| |
| I SAT beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped | |
| With Newport coal, and as the flame grew bright,— | |
| The many-colored flame,—and played and leaped, | |
| I thought of rainbows and the Northern Light, | |
| Moore’s Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Report, | 5 |
| And other brilliant matters of the sort. | |
| |
| At last I thought of that fair isle which sent | |
| The mineral fuel; on a summer day | |
| I saw it once, with heat and travel spent, | |
| And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow way; | 10 |
| Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stone,— | |
| A rugged road through rugged Tiverton. | |
| |
| And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew | |
| The deep-worn path, and, horror-struck, I thought | |
| Where will this dreary passage lead me to? | 15 |
| This long, dull road, so narrow, deep, and hot? | |
| I looked to see it dive in earth outright; | |
| I looked,—but saw a far more welcome sight. | |
| |
| Like a soft mist upon the evening shore, | |
| At once a lovely isle before me lay; | 20 |
| Smooth, and with tender verdure covered o’er, | |
| As if just risen from its calm inland bay; | |
| Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge, | |
| And the small waves that dallied with the sedge. | |
| |
| The barley was just reaped,—its heavy sheaves | 25 |
| Lay on the stubble field,—the tall maize stood | |
| Dark in its summer growth, and shook its leaves,— | |
| And bright the sunlight played on the young wood,— | |
| For fifty years ago, the old men say, | |
| The Briton hewed their ancient groves away. | 30 |
| |
| I saw where fountains freshened the green land, | |
| And where the pleasant road, from door to door | |
| With rows of cherry-trees on either hand, | |
| Went wandering all that fertile region o’er,— | |
| Rogue’s Island once,—but, when the rogues were dead, | 35 |
| Rhode Island was the name it took instead. | |
| |
| Beautiful island! then it only seemed | |
| A lovely stranger,—it has grown a friend. | |
| I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed | |
| How soon that bright beneficent isle would send | 40 |
| The treasures of its womb across the sea, | |
| To warm a poet’s room and boil his tea. | |
| |
| Dark anthracite! that reddenest on my hearth, | |
| Thou in those island mines didst slumber long; | |
| But now thou art come forth to move the earth, | 45 |
| And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong. | |
| Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, | |
| And warm the shins of all that underrate thee. | |
| |
| Yea, they did wrong thee foully,—they who mocked | |
| Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn; | 50 |
| Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked, | |
| And grew profane,—and swore, in bitter scorn, | |
| That men might to thy inner caves retire, | |
| And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire. | |
| |
| Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state, | 55 |
| That I too have seen greatness, even I,— | |
| Shook hands with Adams,—stared at La Fayette, | |
| When, bareheaded, in the hot noon of July, | |
| He would not let the umbrella be held o’er him, | |
| For which three cheers burst from the mob before him. | 60 |
| |
| And I have seen—not many months ago— | |
| An eastern governor in chapeau bras | |
| And military coat, a glorious show! | |
| Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah! | |
| How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan! | 65 |
| How many hands were shook and votes were won! | |
| |
| ’T was a great governor,—thou too shalt be | |
| Great in thy turn,—and wide shall spread thy fame, | |
| And swiftly; farthest Maine shall hear of thee, | |
| And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy name, | 70 |
| And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle | |
| That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile. | |
| |
| For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat | |
| The hissing rivers into steam, and drive | |
| Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet, | 75 |
| Walking their steady way, as if alive, | |
| Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee, | |
| And south as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee. | |
| |
| Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea, | |
| Like its own monsters,—boats that for a guinea | 80 |
| Will take a man to Havre,—and shalt be | |
| The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, | |
| And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear | |
| As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor. | |
| |
| Then we will laugh at Winter when we hear | 85 |
| The grim old churl about our dwellings rave; | |
| Thou, from that “ruler of the inverted year,” | |
| Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, | |
| And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, | |
| And melt the icicles from off his chin. | 90 |
| |
