Classic Poem

Saint Augustine, thy praise was sung by one
Who, though a jurist in his graver hours,—
Ay, and a politician,—had been won
To trifle with the Muses in thy bowers:
Relic of ancient prowess! past and gone,
What were his reveries 'mid thy falling towers,
Thy Spanish dances and Minorcan Graces,
Altars and orange groves, and Grecian faces?

Saint Anastasia's isle and single palm,
The ruined palace and the empty cell,
Thy rich, luxurious breezes, breathing balm,
The vacant convent and the silent bell,
Thy very air so mystical and calm,
The Constitution's column left to tell—
Alas! none other of the race remain—
How brief the date of liberty in Spain!

All these, and more than I can sing or say,
Court me in vain with their attractive charms;
I may no longer in these haunts delay,
Dreaming of festive scenes, or war's alarms,
In rapture bending over ladies gay,
Or burning as I list to feats of arms:
All I have heard, or feel, I may not tell,—
Much must die with me: Florida, farewell!

Farewell, sweet Florida! upon my dream
Too long I linger, for it is of thee;
Though unexhausted the delightful theme,
From its seductive loveliness I flee;
Leaving unsung full many a crystal stream,
Of most deceptive depth and purity,—
Saint Juan's orange-groves,—Dominga's smiles,—
Smyrna,—Lake George, and all his fairy isles.

Thy thousand silver lakes and shooting stars,
Thy boundless woods and ever-blooming vales,
Thy old invasions and religious wars,
Thine Indian legends and romantic tales,
Thine insurrections and domestic jars,
Thy nameless flowers and voluptuous gales,
All that will win some deathless poet's rhyme,
I leave,—bequeathing thee and them to Time !