I SAILED by Tenedos, in sight of Troy, | |
| My Homer in my hand, but in my heart | |
| Little remembrance of the past, or joy | |
| In the sad present or the poet’s art. | |
| |
| A ship went by that bore my country’s name, | 5 |
| “The Great Republic,” and a moment’s thrill | |
| Flashed through my breast, but vanished as it came, | |
| For in that bark an Iliad was of ill. | |
| |
| A thousand wounded soldiers in her deeps | |
| Lay groaning, bleeding; scarce a man but bore | 10 |
| His deathmark on him. Happy he that sleeps | |
| There where he fell, beside the Pontic shore. | |
| |
| And farther onward as we stretched our sail | |
| Along the sacred Hellespont, a gleam | |
| Came in the night, and mingled with a wail | 15 |
| That seemed the voice of the complaining stream. | |
| |
| Black messengers of death were on the wing, | |
| Like clouds containing tempests, darkly driven | |
| By autumn winds—alas! the news they bring | |
| The doom that took the gentle chief to heaven. | 20 |
| |
| Farewell, brave heart! if not the brightest sword, | |
| Set of true temper, thou wert of the best: | |
| Considerate chieftain, unpresuming Lord, | |
| Fitzroy! good angels bear thee to thy rest! | |
| |
| We mourned with England, if the vulgar swarm | 25 |
| Read of her sorrow with unfriendly smile; | |
| We mourn for them too, for our hearts are warm | |
| Yet with a drop from the ancestral isle. | |
| |
| Tell me thy name, American! What race, | |
| What blood, what accent ruled thee at thy birth? | 30 |
| That when the news comes of a new disgrace | |
| Mak’st England’s grief the staple of thy mirth. | |
| |
| But we are past Seraglio Point—behold! | |
| Scutari—Pera—cypresses—cáiques— | |
| All the old places—lo! the Horn of Gold! | 35 |
| The Sultan’s pride—the glory of the Greeks. | |
| |
| There as we anchored in Byzantium’s wave | |
| Beneath the walls of Constantine, a cry | |
| Startled our ears; but ’twas a cry that gave | |
| Joy to my soul and gladness to mine eye. | 40 |
| |
| A new gleam breaketh on the dusky night! | |
| Gilding Sophia’s, like Saint Peter’s dome; | |
| Good news! they have it! God hath sped the right; | |
| A hundred minarets flash it on the foam! | |
| |
| Mount Ida caught the flash and sent it on | 45 |
| To the isle of Lemnos, like that courier-light | |
| Which bright with news of Troy’s destruction shone, | |
| And thence it sped to Athos’ holy height; | |
| |
| So on to Argos, on to Syracuse, | |
| And, by Hesperia, to the bounteous land | 50 |
| That owes to Gallic hearts its generous juice, | |
| Crimsoning the white face of the sacred strand; | |
| |
| Till to this young half-world, where Hesperus | |
| Hangs a new signal in the nation’s eyes, | |
| The lightning sped! and brought the thrill to us— | 55 |
| A thrill of joy! they have it! the Allies! | |
| |
| For we must joy with England or abjure | |
| The faith in freedom that our fathers had. | |
| Dost thou rejoice not? Wouldst thyself endure | |
| The sway whose downfall does not make thee glad? | 60 |
| |
| Tell me thy name, that I may set it down, | |
| And say this man—he had a double soul: | |
| Proud of old England and her past renown, | |
| He felt no triumph at Sebastopol! | |
| |
