  Where are they, that song and tale Tell of, lands our childhood knew? Sea-locked Fairy-lands that trail Morning summits, wet with dew, Crimson, o'er a crimson sail? Where, in dreams, we entered on Wonders eyes have never seen: Whither often we have gone, Sailing a dream-brigantine On from voyaging dawn to dawn. Leons seeking lands of song; Fabled fountains pouring spray; Where our anchors dropped among Corals of some blooming bay, With its swarthy native throng. Shoulder axe and arquebus!— We may find it, past yon range Of sierras, vaporous, Rich with gold and wild and strange, That dim region lost to us. Yet, behold, although our zeal Darien summits may subdue, Our Balboa eyes reveal But a vaster sea come to; New endeavor for our keel. Yet!—who sails with face set hard Westward, while behind him lies Unfaith; where his dreams keep guard Round it, in the sunset skies, He may reach it—afterward. |
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