Classic Poem

CLOUD-CRESTED San Lorenzo guards
The Chagres' entrance still,
Tho' o'er each stone dense moss hath grown,
And earth his moat doth fill.
His bastions, feeble with decay,
Steadfastly view the sea,
And sternly wait the certain fate
The ages shall decree.

His reservoir is filled with slime,
Where noxious insects breed;
Corroding rust its greedy lust
On shot and gun doth feed;
The moaning wind sobs dismally
Thro' crumbling port and hold;
The staring owl and reptile foul
Thrive on his donjon's mold.

Left there, a sentry lone to strive
Against some Morgan's crew—
To guard our wives' and children's lives
Should the past itself renew;
To breast and buffet every storm,
To falter not nor fail;
His charge to keep; nor toil nor sleep
Against him to prevail.

Still standeth San Lorenzo there,
Aye faithful at his post,
Tho' scoffing trees in every breeze
Their prime and vigor boast.
His garrison is but the shades
Of soldiers of the past,
But it pleaseth him, alone and grim,
To watch until the last!