There's a right smart chance for fur-chase All along this recent purchase, And, unless the stories fail, Every fish from cod to whale;
Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,--'Twould be strange if there should be,--Seems I've heerd such stories told;
Eh!--why, bless us,--yes, it's gold!"
While the blows are falling thick From his California pick, You may recognize the Thor Of the vision that I saw,--Freed from legendary glamour, See the real magician's hammer.
ST. THOMAS
(A GEOGRAPHICAL SURVEY, 1868)
Very fair and full of promise Lay the island of St. Thomas:
Ocean o'er its reefs and bars Hid its elemental scars;
Groves of cocoanut and guava Grew above its fields of lava.
So the gem of the Antilles--"Isles of Eden," where no ill is--Like a great green turtle slumbered On the sea that it encumbered.
Then said William Henry Seward, As he cast his eye to leeward, "Quite important to our commerce Is this island of St. Thomas."
Said the Mountain ranges, "Thank'ee, But we cannot stand the Yankee O'er our scars and fissures poring, In our very vitals boring, In our sacred caverns prying, All our secret problems trying,--Digging, blasting, with dynamit Mocking all our thunders! Damn it!
Other lands may be more civil;
Bust our lava crust if we will!"
Said the Sea, its white teeth gnashing Through its coral-reef lips flashing, "Shall I let this scheming mortal Shut with stone my shining portal, Curb my tide and check my play, Fence with wharves my shining bay?
Rather let me be drawn out In one awful waterspout!"
Said the black-browed Hurricane, Brooding down the Spanish Main, "Shall I see my forces, zounds!
Measured by square inch and pounds, With detectives at my back When I double on my track, And my secret paths made clear, Published o'er the hemisphere To each gaping, prying crew?
Shall I? Blow me if I do!"
So the Mountains shook and thundered, And the Hurricane came sweeping, And the people stared and wondered As the Sea came on them leaping:
Each, according to his promise, Made things lively at St. Thomas.
Till one morn, when Mr. Seward Cast his weather eye to leeward, There was not an inch of dry land Left to mark his recent island.
Not a flagstaff or a sentry, Not a wharf or port of entry,--Only--to cut matters shorter--Just a patch of muddy water In the open ocean lying, And a gull above it flying.
OFF SCARBOROUGH
(SEPTEMBER, 1779)
I
"Have a care!" the bailiffs cried From their cockleshell that lay Off the frigate's yellow side, Tossing on Scarborough Bay, While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched away.
"Take your chicks beneath your wings, And your claws and feathers spread, Ere the hawk upon them springs,--Ere around Flamborough Head Swoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and talons red."
II
How we laughed!--my mate and I,--On the "Bon Homme Richard's" deck, As we saw that convoy fly Like a snow-squall, till each fleck Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by speck;
And scuffling back to shore The Scarborough bailiffs sped, As the "Richard" with a roar Of her cannon round the Head, Crossed her royal yards and signaled to her consort: "Chase ahead"
III
But the devil seize Landais In that consort ship of France!
For the shabby, lubber way That he worked the "Alliance" In the offing,--nor a broadside fired save to our mischance!--When tumbling to the van, With his battle-lanterns set, Rose the burly Englishman 'Gainst our hull as black as jet,--Rode the yellow-sided "Serapis," and all alone we met!
IV
All alone, though far at sea Hung his consort, rounding to;
All alone, though on our lee Fought our "Pallas," stanch and true!
For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle drew:
And, like champions in a ring, There was cleared a little space--Scarce a cable's length to swing--Ere we grappled in embrace, All the world shut out around us, and we only face to face!
V
Then awoke all hell below From that broadside, doubly curst, For our long eighteens in row Leaped the first discharge and burst!
And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own guns the worst.
And as dumb we lay, till, through Smoke and flame and bitter cry, Hailed the "Serapis:" "Have you Struck your colors?" Our reply, "We have not yet begun to fight!" went shouting to the sky!
VI
Roux of Brest, old fisher, lay Like a herring gasping here;
Bunker of Nantucket Bay, Blown from out the port, dropped sheer Half a cable's length to leeward; yet we faintly raised a cheer As with his own right hand Our Commodore made fast The foeman's head-gear and The "Richard's" mizzen-mast, And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to last!
VII
Yet the foeman, gun on gun, Through the "Richard" tore a road, With his gunners' rammers run Through our ports at every load, Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers showed.
Yet with entrails torn we clung Like the Spartan to our fox, And on deck no coward tongue Wailed the enemy's hard knocks, Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks.
VIII
Then a thought rose in my brain, As through Channel mists the sun.
From our tops a fire like rain Drove below decks every one Of the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a gun:
And that thought took shape as I On the "Richard's" yard lay out, That a man might do and die, If the doing brought about Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates' cheering shout!
IX
Then I crept out in the dark Till I hung above the hatch Of the "Serapis,"--a mark For her marksmen!--with a match And a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to snatch One last look at sea and sky!
At the lighthouse on the hill!
At the harvest-moon on high!
And our pine flag fluttering still!
Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that devil's pill!
X
Then a blank was all between As the flames around me spun!
Had I fired the magazine?
Was the victory lost or won?
Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was done:
