Till God's own time to plant of Freedom's seed,
In this selected soil,
Denied forever unto blood and greed,
But blest to honest toil.
There sinks the sun! Gay Cavalier no more,
His banners trail the sea,
And all his legions shining on the shore
Fade into mystery.
The swelling tide laps on the shingly beach,
Like any starving thing,
And hungry breakers, white with wrath, upreach,
In a vain clamoring.
The shadows fall; just level with mine eye
Sweet Hesper stands and shines,
And shines beneath an arc of golden sky,
Pinked round with pointed pines.
A noble scene, all breadth, deep tone and power,
Suggesting glorious themes,
Shaming the idler who would fill the hour
With unsubstantial dreams.
Be mine the dreams prophetic, shadowing forth
The things that yet shall be,
As through this gate the treasures of the North
Flow outward to the sea.
Astoria, Or., 1865.
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