IN THE TROPICS

WE cleft the waves, mound after mound,
And still it seemed as we had not
Advanced, but when the sun went down,
Were in the self-same spot.

Strange seabirds all the weary days
Circled about the pilot house.
Flashing in blue and golden rays
Bright dolphins held carouse.

The southeast trades with gentle breeze
Swept o’er us with a breath of balm.
We only longed for land and trees,
For homelike rest and calm.

At early morn the sea was blue,
It still was blue at close of day.
Forever old, forever new,
It was the same alway.

At noon we shrank beneath the sun
That flamed in splendor overhead;
At evening, when the day was done,
We made the deck our bed.

We watched amid the thin pale mist
That glimmers o’er these summer seas,
Peering through banks of amethyst
For mangubeira trees.

And thus, at length, through seas of calm,
And waves that changed from blue to green,
We made the blessed isles of Palm,
With silver waves between.

We were aweary and had rest;
We were an hungered and were fed.
When sank the sun adown the west,
The hammock was our bed.

At morn the humming bird was seen,
Flashing thro’ many a fairy bower,
An emerald of the brightest green,
Set in a crimson flower.

We missed the crash and roar of trade,
The murky mills that shriek and groan,
To smoke and swing in tropic shade,
Where hurry is unknown.

And, though we missed the mountain breeze
With balmy breath of feathery pines,
We found fair groves of orange trees,
And ever flowering vines.

We missed the maids with golden curls
And azure eyes of love and light,
But danced and sang with dark haired girls
Whose eyes were just as bright

We missed the northern star at night,
We missed the cooling breeze at morn;
We missed the slowly waning light,
The fields of waving corn.

Oh clear and pure the stars may shine,
And brighter than in northern lands;
And gorgeous flowers may deck the vine
That sweeps the silver sands;

And rich and rare the birds may be
That gem the banks of Amazon,
And bright the sheen of vine and tree,
With golden fruit upon;

But dull stagnation, like a pall,
Hangs o’er the land so fair and frail;
It is the Serpent land—and all
Bear witness of the trail.

What wonder if we came to long,
Or that the longing daily grew,
For northern birds in silvery song,
And lakes of limpid blue.

What wonder if the gay macaws
Gave less delight than homely birds,
Or that we tired of Romish laws,
And longed for Saxon words.

Para, North Brazil, June 10, 1867