To Portland.

(From A Centennial Poem)

O City of my heart! in dreams,
Sweet dreams, I see thee as of yore,
And catch the light s first early beams
Glint over White Head s roar;
Old Ocean s Daughter! beam with smiles,
And wear thy royal crest.
Three hundred sixty-five green isles
Sleep on old Casco s breast.

And each is fair and bright to see,
With tuft of breezy pine,
Where I have often longed to be
In these long years of mine:
Accept, fair daughter of the sea,
A simple, loving rhyme,
For thou hast always been to me,
A tender, solemn chime,

Such as the mariner has heard
Far out upon the sea,
Where hell of church or song of bird
Could never hope to be.
But village bell and song of bird
Had furnished memory's cell
With many a whispered sound and word
Remembered over-well.

* * * * * *

Neal dashed his hand with daring sweep,
And sang how Alpine snow.
Remorseless, leaped from ancient sleep,
And buried deep Goldeau;
And Mellen! 'Lone, imperial bird,'
That 'stooped his tireless wing,'
By Portland poets should be heard,
With no uncertain ring.

* * * * * *

They who may never hope to reach
The higher round of fame.
Lay down their laurels all and each,
At Longfellow s pure name;
But who can tell how sad the soul
Shrank from the stripe away,
As years on years, the deathless roll,
Ignored their humble lay!

Farewell! oh, daughter of the sea,
Right royally thy throne
O'erlooks the isles that wait on thee,
Where White Head sits alone;
Thy regal head bears not a scar
From all the perils past;
Thine is the glory of the star,
When skies are overcast!