this Elysium of the West,
Unchanging ever in their flow,
Save with the changes of their queen —
The Moon — subdued by whose sweet face,
They rolled away and left between
Their boundary and the shore a space —
A glittering belt of sand and shells,
Tossed from the ocean's treasure-cells.

Alas! how many years I've told
On my life's rosary, since the time,
When, jingling little bells of rhyme,
I voyaged to shun the mist and cold
Of Winter in a Northern town;
I voyaged to lands of small renown —
Lands where no war was ever waged,
Where none but lovers were engaged;
Where old Association finds
No record of illustrious minds;
No ruined temple, broken bust,
Nor urn nor venerated dust;
But where, a Matron-Bride arrayed
In all the pomp of light and shade,
In flowers that blush in earth, in air,
In fruitage, luscious, rich and rare,
Sits Nature with her belt unbound,
Garments loose-flowing to the ground,
Looks, gesture, motion warm and free,
And all the charms of liberty.