 | Joaquin, et al. |  |
3
[I.]
Glintings of day in a darkness—
Flashings of flint and of steel—
Blended in gossamer texture,
The ideal and the real,
Limn'd like the phantom-ship-shadow,
Crowding up under the keel.
Flashings of flint and of steel—
Blended in gossamer texture,
The ideal and the real,
Limn'd like the phantom-ship-shadow,
Crowding up under the keel.
I stand beside the mobile sea,
And sails are spread and sails are furled,
And ships go up and ships go down
In haste, like traders in a town,
And seem to see and beckon all.
Afar I see a white shape flee
With arms outstretched like ghost's to me,
Then slides down to the under-world.
Black masts—as if a winter's wind
Had shorn them bare of leaf and limb—
Are rising from the restless sea
So still and desolate and tall,
I almost see them gleam and shine
From clinging drops of dripping brine.
Broad still brown wings slide here and there,
Thin sea-blue wings wheel everywhere,
And white wings whistle through the air.
I hear a thousand sea-gulls call.
And sails are spread and sails are furled,
And ships go up and ships go down
In haste, like traders in a town,
And seem to see and beckon all.
Afar I see a white shape flee
With arms outstretched like ghost's to me,
Then slides down to the under-world.
Black masts—as if a winter's wind
Had shorn them bare of leaf and limb—
Are rising from the restless sea
So still and desolate and tall,
I almost see them gleam and shine
4
Broad still brown wings slide here and there,
Thin sea-blue wings wheel everywhere,
And white wings whistle through the air.
I hear a thousand sea-gulls call.
Behold the Ocean on the beach
Kneel lowly down as if in prayer.
I hear a moan as of despair,
While far at sea do toss, and reach
Somethings so like white pleading hands.
The Ocean's thin and hoary hair
Is trailed along the rolling sands,
At every sigh and sounding moan.
'Tis not a place for mirthfulness,
But meditation deep, and prayer,
And kneelings on the salted sod,
Where man must own his littleness
And know the mightiness of God.
The very birds shriek in distress
And sound the Ocean's monotone.
Kneel lowly down as if in prayer.
I hear a moan as of despair,
While far at sea do toss, and reach
Somethings so like white pleading hands.
The Ocean's thin and hoary hair
Is trailed along the rolling sands,
At every sigh and sounding moan.
'Tis not a place for mirthfulness,
But meditation deep, and prayer,
And kneelings on the salted sod,
Where man must own his littleness
And know the mightiness of God.
The very birds shriek in distress
And sound the Ocean's monotone.
Dared I but say a prophecy,
As sang the holy men of old,
Of rock-built cities yet to be
Along these rolling sands of gold,
Crowding athirst into the sea,
What wondrous marvels might be told.
Enough, to know that empire here
Shall burn her loftiest, brightest star.
Here art and eloquence shall reign,
As o'er the wolf-reared realm of old;
Here learned and famous from afar
To pay their noble court shall come,
And shall not seek or see in vain,
But look on all with wonder dumb.
As sang the holy men of old,
Of rock-built cities yet to be
5
Crowding athirst into the sea,
What wondrous marvels might be told.
Enough, to know that empire here
Shall burn her loftiest, brightest star.
Here art and eloquence shall reign,
As o'er the wolf-reared realm of old;
Here learned and famous from afar
To pay their noble court shall come,
And shall not seek or see in vain,
But look on all with wonder dumb.
Afar the gleaming Sierras lie
Against a ground of bluest sky.
A long bent line of stainless white,
As if Diana's maid last night
Had in the liquid soft moonlight
Washed out her mistress' garments bright,
And on yon bent and swaying line
Hung all her linen out to dry.
Against a ground of bluest sky.
A long bent line of stainless white,
As if Diana's maid last night
Had in the liquid soft moonlight
Washed out her mistress' garments bright,
And on yon bent and swaying line
Hung all her linen out to dry.
I look along each gaping gorge—
I hear a thousand sounding strokes
Like brawny Vulcan at his forge,
Or giants rending giant oaks.
I see pick-axes flash and shine
And great wheels whirling in a mine.
Here winds a thick and yellow thread,
A mossed and silver stream instead;
And trout that leaped its rippled tide
Have turned upon their sides and died.
Lo! when the last pick in the mine
Is rusting red with idleness,
And rot yon cabins in the mold,
And wheels no more croak in distress,
And tall pines re-assert command,
Sweet bards along this sunset shore
Their mellow melodies will pour—
Will charm as charmers very wise—
Will strike the harp with master hand—
Will sound unto the vaulted skies
The valour of these men of old—
The mighty men of 'Forty-Nine—
Will sweetly sing and proudly say,
Long, long agone there was a day
When there were giants in the land.
I hear a thousand sounding strokes
Like brawny Vulcan at his forge,
Or giants rending giant oaks.
6
And great wheels whirling in a mine.
Here winds a thick and yellow thread,
A mossed and silver stream instead;
And trout that leaped its rippled tide
Have turned upon their sides and died.
Lo! when the last pick in the mine
Is rusting red with idleness,
And rot yon cabins in the mold,
And wheels no more croak in distress,
And tall pines re-assert command,
Sweet bards along this sunset shore
Their mellow melodies will pour—
Will charm as charmers very wise—
Will strike the harp with master hand—
Will sound unto the vaulted skies
The valour of these men of old—
The mighty men of 'Forty-Nine—
Will sweetly sing and proudly say,
Long, long agone there was a day
When there were giants in the land.
| Joaquin, et al. | |