LA FAYETTE LANDS

That evening, gathered on the vessel's poop,

They saw the glimmering land,

And far lights moved there,

As once Columbus saw them, winking, strange;

Around the ship two darkies in a small canoe

Paddled and grinned, and held up silver fish.

Over the high ship's tumble-home

A pinnace slid,

Slow, lowered from the squealing davit-ropes,

And from a port a-square with lantern light,

The little, leather trunks were passed,

Ironbound and quaint; while down the vessel's side

With voluble advice, bon voyage and au revoir,

The chatting Frenchmen came —

Click-clap of rapiers clipping on hard boots,

Cocked hats and merry eyes.

The great ship backs its yards,

With drooping sails, await,

A spider-web of spars and lantern-lights,

While like a pilot shark, the slim canoe,

A V-shaped ripple wrinkling from its jaws,

Slides noiselessly across the swells,

Leading the swinging boat's crew to the beach;

And all the world slides up —

And then the stars slide down —

As ocean breathes; while evening falls,

And destiny is being rowed ashore.

The twilight-muffled bells of town, the bark of dogs,

The distant shouts, and smell of burning wood,

Fall graciously upon their sea-tired sense.

Wide-trousered, barefoot sailors carry them to land,

Tho’ snake-voiced waves flaunt frothing up the beach;

The horse-hide trunks are piled upon a dune;

And there a little Frenchman takes his stand,

Hawk-faced and ardent,

While his brown cloak droops about him

Like young falcon plumes.

Gray beach, gray twilight, and gray sea —

How strange the scrub palmettoes down the coast!

No purple-castled heights, like dear Auvergne,

Against the background of the Puy de Dome,

But land as level as the sea, a sandy road

That twists through myrtle thickets

Where the black boys lead.

Far down a moss-draped avenue of oaks

There is a flash of torches, and the lights

Go flitting past the bottle panes;

A cracked plantation bell dull-clangs;

The beagles bay,

Black faces swarm, with ivory eyeballs glazed —

Court dwarfs that served thick chocolate, on their knees

In damasked, perfumed rooms at grand Versailles,

Were all the blacks the French had ever seen.

Major Huger, lace-ruffled shirt, knee-breeks,

A saddle-pistol in his hand,

Waits on the terrace,

Ready for “hospitality” to British privateers;

But now no London accent takes his ears,

No English bow so low, “Good evening, sair;

I am de la Fayette, and these, monsieur,

My friends, and this, le Baron Kalb.”

Welcome's the custom of the time and land —

And these are noblemen of France!

Now is Bartholomew for turkeycocks,

Old wines decant, the chandeliers flare up,

The slave row brims with lights;

And horses gallop off to summon guests.

After the ship — how good the spacious rooms!

How strange mosquito canopies on beds!

Knights of St. Louis sniff the frying yams,

Venison, and turtle,—

The old green turtle died tonight —

The children's eyes grow wider on the stairs.

Down in the library,

The Marquis, writing back to old Auvergne,

Has sanded down the ink;

Again the quill pen squeaks:

“A ship will sail tomorrow back to France,

By special providence for you, dear wife;

Tonight there will be toasts to Washington,

To our good Louis and his Antoinette —

There will be toasts tonight for la Fayette....”

He melts the wax;

Look, how the candle gutters at the flame!

And now he seals the letter with his ring.