That evening, gathered on the vessel's poop, They saw the glimmering land, And far lights moved there, As once Columbus saw them, winking, strange;
Around the ship two darkies in a small canoe Paddled and grinned, and held up silver fish. Over the high ship's tumble-home A pinnace slid,
Slow, lowered from the squealing davit-ropes, And from a port a-square with lantern light, The little, leather trunks were passed, Ironbound and quaint; while down the vessel's side
With voluble advice, bon voyage and au revoir, The chatting Frenchmen came — Click-clap of rapiers clipping on hard boots, Cocked hats and merry eyes.
The great ship backs its yards, With drooping sails, await, A spider-web of spars and lantern-lights, While like a pilot shark, the slim canoe,
A V-shaped ripple wrinkling from its jaws, Slides noiselessly across the swells, Leading the swinging boat's crew to the beach; And all the world slides up —
And then the stars slide down — As ocean breathes; while evening falls, And destiny is being rowed ashore. The twilight-muffled bells of town, the bark of dogs,
The distant shouts, and smell of burning wood, Fall graciously upon their sea-tired sense. Wide-trousered, barefoot sailors carry them to land, Tho’ snake-voiced waves flaunt frothing up the beach;
The horse-hide trunks are piled upon a dune; And there a little Frenchman takes his stand, Hawk-faced and ardent, While his brown cloak droops about him
Like young falcon plumes. Gray beach, gray twilight, and gray sea — How strange the scrub palmettoes down the coast! No purple-castled heights, like dear Auvergne,
Against the background of the Puy de Dome, But land as level as the sea, a sandy road That twists through myrtle thickets Where the black boys lead.
Far down a moss-draped avenue of oaks There is a flash of torches, and the lights Go flitting past the bottle panes; A cracked plantation bell dull-clangs;
The beagles bay, Black faces swarm, with ivory eyeballs glazed — Court dwarfs that served thick chocolate, on their knees In damasked, perfumed rooms at grand Versailles,
Were all the blacks the French had ever seen. Major Huger, lace-ruffled shirt, knee-breeks, A saddle-pistol in his hand, Waits on the terrace,
Ready for “hospitality” to British privateers; But now no London accent takes his ears, No English bow so low, “Good evening, sair; I am de la Fayette, and these, monsieur,
My friends, and this, le Baron Kalb.” Welcome's the custom of the time and land — And these are noblemen of France! Now is Bartholomew for turkeycocks,
Old wines decant, the chandeliers flare up, The slave row brims with lights; And horses gallop off to summon guests. After the ship — how good the spacious rooms!
How strange mosquito canopies on beds! Knights of St. Louis sniff the frying yams, Venison, and turtle,— The old green turtle died tonight —
The children's eyes grow wider on the stairs. Down in the library, The Marquis, writing back to old Auvergne, Has sanded down the ink;
Again the quill pen squeaks: “A ship will sail tomorrow back to France, By special providence for you, dear wife; Tonight there will be toasts to Washington,
To our good Louis and his Antoinette — There will be toasts tonight for la Fayette....” He melts the wax; Look, how the candle gutters at the flame!
And now he seals the letter with his ring.
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