AND still her gray rocks tower above the sea
That
murmurs at their feet, a conquered wave;
'T is a rough
land of earth and stone and tree,
Where breathes no
castled lord or cabined slave;
Where thoughts and tongues
and hands are bold and free,
And friends will find a
welcome, foes a grave;
And where none kneel, save when to
Heaven they pray,
Nor even then, unless in their own way.
Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong,
A
"fierce democracie," where all are true
To what
themselves have voted�right or wrong�
And to their laws,
denominated blue
(If red, they might to Draco's code
belong);
A vestal state, which power could not subdue,
Nor promise win,�like her own eagle's nest,
Sacred,�the
San Marino of the west.
A justice of the peace, for
the time being,
They bow to, but may turn him out next
year:
They reverence their priest, but, disagreeing
In
price or creed, dismiss him without fear:
They have a
natural talent for foreseeing
And knowing all things; and
should Park appear
From his long tour in Africa, to show
The Niger's source, they 'd meet him with�We know.
They love their land, because it is their own,
And scorn
to give aught other reason why;
Would shake hands with a
king upon his throne,
And think it kindness to his
majesty;
A stubborn race, fearing and flattering none.
Such are they nurtured, such they live and die:
All�but a
few apostates, who are meddling
With merchandise, pounds,
shillings, pence, and peddling.
Hers is not Tempe's
nor Arcadia's spring,
Nor the long summer of Cathayan
vales,
The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that
fling
Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales
Of
Florence and the Arno; yet the wing
Of life's best angel,
Health, is on her gales
Through sun and snow, and in the
autumn time
Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime.
Her clear, warm heaven at noon,�the mist that shrouds
Her twilight hills,�her cool and starry eves,
The
glorious splendor of her sunset clouds,
The rainbow
beauty of her forest leaves,
Come o'er the eye, in
solitude and crowds,
Where'er his web of song
her poet weaves;
And his mind's brightest vision but
displays
The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days.
And when you dream of woman, and her love,
Her truth,
her tenderness, her gentle power;
The maiden, listening
in the moonlight grove;
The mother, smiling in her
infant's bower;
Forms, features, worshipped while we
breathe or move,
Be, by some spirit of your dreaming
hour,
Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air
To
the green land I sing, then wake; you 'll find them there. |
