A Pilgrim from the Eastern shore
Stood on Nevada's strand:
A tear was in his hither eye,
A pickaxe in his hand.
A tear was in his hither eye —
And in his left, to match,
There would have been another tear,
But for a healing patch.
And other patches, too, he wore,
Which on his garments hung,
And two were on that ill-starred spot
Where mothers smite their young.
His hat, a shining " Costar " once,
Was broken now, and dim,
And wild his bearded features gleamed,
Beneath the tattered rim.
The Pilgrim stood: and, looking down,
As one who is in doubt,
He sighed to see how fast that pair
Of boots was wearing out.
And while he filled an ancient pipe,
His wretchedness to cheer,
He stopped, with hurried hand, to pick
A flea from out his ear.
Then spake this Pilgrim from the East,
" I am a wretched man,
For lust of gold hath lured me to
The shovel and the pan.
I saw, in dreams, a pile of gold
Its dazzling radiance pour;
No more my visions are of gold,
Alas! my hopes are ore . "
" Thrice have I left this cursed spot,
But mine it was to learn
The fatal truth, that " dust we are,
To dust we shall return ."
So, here condemned, by Fates unkind,
I rock illusive sand,
And dream of wailing babes at home,
Unrocked, an orphan band. "
The Pilgrim paused, for now he heard
His distant comrades' shout,
He drew a last whiff from his pipe,
Then knocked the ashes out.
And, stooping, as he gathered up
His shovel and his pan,
The breeze his latest accents bore,
" I am a wretched man! "
Once more returned, at close of day,
To a cheerless, dismal home,
He vows, if he was back in Maine,
He never more would roam.
Now hunger makes " his bowels yearn, "
For " yams " or " Irish roots, "
But these he looks in vain to find —
Then tries to fry his boots.
The night is passed in happy dreams
Of youth and childhood's joys:
Of times when he got flogged at school
For pinching smaller boys.
His wife, whose smile hath cheered him oft,
And rendered light his care,
He sees, in far New England's clime,
Enjoying better fare.
But morn dispels these fairy scenes,
And want arouses pluck;
He shoulders pick and pan once more,
Again to try his luck.
He digs in dark, secluded depths,
The spots where slugs abound,
And oh! what raptures fill his breast —
His " pile " at last is found.
He drops his pick, his pan is left,
He e'en neglects his pipe,
He leaves the diggings far behind,
His purse he holds with iron gripe.
Resolved to dig and toil no more,
Nor more in dreams to trust,
His well filled bag upon his back,
Of pure and shining dust.
His wardrobe changed, behold him now,
In affluence and pride,
Surrounded by the forms he loves,
With joy on every side!
Pressed closely to his heart he holds
His wife and children dear,
The latter shouting madly, while
The former drops a tear.
Stood on Nevada's strand:
A tear was in his hither eye,
A pickaxe in his hand.
A tear was in his hither eye —
And in his left, to match,
There would have been another tear,
But for a healing patch.
And other patches, too, he wore,
Which on his garments hung,
And two were on that ill-starred spot
Where mothers smite their young.
His hat, a shining " Costar " once,
Was broken now, and dim,
And wild his bearded features gleamed,
Beneath the tattered rim.
The Pilgrim stood: and, looking down,
As one who is in doubt,
He sighed to see how fast that pair
Of boots was wearing out.
And while he filled an ancient pipe,
His wretchedness to cheer,
He stopped, with hurried hand, to pick
A flea from out his ear.
Then spake this Pilgrim from the East,
" I am a wretched man,
For lust of gold hath lured me to
The shovel and the pan.
I saw, in dreams, a pile of gold
Its dazzling radiance pour;
No more my visions are of gold,
Alas! my hopes are ore . "
" Thrice have I left this cursed spot,
But mine it was to learn
The fatal truth, that " dust we are,
To dust we shall return ."
So, here condemned, by Fates unkind,
I rock illusive sand,
And dream of wailing babes at home,
Unrocked, an orphan band. "
The Pilgrim paused, for now he heard
His distant comrades' shout,
He drew a last whiff from his pipe,
Then knocked the ashes out.
And, stooping, as he gathered up
His shovel and his pan,
The breeze his latest accents bore,
" I am a wretched man! "
Once more returned, at close of day,
To a cheerless, dismal home,
He vows, if he was back in Maine,
He never more would roam.
Now hunger makes " his bowels yearn, "
For " yams " or " Irish roots, "
But these he looks in vain to find —
Then tries to fry his boots.
The night is passed in happy dreams
Of youth and childhood's joys:
Of times when he got flogged at school
For pinching smaller boys.
His wife, whose smile hath cheered him oft,
And rendered light his care,
He sees, in far New England's clime,
Enjoying better fare.
But morn dispels these fairy scenes,
And want arouses pluck;
He shoulders pick and pan once more,
Again to try his luck.
He digs in dark, secluded depths,
The spots where slugs abound,
And oh! what raptures fill his breast —
His " pile " at last is found.
He drops his pick, his pan is left,
He e'en neglects his pipe,
He leaves the diggings far behind,
His purse he holds with iron gripe.
Resolved to dig and toil no more,
Nor more in dreams to trust,
His well filled bag upon his back,
Of pure and shining dust.
His wardrobe changed, behold him now,
In affluence and pride,
Surrounded by the forms he loves,
With joy on every side!
Pressed closely to his heart he holds
His wife and children dear,
The latter shouting madly, while
The former drops a tear.