 | The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell |  |
72
NEWFOUNDLAND.
O rugged land!
Land of the rock moss!
Land whose drear barrens it is woe to cross!
Thou rough thing from God's hand!
O stormy land!
Land where the tempests roar!
Land where the unbroken waves rave mad upon the shore:
Thine outwalls scarce withstand!
Land of the rock moss!
Land whose drear barrens it is woe to cross!
Thou rough thing from God's hand!
O stormy land!
Land where the tempests roar!
Land where the unbroken waves rave mad upon the shore:
Thine outwalls scarce withstand!
O wintry realm,
Where the cold north winds blow;
Where drifting, bitter sleet, and blinding snow
All man's poor work o'erwhelm!
O bleak, bleak realm,
Whose homeward-hastening bark
Is crisped with ice: sails, cordage, stiff and stark,
And iced the unruly helm!
Where the cold north winds blow;
Where drifting, bitter sleet, and blinding snow
All man's poor work o'erwhelm!
O bleak, bleak realm,
Whose homeward-hastening bark
Is crisped with ice: sails, cordage, stiff and stark,
And iced the unruly helm!
What hast thou in thy gift?
The kindly sun has shone,
These thousand years, the stubborn cliffs upon
Which thou on high dost lift:
What hast thou in thy gift?
A stinted growth appears:
Grass, shrub, and tree, slow-growing in long years,
Where gapes the rocky rift.
The kindly sun has shone,
These thousand years, the stubborn cliffs upon
73
What hast thou in thy gift?
A stinted growth appears:
Grass, shrub, and tree, slow-growing in long years,
Where gapes the rocky rift.
Yet thou art good:
Thy barrens feed the deer;
And birds of other lands do summer here,
In thy lone humble wood.
Ay, thou art good;
The poor man at his door
Gathers his fuel; and year-long thy shore
Yields, in free gift, his food.
Thy barrens feed the deer;
And birds of other lands do summer here,
In thy lone humble wood.
Ay, thou art good;
The poor man at his door
Gathers his fuel; and year-long thy shore
Yields, in free gift, his food.
And better, still:
Beneath a guardian-crown
The poor man freely walks and lays him down,
Free in all things but ill:
And better, still:
Here Holy Faith hath come,
Teaching that God will give a glorious home
To those that do His will.
Beneath a guardian-crown
The poor man freely walks and lays him down,
Free in all things but ill:
And better, still:
Here Holy Faith hath come,
Teaching that God will give a glorious home
To those that do His will.
January 9, 1847.
| The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell | |