‘Mortal, hath fallen my star in the hour Of the dread eclipse, that thou scornest my power? Herald thus soon of that mystic race Fated to reign in my people’s place, Bringing arts of might--working wondrous spells Where now but the simple savage dwells; Before whom my children shall pass away, As the morntide passes before the day. The time is not yet, why dost thou come, The bale of thy presence to cast o’er my home? Its shadow of doom is on air and waves-- E’en the still soft gloom of my deep sea caves A shudder has reached; over shore and bay Bodeful the shivering moonbeams play! The Spirit of this zone am I-- Mine are the isles and yon mainlands nigh; And roused from my rest by the wood-wraith’s sigh, And the sea-maid’s moan on the coral reef-- Voices never till now foreboding grief-- Hither I fly-- Here at the gate of my South Sea realm To bid thee put back thy fateful helm! Not yet is the hour, why art thou here Presaging dole, and scaith, and fear?’ Not yet is the time-- Woe-bringer, go back to thy cloud-wrapped clime! Meeter for thee the drear Northern sky, And where wintry breakers ceaseless roar, And strew with wrecks a dusky shore; Where the iceberg rears its awful form, Where along the billows the petrels cry-- For, like thee, that dark bird loves the storm! Thou child of the clime of the Vikings wild-- Who wert nursed upon the tempest’s wing, A boy on the wind-beaten mast to cling-- Whose quest is prey, who hailest the day When gleam the red swords and the death-bolts ring! Thy joy is with restless men and seas, What dost thou in scenes as soft as these? The hour is not yet, but the doom appears As I gaze thro’ the haze of long distant years. A mighty people speaking thy tongue, Sea-borne from their far, dark strands Shall spread abroad over all these lands Where man now lives as when Time was young. I see their stately cities rise Thro’ the clouds where the future’s horizon lies; Thro’ the purple mists shrouding river and plain, Where the white-foaming bay marks the hidden main; And clearer now--I behold more clear Great ships--sails swelling to the breeze, Their keels break all the virgin seas; Vast white-winged squadrons, they come and go Where only has skimmed the light canoe! Yes, the seats and the paths of empire veer, A highway of nations will yet be here! As Tyre was in an ancient age; As Venice of palaces, strong and sage; As the haughty ports of your native shore Whose fleets override the waters’ rage, So shall the pride of yon cities soar. From the frigid Pole to the torrid Line, Their sway shall stretch--their standards shine!’ _Gerald Henry Supple._ GORDON CCXX BY FLOOD AND FIELD