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There, night and day, are heard the buzzing saws,
And day and night, without a rest or pause
The engine toils, and flames of furnace glow,
And workmen, in their shifting, come and go.
No Sabbath bell is heard along the shore;
But echoing song: "Ye—Ho," of stevedore.
In autumn days of eighteen, sixty-two,
When balmy breathed the winds, and skies were blue
At noon; at morn in haze; at even, red;
And strewed the ground with fallen foliage, dead;
Through dark and trackless woods, from Madison,
A stranger hailed the camp, with guide and gun.
A youth was he, scarce from his mother's "strings";
Without that caution which experience brings;
But fearless, energetic, rash, and bold,
Inured by summer's toil and winter's cold.
Across the wild peninsula he came;
No idler he, nor in pursuit of game;
Nor pilgrim poet, woodland muse to court;
But pressing on to Townsend's shining port.
A bark lay moored, and waiting for her load;
Upon the quiet bay she lightly rode;
Her painted skiff beside her lay afloat;
Its painter slightly held the little boat.
No rest nor food the traveler bespoke;
But from his drowsy mood the skipper woke,
And questioned him when next would ebb the tide,
