The Fate Of Bass - (A Fancy)
By Mary Hannay Foott
The Fate Of Bass1 - (A Fancy)
On the snow-line of the summit stood the Spaniards English slave;
And the frighted condor westward flew afar,
Where the torch of Cotopaxi2 lit the wide Pacific wave,
And the tender moon embraced a new-born star.
Blanched the cheek that Austral breezes off Van Diemens coast3 had tanned,
Bent the form that on the deck stood stalwart there;
Slim and pallid as a womans was the sailors sunburnt hand,
And untimely silver streaked the strong mans hair.
From the forest far beneath him came the baffled bloodhounds bay,
From the gusty slope the camp-fires fitful glow;
But the pass the Indian told of oer the cliff beside him lay,
And beyond, the Mighty Rivers4 eastward flow.
Mine the secret of the Incas5, to the tyrants never told;
Mine the Cloven Rock, the league-long Sculptured Way!
Ere the weary scouts awaken, ere the embers are grown cold
Ere the dogs in dreams their quarry seize and slay!
Freedoms threshold! yet he tarries, gazes seaward, southward still,
Past the gulfs where fainting chain-gangs toil entombed,
And the furnace of the smelter taints the winds of every hill
With the fumes that swathe the dying and the doomed.
Never, never, gallant seaman, may the land that lit thy dreams
In the starless drive make glad thine eyes again,
Where through tropic heavens at midnight the Antarctic glory streams,
And a sea of blossom floods the wintry plain.
Nevermore the settlers welcome, at the sinking of the sun,
Nor his godspeed mid the fragrant Austral morn!
Shattered, spent, and broken-hearted, yet a guerdon thou hast won,
And where brave souls meet thou shalt not stand forlorn.