In the first hour, the seaman in his skiff Moves through the unmoving bay, to where the town Its earliest smoke into the air upbreathes, And the rough hazels climb along the beach. To the tugged oar the distant echo speaks. The ship lies resting, where by reef and roost Thou and thy lights have led her like a child. This hast thou done, and I--can I be base? I must arise, O father, and to port Some lost, complaining seaman pilot home. XXIX IN THE STATES With half a heart I wander here As from an age gone by A brother--yet though young in years, An elder brother, I. You speak another tongue than mine, Though both were English born. I towards the night of time decline You mount into the morn. Youth shall grow great and strong and free, But age must still decay: To-morrow for the States,--for me, England and Yesterday. SAN FRANCISCO. XXX A PORTRAIT I am a kind of farthing dip, Unfriendly to the nose and eyes; A blue-behinded ape, I skip Upon the trees of Paradise. At mankind's feast, I take my place In solemn, sanctimonious state, And have the air of saying grace While I defile the dinner-plate. I am "the smiler with the knife," The battener upon garbage, I-- Dear Heaven, with such a rancid life Were it not better far to die? Yet still, about the human pale, I love to scamper, love to race, To swing by my irreverent tail All over the most holy place; And when at length, some golden day, The unfailing sportsman, aiming at, Shall bag, me--all the world shall say: _Thank God, and there's an end of that!_ XXXI Sing clearlier, Muse, or evermore be still, Sing truer or no longer sing! No more the voice of melancholy Jaques To wake a weeping echo in the hill; But as the boy, the pirate of the spring, From the green elm a living linnet takes, One natural verse recapture--then be still. XXXII A CAMP[1] The bed was made, the room was fit, By punctual eve the stars were lit; The air was still, the water ran, No need was there for maid or man, When we put up, my ass and I, At God's green caravanserai. XXXIII THE COUNTRY OF THE CAMISARDS[1] We travelled in the print of olden wars; Yet all the land was green; And love we found, and peace, Where fire and war had been. They pass and smile, the children of the sword-- No more the sword they wield; And O, how deep the corn Along the battlefield! FOOTNOTE: [1] From "Travels with a Donkey." XXXIV SKERRYVORE For love of lovely words, and for the sake Of those, my kinsmen and my countrymen, Who early and late in the windy ocean toiled To plant a star for seamen, where was then The surfy haunt of seals and cormorants: I, on the lintel of this cot, inscribe The name of a strong tower. XXXV SKERRYVORE THE PARALLEL