The Knickerbocker Gallery/A Tropical Voyage
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Park Benjamin
A Tropical Voyage.
By Park Benjamin.
It was the month, the saddest one Of all the varied year;The slant beams of the setting sunTouched the long vapors, thick and dun, Like hope that brightens fear.And far and near, with dash and moan,The waves, like prisoners, dungeon-pent, Beat on the rocky bare;When forth upon my voyage I went,Companioned, yet alone! Friends made I of the stars;For, ere the day had slowly rolled,The mists were all bedecked with gold, And when dark shadows grew,Those lustrous children of the NightLooked with their tender eyes of light Serenely from the blue.I was no sage astrologer,Yet in their pure and brilliant lore,Without one cloud the page to blur, As gently, smoothly, softly o'erNow sparkling waves our vessel flowed, Could I a radiant story see Of that not far futurity,That longed-for, sighed-for, dear abode,From which, forlorn, I had departed, To drink awhile the healing airs,To taste the effluence, which imparted, In answer to unfaltering prayers.
Joy to the storm-tost mariner, When, dimly far, Columbus spiedThe blue line of San Salvador Lift o'er the golden tide!Yes, hopes and wishes fell like raysUpon me from that starry blaze;And well I knew that I should turn Safely my homeward prow once more,And once more view their glory burn, Silvering the billows toward the shoreOf Northern climes, to which my soul Still pointed with magnetic power; Though soft the scene and fair the hour,And though the billows' murmuring rollLulled every sense in deep repose,And winds, that seemed to waft the rose, Came to me through the Tropic night, Suggesting visions of delight, And rapturous dreams of beauty bright,In Southern chambers, never knownTo dwellers in the Temperate zone.
And so we sailed — on — on — while smiles Dimpled each billow's azure cheek,And then we hailed those happy isles That Nature's fond enthusiasts seek,Because perpetual Summer dwellsIn all their flower-besprinkled dells,And lifts his banners green above Their hills and woods, and hangs his wreathsIn all their bowers — where lasting love The incense of fruition breathes.
It is, in truth, a fairy clime,With all its beauty spared by Time.Though Cultivation o'er the landHath sown its seeds with liberal hand;Though, in the lapse of many a yearThe Spirit of the Storm appear,And hurl destruction far and near,So rapidly is life regained By tree and herbage, that the fieldWhere the swift deluge fiercest rained, Will all its vegetation yield,With more luxuriance than the firstNew morn the faithful soil was nursed.
Long graceful lines of coast were seen,Fringed with the deepest tints of green;The waves ran up and kissed the shore, As if inspired with child-like glee,Then, laughing at the robbery, bore Leaves, buds, and blossoms out to sea.It was a heartfelt joy to hear Their merry voices; to beholdGleaming upon their foreheads clear, Circlets of silver, wreaths of gold;To deem them living creatures, blest With the soft airs and genial glowOf this Elysium of the West, Unchanging ever in their flow,Save with the changes of their queen — The Moon — subdued by whose sweet face,They rolled away and left between Their boundary and the shore a space —A glittering belt of sand and shells,Tossed from the ocean's treasure-cells.
Alas! how many years I've told On my life's rosary, since the time, When, jingling little bells of rhyme,I voyaged to shun the mist and coldOf Winter in a Northern town;I voyaged to lands of small renown —Lands where no war was ever waged,Where none but lovers were engaged;Where old Association findsNo records of illustrious minds;No ruined temple, broken bust,Nor urn nor venerated dust;But where, a Matron-Bride arrayedIn all the pomp of light and shade, In flowers that blush in earth, in air,In fruitage, luscious, rich and rare,Sits Nature with her belt unbound,Garments loose-flowing to the ground,Looks, gesture, motion warm and free,And all the charms of liberty.