PROLOGUE.
Nor gold nor silver are the words set here, Nor rich-wrought chasing on design of art; But rugged relics of an unknown sphere Where fortune chanced I played one time a part. Unthought of here the critic blame or praise, These recollections all their faults atone; To hold the scenes, I've writ of men and ways Uncouth and rough as Austral ironstone.
It may be, I have left the higher gleams Of skies and flowers unheeded or forgot; It may be so,—but, looking back, it seems When I was with them I beheld them not, I was no rambling poet, but a man Hard-pressed to dig and delve, with naught of each The hot day through, save when the evening's fan Of sea-winds rustled through the kindly trees.
It may be so; but when I think I smile At my poor hand and brain to paint the charms Of God's first-hlazoned canvas! here the aisle Moonlit and deep of reaching gothic arms
