The Gold-Gated West/Portland

by Samuel Leonidas Simpson

PORTLAND

But yesterday, and sombre firs
Thronged here—the kingly chroniclers
 Of lapsing and lethean time,
And day, in golden armor drest,
Swept through the gates of East and West,
And night, with many a silv'ry sail,
Led by the moon, serene and pale,
 Rode the blue seas of space sublime.

Dreamy and dark, the forest trees
Trembled with potent prophecies,
 And spread broad palms in mystic sign,
As in his slender carved canoe,
Skimming the waters swift and true,
The Indian passed, sad-browed and calm,
As if his spirit drank the balm
 Breathed by an ancient holy shrine.

Flinging a spray of jewels bright,
With changing stroke from left to right,
 He saw the shadow of his plume
Floating in pride where twin keels kist
In swinging spheres of amethyst,
And lilies waving fragrant bells
Across the lips of fainting swells
 By broidered shores of song and bloom.

On fair Willamette's bosom, yet
Sweet with unsullied violet,
 Portentous lights and shadows played;
And waking in the vesper breeze
With music as of marching seas,
The firs, of priestly mien austere,
Waved their wild harps with gestures drear,
 And sang of destinies delayed.

At dawn, on yonder royal hill,
The crested deer, a monarch still,
 Looked forth upon a matchless realm,
As wide and wild as ocean's breast
Tossed in a fury of unrest,
And thus struck still, eternal, grand—
A tempest of untrodden land
 Bowing to Hood's refulgent helm!

It was but yesterday, and lo!
Forests have passed, and church spires glow
 Where dryads roved in days before—
As if the wildwood's tangled screen,
Mask of mystery unseen,
Had fallen in a single night
And left a pearl of life and light
 Glim'ring on this enchanted shore.

Thus in her coronal of hills,
Where Hybla dew of health distils,
 The gem of sunset land has sprung—
Brightly, as in Arabian Nights,
Rose a city of all delights—
The river, like a scarf of gold,
Clasping her beauty, manifold,
 And purple mysteries 'round her flung.

And north and south, as free winds blow,
A thousand smoke-plumes float and flow
 Over the city's pulsing life—
Over resplendent street and square
And the long tumult swelling there—
The low, light laughter, and the wail
Of rose-wreathed lips, and lips all pale
 From wounds struck deep in fate's full strife.

Lo, where the yellow panther crept,
And the long shadows darkly slept,
 Our love crowns life, and death crowns love,
And pride of gold and pomp of power
Hold the high sway of one short hour—
And wan fates weave their threads and keep
The annals of the years that sleep,
 Sorrow and joy in one web wove.

Honor to thee, O civic queen,
Throned in a plumy storm of green,
 A lifted lustre, starry white!
Honor and wealth! And on thy brow
Blossom the wreath of virtue's vow—
The fields give tribute, and the gales
Waft thee tall ships and costly bales
 Till high Hood flame a last good-night!