Classic Poem

1

Like to the Schuylkill of my home
The river flows through sloping shores,
But Mongol fingers clasp the oars,
And gaudy sampans go and come.

Now, looming through the summer night,
The richly-freighted junk drifts by;
Now, musical with revelry,
Glides the gay flower-boat past my sight.

'Tis old Canton! The moonlight falls
In splendor o'er the rushing river;
Upon the waves I watch it quiver,
It sleeps upon the city walls.

'Tis hoar Cathay! O land antique,
To whom men give the eldest's place,
My heart salutes thy wrinkled face,
Great mother of a race unique!

2

A Chinese garden. Let me paint
This work of oriental art,
This triumph of the formal heart,
Its winding paths, its grottoes quaint,

Its pond, with islets here and there,
Where gilded summer-houses stand,
Its rustic bridges, land to land
Uniting, its hydrangeas fair,

Its lotus-flowers with leaves outspread,
(O would their beauty I could limn!)
Which on the pool's calm surface swim,
Its gold-fish darting to be fed.

Here, o'er his tea, the mandarin sits,
Here rests the merchant, sleek and round,
Here, sheltered from the world, the sound
Of women's voices oft-times flits.

3

And let me sing that fragrant leaf,
Or in Japan or China grown,
Which cheers the men of every zone —
Tea let me sing in stanzas brief.

Oft have mine eyes, among the hills,
Seen, with delight, thy shrub of green;
Oft have my drooping spirits been
Strengthened, by thee, against life's ills;

Oft, by the dusty highway worn,
Have I, at evening, sought thy cup;
And oft, as now, awaked to sup
Thy magic draught at early morn.

O sovereign leaf, or in Cathay,
Or on fair Nippon's hill-sides grown,
The sons of men, in every zone,
Acknowledge thy imperial sway!

4

O Mecca-spot of old Macao,
By feet of pilgrims often sought;
Here once a poet lived and wrought,
Here reign decay and silence now!

Camoens garden! Down this path,
Shaded by bamboo, let us stroll;
Or rest upon yon rocky knoll,
Which for its crown a grotto hath.

Here, where the poet once would stand,
See now his bust; the features sad
Of him who wrote the Lusiad ,
An exile in this eastern land.

Hence, after sixteen checkered years
Of toil, misfortune, travel, war,
He sought, at last, his native shore,
To die in penury and tears.

5

Northward once more; but, as I go,
Thy strait, Formosa, bids me pause;
Which, like a giant funnel, draws
Into itself all winds that blow.

The monsoon, hurrying southward, raves;
But climbs our ship the ocean-steeps;
And, like a valiant trooper, leaps
Into the ranks of serried waves.

Behind we leave Amoy, Swatow,
But touch where winds the river Min;
At her bold gates we enter in,
And for a day behold Foochow.

Thence through Chusan's romantic isles
To mighty Yangtse's mouth we run;
Here wait high-water, while the sun
Once more across the ocean smiles.

6

A liquid plain! A yellow waste
Of waters moving toward the sea!
An aqueous immensity
Advancing with majestic haste!

This is the Yangtse; fitly named
Son of the ocean by his sons;
For nowhere vaster river runs,
Nor one among mankind more famed.

As on the steamer's deck I stand,
Where rolls the light-ship in the wind,
To right, to left, before, behind,
No sign is visible of land.

But as we,, in expectant mood,
Against the eddying current steer,
Long strips of level shore appear,
Rising from out the level flood.

7

Long strips of level shore appear,
Which grow to green and fertile plains;
Here busy agriculture reigns,
And stands " the model city " here.

For such is, O Shanghai, the name
Thy western sons their home have given;
And as I tread thy bund at even,
I deem thee worthy of thy fame.

Here modern Europe dwells among
The water-courses of Cathay;
Here churches stand, and mansions gay,
And rises many a stately hong;

Here costly silks, and fragrant teas,
And furs, and fans, and porcelains rare
Are centered in profusion ere
They pass away to distant seas.

8

Far in antipodal Cathay,
Where Yangtse rolls his yellow flood,
We met and parted — was it good?
We knew each other for a day.

Lightly we met, as strangers meet,
And, smiling, clasped a friendly hand;
Sadly, within that flowery land,
We parted, never more to greet.

Beside the swift Whangpoo we stood,
The moon shone o'er its rushing waters;
She was the fairest of earth's daughters,
A wanderer I, of reckless mood.

Farewell, thou best of friends, farewell!
E'en did we part to meet again,
Parting were underlaid with pain; —
Now parting words fall like a knell.