Yet as--_A ghost!_ his household cry: _He hath followed a ghost in flight. Let us see the ghost_--his household fly With lamps to search the night-- So Norsemen's sails run out and try The Sea of the Dark with light. Stout Are Marson, southward whirled From out the tempest's hand, Doth skip the sloping of the world To Huitramannaland, Where Georgia's oaks with moss-beards curled Wave by the shining strand, And sway in sighs from Florida's Spring Or Carolina's Palm-- What time the mocking-bird doth bring The woods his artist's-balm, Singing the Song of Everything Consummate-sweet and calm-- Land of large merciful-hearted skies, Big bounties, rich increase, Green rests for Trade's blood-shotten eyes, For o'er-beat brains surcease, For Love the dear woods' sympathies, For Grief the wise woods' peace. For Need rich givings of hid powers In hills and vales quick-won, For Greed large exemplary flowers That ne'er have toiled nor spun, For Heat fair-tempered winds and showers, For Cold the neighbor sun. * * * * * Then Leif, bold son of Eric the Red, To the South of the West doth flee-- Past slaty Helluland is sped, Past Markland's woody lea, Till round about fair Vinland's head, Where Taunton helps the sea, The Norseman calls, the anchor falls, The mariners hurry a-strand: They wassail with fore-drunken skals Where prophet wild grapes stand; They lift the Leifsbooth's hasty walls, They stride about the land-- New England, thee! whose ne'er-spent wine As blood doth stretch each vein, And urge thee, sinewed like thy vine, Through peril and all pain To grasp Endeavor's towering Pine, And, once ahold, remain-- Land where the strenuous-handed Wind With sarcasm of a friend Doth smite the man would lag behind To frontward of his end; Yea, where the taunting fall and grind Of Nature's Ill doth send Such mortal challenge of a clown Rude-thrust upon the soul, That men but smile where mountains frown Or scowling waters roll, And Nature's front of battle down Do hurl from pole to pole. Now long the Sea of Darkness glimmers low With sails from Northland flickering to and fro-- Thorwald, Karlsefne, and those twin heirs of woe, Hellboge and Finnge, in treasonable bed Slain by the ill-born child of Eric Red, Freydisa false. Till, as much time is fled, Once more the vacant airs with darkness fill, Once more the wave doth never good nor ill, And Blank is king, and Nothing works his will; And leanly sails the day behind the day To where the Past's lone Rock o'erglooms the spray, And down its mortal fissures sinks away, As when the grim-beaked pelicans level file Across the sunset to their seaward isle On solemn wings that wave but seldomwhile. SIDNEY LANIER.