252 THE ISLAND OF NANTUCKET. 



Nantucket. 

 By Mrs. H. M. Robinson. 



There 's a dear purple isle far out in the ocean, 

 Of all nature's favorites most favored of all; 



So full of quaint legends, of rich old romances, 

 Ah, how they come trooping at Memory's call! 



Aurora in haste cleaves a pathway of glory, 



Across the blue waters, to that isle so dear; 

 Where never a shell but would tell you a story, 



Would you pause but a moment to lend it your ear. 



It could sing of the forests that sheltered the red man, 

 Or the lake whose clear waters were kissed by his oar; 



Alas! with the forests, the red men departed, 

 And the places that knew them now know them no more. 



Their names alone live in sweet strains of music, 

 That fall from the lips of our island's fair dames, 



And long shall the love of Autopscot, the warrior, 

 With his lovely Wonoma, embellish her fame. 



Let those who delight turn back history's pages, 

 To glean some fresh laurel for our island's fair brow; 



It gladdens my heart to list to her praises, 

 But my theme is her glorious present, — and now. 



I sing of her ocean, — that great pool of Siloam, 

 Where the cities' worn children may bathe and be strong; 



There Hygeia her chariot rides on the billow, 

 While Fessonia and Februa to her train belong. 



I sing of her beaches, — old ocean's great playground, 

 Thus I call back the hours of my chilhood again; 



When I watched Neptune toss from his bosom the white-caps, 

 Then backward retreating, entice them again. 



