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Lay of a Wanderer
WHERE Pablo to the broad St. John | |
| His dark and briny tribute pays, | |
| The wild deer leads her dappled fawn, | |
| Of graceful limb and timid gaze; | |
| Rich sunshine falls on wave and land, | 5 |
| The gull is screaming overhead, | |
| And on a beach of whitened sand | |
| Lie wreathy shells with lips of red. | |
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| The jessamine hangs golden flowers | |
| On ancient oaks in moss arrayed, | 10 |
| And proudly the palmetto towers, | |
| While mock-birds warble in the shade; | |
| Mounds, built by mortal hand, are near, | |
| Green from the summit to the base, | |
| Where, buried with the bow and spear, | 15 |
| Rest tribes, forgetful of the chase. | |
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| Cassada, nigh the ocean shore, | |
| Is now a ruin, wild and lone, | |
| And on her battlements no more | |
| Is banner waved or trumpet blown; | 20 |
| Those doughty cavaliers are gone | |
| Who hurled defiance there to France, | |
| While the bright waters of St. John | |
| Reflected flash of sword and lance. | |
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| But when the light of dying day | 25 |
| Falls on the crumbling wrecks of time, | |
| And the wan features of decay | |
| Wear softened beauty, like the clime, | |
| My fancy summons from the shroud | |
| The knights of old Castile again, | 30 |
| And charging thousands shout aloud,— | |
| “St. Jago strikes to-day for Spain!” | |
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| When mystic voices, on the breeze | |
| That fans the rolling deep, sweep by, | |
| The spirits of the Yemassees, | 35 |
| Who ruled the land of yore, seem nigh; | |
| For mournful marks, around where stood | |
| Their palm-roofed lodges, yet are seen, | |
| And in the shadows of the wood | |
| Their tall, funereal mounds are green. | 40 |
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