Альберт Пайк (Albert Pike)

The Old Canoe

Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep,
And the waters below look dark and deep,
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride,
Leans gloomily over the murky tide;
Where the reeds and the rushes are long and lank,
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank,
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,
There lies at its mooring the old canoe.
The useless paddles are idly dropped,
Like a sea bird's wings that the storm has lopped,
And crossed on the railing, one o'er one,
Like the folded hands when the work is done,
While busily back and forth between,
The spider stretches his silvery screen
And the solemn owl with the dull "too whoo,"
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.

The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave,
Rots slowly away in its living grave,
And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay
Hiding its mouldering dust away,
Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower,
Or the ivy that mantels the falling tower,
While many a blossom of loveliest hue,
Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe.

The currentless waters are dead and still,
But the twilight wind plays with the boat at will,
And lazily in and out again,
It floats the length of the rusty chain;
Like the weary march of the hand of time,
That meet and part at the noon-tide chime,
And the shore is kissed at each turning anew,
By the dripping bow of the old canoe.

Oh, many a time with careless hand,
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick,
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick,
And laughed as I leaned o'er its rocking side,
And looked below in the broken tide,
To see that the faces and boats were two,
That were mirrored back from the old canoe.
But now, as I lean o'er its crumbling side,
And look below in the sluggish tide,
The face that I see there is graver grown,
And the laugh that I hear is a sober tone,
The hands that lent to the light skiff wings,
Have grown familiar with sterner things;
But I love to think of the hours that sped,
As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed,
Ere the blossom waved or the green grass grew,
O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe.

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