Classic Poem

ADDRESSED TO BAYARD TAYLOR, THE POET AND TRAVELER

From the shores of the Pacific,
Where they look upon the main,
From the rocky fields that harvest
Every year their golden grain;

Round the world thy feet have wandered,
Round the world we've been with thee,
Gazing on thy graphic pictures,
Of the earth and skies and sea.

Up the frozen polar mountain,
By the glowing Orient seas,
Where Italia's silver fountain
Plays beneath her olive-trees.

Through the twilight dim and dying,
Of the gloomy polar day,
Over all the Northland flying,
On thy sparkling icy way;

Where the snow-white fields of ether
Meet the whiter fields of snow,
Joined like day and night together,
All above and all below.

And if gleams the red Aurora,
Or the sunlight's beam of gold,
Only darker falls the darkness,
Over all the wintry wold.

Wandering by the classic river,
In its soft, mysterious flow,
Murmuring, as it rolls forever,
Of the myths of long ago.

Through the fragrant vale of cedars,
Up the cooling mount of pines,
Where the merry song of vintage,
Floats along the purple vines.

O'er the hill, and o'er the heather,
By the banks of Bonnie Doon,
In the fair fields whitening under
England's golden harvest moon.

Down the green slopes to the border,
Of the blue and laughing Rhine,
Through the mountain shadows hanging
Over purple Apennine.

What could greet thee there but pleasure,
In the land of song and dance?
Trod thy feet a merry measure,
On the vine-clad hills of France.

Then beside the lordly Tiber,
Where she tossed her yellow foam,
Hurling back a proud defiance,
From the walls of lofty Rome;

As the bridge beneath the river,
So the ancient lays have told,
With its brave went down together,
In the glorious days of old.

In the fair homes of Geneva,
Up the proud Alps to the sky,
Tireless still went on thy footsteps,
Still untiring gazed thine eye;

From the Mosque of St. Sophia,
To St. Peter's gilded dome,
Warmed thy heart with holy fire,
Standing on the hills oFrome.

And from many a proud cathedral,
Turkish mosque and minaret,
Turned thine eye with fond devotion,
To the brow of Olivet.

Olivet serene and holy,
Jesus' chosen place of prayer,
Ever rests his benediction,
On the traveler kneeling there.

Thou the traveler, thine the blessing,
Thus securely couldst thou roam.
Till thy feet way-worn and weary,
Sought at last, a rest — at home.