Classic Poem

I always heard at Marcus Hook
That Finns — a race of freak —
Had settled from the Rip-Rap Kills
Far down as Naaman's Creek.
These Finns, I thought, were fisher folk —
A kind of frites or ginns —
And only fit to wear the yoke
Of Swedes, as " Swedes and Finns. "

So when I sailed from Stockholm port
To rocky Finland's shores,
And opposite the ruined fort
Stepped off at Helsingfors,
The Finns, their scows moored to the mole,
Just as they used to look,
Stooped o'er their fish, as dull of soul
As they at Marcus Hook.

But just beyond a statue stood,
And eagle glances cast;
A poet of the Finnish tongue
Was writing of the past.
For eighty years a conquered state
War's trophies only sins —
The lyre had struck a sweeter fate:
The Fine Arts of the Finns.

And grouped around the fur-clad bard
High edifices stood,
And flashed inland a boulevard
Like Paris to the wood;
Voiture, kiosk, crowds moved along,
A capitol we see,
And answering to the poet's song,
A University.

Red granite masses scarce more old
Than Finns their rock field crop,
Whose date and route no Moses told
To seek the globe's cold top;
The Russian navies boast their deeds.
Their Lutheran kirks stand free,
And holding customs of the Swedes,
Their hearts have liberty.

On polished Finland granite rides —
Where once the Finns had sway —
Above his Cincinnati guides
In Philadelphia,
Great Washington, in phantom shroud,
High statued, strides the lists,
Like Odin in the Baltic cloud
Or Finland's frigidmists.

Infinite islets mask the land
Through which, by Finnish homes,
Upon the Gulf of Finland stands
St. Petersburg's Greek domes;
But not for beauty and for joy
That Tartar mart begins,
To rival with its martial cloy
The city of the Finns.