Hamilton Fish Armstrong, ed. The Book of New York Verse. 1917.
Bartholdis PharosGeorge Alfred Townsend
M
When Verrazano entered;
His heart was cold, on thoughts of gold
And ivory concentred:
“Now go about and sail we out!—
Although this scene entrances;
For we Italians seek rich mines
To satisfy King Francis.”
Sir Estevan de Gomez;
“I smell,” said he, “no spicery
Nor gum, such as at home is;
King Charles of Spain, he would raise Cain
And cuss-words use terrific,
If we clove not this granite main
To cloves of the Pacific.”
The Dutchman made appearance—
The Northwest Passage was his text,
And Albany his clearance;
The Indian damsels pleased his ways,—
He was a gay deceiver,—
And nothing met his sordid praise
But buffalo and beaver.
His nose and clothes vermilion,
With Hessian bayonets, to plough
The hills around new Ilion;
Seven years the fleet stayed here to eat,—
King George he paid the ration,—
Till French and Yankees down the street
Saw an evacuation.
Came now—a buoyant schemer—
With fleets of fire-winged birds to span
The shores with many a steamer.
At Fulton’s wand our sparkling pond
Leaped into life and duty,
But nothing came to correspond
Unto the sense of Beauty.
The peltries and the spices,
And mechanisms, like crystal prisms,
Refracted our devices.
Yet in the heart the spell of Art
Slept, like the winter throstle,
Or Faith, in old Diana’s mart,
Awaiting an apostle.
Threw o’er this radiant Edom,
And like a Bayard of romance
Knelt to the strength of Freedom;
He saw arise athwart our skies
A Goddess ever living,
Illumination in her eyes,
And flame to darkness giving.
O dame of Revolution!—
All heaven thy triumphal arch,
All progress the solution;
And from the earth and all its dross
May man behold the story—
Friendship is pious as the cross,
And only Art is glory!