ROMANCE
The “wine-dark” sea menaces as of old,
When young Odysseus dared; and all our ship
Shudders against the midnight mountain-waves
Hurrying to crush the steamer, in her plunge
On black path, under wind-blown scattered stars.
Strange is the contrast! Strange it is to lie
Cabined and berthed, feeling like crystal, hid
In a night-moving mountain; thence to see
At port-hole’s glimmer, land, solemn and strange!
Old as all prayers, all vigils, and all hope!
As the ship stops at Patras, and bells ring,
To look out on the mole-lights, red and white,
And see the black, unreadable night-shore.
And then, to lie back, ponder the mystery
Of that one man—that little ugly man—
Reviled, unknown, and unbelieved, who burned
So fiercely with his message, that he sailed
From port to port, to give it. My age boasts
Its Christian ethics cool expedience.
That age, simply knew a man named “Paul,”
Who fought with beasts, endured the stripes, to give
His flaming, tender, strong epistles; wrote
To the people, as ’twixt starvings and shipwrecks
He sailed these waters, from the “upper coasts.”