Classic Poem

The billowy Appalachian mountains glow
In evening redness, while, with pealings low,
Through the plantation sounds the evening-bell,
And silence slowly sinks on wood and dell.

The music-leader of the forest hoar,
The woodpecker, is tapping time no more;
He knows he ne'er can catch the harmony
Of howlet's screech and paroquet's wild cry.

I see, beneath a sycamore's green shade,
At a broad table, of cashew-nut made,
The planter; silvery-white the tankard gleams
From which the tea-tree's fragrant beverage steams.

A troop of rosy children climb his chair,
Born of his darling squaw, the lithe and fair;
Around his rugged strength the blossoms twine,
As round the cedar blooms the cypress-vine.

What wealth of waving crops makes glad his sight!
Peeps through the green his mansion neat and white;
Here snowy cotton — there the golden grain, —
In brilliant blossom stands the sugar-cane.

Now, like an offering-chalice, lifts he up
Before him solemnly the brimming cup,
And quiet inspiration's glow and grace
Give almost priestly unction to his face:

" China, thrice hail! O'er distant seas, far back
My hastening thoughts and thanks ascend time's track,
And seek the man who reared this sacred tree
That yields the nectar of our liberty!

" As by the Hoangho he paced the strand,
Scattering the seed along with quiet hand,
No boding whisper hovered round his ear:
Thou plantest Freedom for a hemisphere!

" From the Pagoda's tower the Mandarin,
Complacent, eyes the land and strokes his chin:
Mysteriously the tea-tree murmurs there,
As if far more than blossoms it must bear.

" Or did his slave, perchance, once dream of this ,
As on the heated pan the tea-leaves hiss,
That for Saint Lawrence he the roaster stirred,
Who once shall rise, a martyr of our word?

" The curious physician who first taught
What healing wonders by this herb were wrought,
A learned clerk was he, yet never knew
His favorite herb could sunder chains in two!

" The Briton, when, of this dark herb, he stowed,
Within his vessel's hold, so huge a load,
Knew not, on board with him, that Vengeance passed
The sea, and Freedom hovered o'er the mast!

" Did ever, Boston, once thy waters dream
That with such harvest they should one day teem?
That from their bosom should one day arise
The tree of Freedom, blooming to the skies?

" O children, aye hold fast to truth and right!
E'en roses hide the vengeful thorn from sight!
Man sows the seed, but o'er the harvest hour
Presides a silent, dark, mysterious power." —

He said, and stroked his chin complacently;
The grain-fields whisper the old mystery,
And from the sugar-cane, as thus he said,
Behind him peeped a negro's woolly head.