[Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) being scattered chapters from the history of the Cooper, Pomeroy, Woolson and Benedict families, with extracts From their Letters and Journals, as well as articles and poems by Constance Fenimore Woolson |
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MORRIS ISLAND. |
 | [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) |  |
MORRIS ISLAND.
Night is falling over Charleston harbour,
Sea-fog to and fro its veil is shifting,
Sumter looms up dark; the ocean-vessels
Anchored in the stream seem slowly drifting—
Sea-fog to and fro its veil is shifting,
Sumter looms up dark; the ocean-vessels
Anchored in the stream seem slowly drifting—
Drifting with the tide; the distant city
Folded in its rivers, emblematic
Of its close-wrapped pride, low on the water
Lies like Venice on the Adriatic.
Folded in its rivers, emblematic
Of its close-wrapped pride, low on the water
Lies like Venice on the Adriatic.
Silently we wander o'er the island,
Silently, we know our feet are treading
Graves unnumbered that the ocean guardeth,
Graves unnumbered where the sand is spreading
Silently, we know our feet are treading
Graves unnumbered that the ocean guardeth,
Graves unnumbered where the sand is spreading
Thick its veil along the line of trenches;
Though no sign the dumb white desert giveth,
They are there beneath its wind-swept beaches,
Thought of them the only thing that liveth
Though no sign the dumb white desert giveth,
They are there beneath its wind-swept beaches,
Thought of them the only thing that liveth
Now upon its shore; no land-bird flutters
O'er its barren slope, no grasses growing,
Few its very sea-shells, while the sunset
Gilds the pallid levels with its glowing
O'er its barren slope, no grasses growing,
Few its very sea-shells, while the sunset
Gilds the pallid levels with its glowing
Like a mockery, and doubly arid
Shine the sand-hills of the lighthouse station,
Gold-tipped rise the broken lines of Wagner,
Looking down upon the desolation.
Shine the sand-hills of the lighthouse station,
Gold-tipped rise the broken lines of Wagner,
Looking down upon the desolation.
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Yet we find upon these ruined ramparts,
Old embrasures of the cannon looming
Over them for shade, the legend-crowned
Chrismal passion-flowers, richly blooming
Old embrasures of the cannon looming
Over them for shade, the legend-crowned
Chrismal passion-flowers, richly blooming
All alone, more wonderful in beauty
On these sands of death, more gently tender
For their very loneliness; they grow here
Only for the dead, their purple splendour
On these sands of death, more gently tender
For their very loneliness; they grow here
Only for the dead, their purple splendour
Given him who has no other blossoms,
Marble-carven, or the living roses
By a churchyard-mound, the common soldier
Who beneath this sand somewhere reposes,
Marble-carven, or the living roses
By a churchyard-mound, the common soldier
Who beneath this sand somewhere reposes,
Throes of dying o'er. O flower of passion,
Flower of suffering, how fit to meet thee
On these pale wan shores of solemn silence,
Watching by the dead! We pause to greet thee,
Flower of suffering, how fit to meet thee
On these pale wan shores of solemn silence,
Watching by the dead! We pause to greet thee,
Thinking of the hour when each poor mortal
Buried here, the life that his Creator
Gave him for his own, did yield in anguish—
Yea, 'mid sins, could give a gift no greater
Buried here, the life that his Creator
Gave him for his own, did yield in anguish—
Yea, 'mid sins, could give a gift no greater
Were he saint or martyr! Shine on, flowerets,
Far the ships sail o'er the dusky ocean,
Far the world has gone away; ye only
Steadfast wait with Nature's still devotion;
Far the ships sail o'er the dusky ocean,
Far the world has gone away; ye only
Steadfast wait with Nature's still devotion;
And no flower had ever fairer mission,
Rose, or lily, blue-bell of the highland,
Than is thine, O lovely aureoled blossom,
Blooming here alone on Morris Island!
Rose, or lily, blue-bell of the highland,
Than is thine, O lovely aureoled blossom,
Blooming here alone on Morris Island!
| [Poems by Woolson in] Five generations (1785-1923) | |