POETS AND POETRY. 253 



I sing of her sunsets, — no art of the limner 

 Has ever on canvas their beauties portrayed ; 



By God's hand alone can such pictures be painted, 

 Now radiant in glory, now mellowed in shade. 



I sing of her valleys, her streams, and her moorland; 



I sing of her children with hearts free from guile: 

 But sing as I may, my song cannot compass 



A tithe of thy beauties, my own native isle! 



Like a mother thou blessest thy children's forced parting, 

 Which blessing to all their endeavors gives zest; 



Till faint in life's battle they fall worn and weary, 

 And return once again, to sleep on thy breast. 



God bless thee, Nantucket, and God bless thy offspring, 

 Who by fortune are scattered full many a mile ; 



At the sound of thy name every pulse throb will quicken ; 

 Farewell for a season, thou dear purple isle' 

 Louisville, Ky. y Oct. 1, 1881. 



If one has a spark of poetic fire in him, Nantucket is 

 one of the best places in the world in which to fan it 

 into a flame. Here is the wide ocean in all its grand- 

 eur and magnificence, beating with unceasing thunder 

 along the shores, and pouring upon the sands its meas- 

 ureless bulk of waters; or lashed into fury by storm, 

 tossing toward heaven its white arms in seeming defi- 

 ance. Here is the u harbor bar with its moaning," and 

 here are undulating moors with their velvety coverings 

 and glorious wild flowers. Here are purple skies, balmy 

 breezes, highlands and lowlands, cliff and rock, hill 

 and dale. Never yet a ship sailed from the port but 

 what around its history hangs a halo of poetry and 

 romance. Certain it is that the true poet can find 



