dots-menu
×
Home  »  library  »  poem  »  The Discoverer

C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

The Discoverer

By Edmund Clarence Stedman (1833–1908)

I HAVE a little kinsman

Whose earthly summers are but three,

And yet a voyager is he

Greater than Drake or Frobisher,

Than all their peers together!

He is a brave discoverer,

And, far beyond the tether

Of them who seek the frozen pole,

Has sailed where the noiseless surges roll.

Ay, he has traveled whither

A wingèd pilot steered his bark

Through the portals of the dark,

Past hoary Mimir’s well and tree,

Across the unknown sea.

Suddenly, in his fair young hour,

Came one who bore a flower,

And laid it in his dimpled hand

With this command:—

“Henceforth thou art a rover!

Thou must make a voyage far,

Sail beneath the evening star,

And a wondrous land discover.”—

With his sweet smile innocent

Our little kinsman went.

Since that time no word

From the absent has been heard.

Who can tell

How he fares, or answer well

What the little one has found

Since he left us, outward bound?

Would that he might return!

Then should we learn

From the pricking of his chart

How the skyey roadways part.

Hush! does not the baby this way bring,

To lay beside this severed curl,

Some starry offering

Of chrysolite or pearl?

Ah, no! not so!

We may follow on his track,

But he comes not back.

And yet I dare aver

He is a brave discoverer

Of climes his elders do not know.

He has more learning than appears

On the scroll of twice three thousand years,

More than in the groves is taught,

Or from furthest Indies brought;

He knows, perchance, how spirits fare,

What shapes the angels wear,

What is their guise and speech

In those lands beyond our reach;

And his eyes behold

Things that shall never, never be to mortal hearers told.