Classic Poem

For fifteen winter days
I sailed upon the deep, & turned my back
Upon the Northern lights, & burning Bear,
On the twin Bears fast tethered to the Pole
And the cold orbs that hang by them in heaven,
Till star by star they sank into the sea.
Full swelled the sail before the driving wind,
Till the stout pilot turned his prow to land,
Where peered, mid orange groves & citron boughs,
The little city of Saint Augustine.

Slow slid the vessel to the fragrant shore,
Loitering along Matanzas' sunny waves,
And under Anastasia's verdant isle.
I saw Saint Mark's grim bastions, piles of stone
Planting their deep foundations in the sea,
And speaking to the eye a thousand things
Of Spain, a thousand heavy histories.
Under these bleached walls of old renown
Our ship was moored.
— An hour of busy noise,
And I was made a quiet citizen,
Pacing my chamber in a Spanish street.
An exile's bread is salt, his heart is sad, —
Happy, he saith, the eye that never saw
The smoke ascending from a stranger's fire!
Yet much is here
Than can beguile the months of banishment
To the pale travellers whom Disease hath sent
Hither for genial air from Northern homes.
Oh many a tragic story can be read, —
Dim vestiges of a romantic past,
Within the small peninsula of sand.
Here is the old land of America
And in this sea-girt nook, the infant steps
First foot-prints of that Genius giant-grown
That daunts the nations with his power today.

Inquisitive of such, I walk alone
Along the narrow streets, unpaved & old,
Among few dwellers, and the jealous doors
And windows barred upon the public way.

I explored
The castle & the ruined monastery
Unpeopled town, ruins of streets of stone,
Pillars upon the margin of the sea,
With worn inscriptions oft explored in vain,
Then with a keener scrutiny, I marked
The motley population. Hither come
The forest families, timid & tame
Not now as once with stained tomahawk
The restless red man left his council fire,
Or when, with Mexique art, he painted haughtily
On canvas woven in his boundless woods
His simple symbols for his foes to read.
Not such an one is yon poor vagabond
Who in unclean & sloven apathy
Brings venison from the forest, — silly trade.
Alas! red men are few, red men are feeble,
They are few & feeble, & must pass away. —
— — And here,
The dark Minorcan, sad & separate,
Wrapt in his cloak, strolls with unsocial eye:
By day, basks idle in the sun, then seeks his food
All night upon the waters, stilly plying
His hook & line in all the moonlit bays.
Here steals the sick man with uncertain gait
Looks with a feeble spirit at things around
As if he sighing said, " What is't to me?
" I dwell afar; — far from this cheerless fen
" My wife, my children strain their eyes to me
" And oh! in vain. Wo, wo is me! I feel
" In spite of hope, these wishful eyes no more
" Shall see New England's wood-crowned hills again. "

*****

(Here is a chasm very much to be regretted in the original manuscript.)

*****There liest thou, little city of the deep,And alway hearest the unceasing soundBy day & night in summer & in frost,The roar of waters on thy coral shore.But softening southward in thy gentle climeEven the rude sea relents to clemency,Feels the kind ray of that benignant sunAnd pours warm billows up the beach of shells.Farewell; & fair befall thee, gentle town!The prayer of those who thank thee for their life,The benison of those thy fragrant airs,And simple hospitality hath blest,Be to thee ever as the rich perfumeOf a good name, & pleasant memory!