TO GEN. T.L. YOUNG

BECAUSE my soul is weary, and
For that old days come back in dreams,
With visions of cool mountain streams
That bubble in a northern land;

And that I tire of palms and vines,
And hate the papaguyo's squall,
And long for apples in the fall
And hunter camps, and breath of pines;

And that my soul is sick to-day,
With waiting on a trifling race
Where oily tongue and smiling face
Are prone to palter and betray;

And that I do remember all
Old friends with whom I walked the lines
Y-blazed on beechen trees or pines,
And every pool or waterfall

Where crimson spotted trout would rise;
And that I watch the hours away
For white winged ships from New York Bay
Whose striped flags bear starry eyes—

For these, and for the thoughts that stir
Within me, I will slaughter time
And break the limping legs of rhyme,
Garrulous of the days that were.

Far down the bay, on either hand
I see the sleeping islands lie
In beauty, underneath a sky
Bluer than in our northern land.

A living scroll of evergreen
Sweeps downward to the sluggish stream,
Where gorgeous insects flash and gleam
Like gems, athwart the vernal sheen.

By Ma-ca-pa the crisp waves curl
Where music sounds the whole night long,
And wild Cabano dance and song
Are done by dark-haired Muri girls.

There dusky maids bedecked with flowers
Dance under mangubeira trees,
And indolence, and love, and ease
Make up the sum of tropic hours.

The firelight gleams on eyes of jet
And maiden breasts of nuttiest brown,
Slow palpitating up and down,
Like summer waves that heave and set

The hidden tropic fire I see
Flash out in every dusky face;
But I am of a manlier race,
And these are naught to mine or me.

And soon I take the watery plain
Where many a white winged ship has sailed
For home. And some have fought and failed,
In fierce typhoon or hurricane.

And so—for that my heart is sick—
I write to him who left in fee
The whiskey bottle in the tree,
Far up the forks of Freeman Creek.

Para, North Brazil, Oct., 1870