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Europe and America and the Indies: Santiago

On Santiago's placid bay The town of Santiago lay; And in her walls a deed was done-- The foulest e'er the sun shone on. O Cuba! rarest, brightest gem That decks Atlantic's diadem! O star of constellation bright That beams upon our ravished sight! When yet the earth was fresh and young, And stars their matins scarce had sung, And still the heavenly echo rung, With lavish hand then nature flung A shower from her breast and brow she wore-- Of gems that ransomed kings of yore, Which fell beside the western shore Of green Atlantic's swelling flood, And there began to grow and bud, Till soon was seen a group of isles Which wear their mother Nature's smiles; Cherished and blest beyond the rest Of those who claim the mother's breast! As parents still love most the face Where their own features they may trace, Of this fair islet galaxy, Which studs the fairy summer sea, Most grand of all, my theme is seen-- Lo! Cuba--great Antilles' queen. Here zephyrs whisper through the palms, With odorous breath of spice and balms; The orange, rich in golden hue, Hangs ripe and tempting to the view; The bulbul, from his fragrant nest Upon the green Acacia's crest, With quivering wing and swelling throat, Pours forth his rippling, pearly note; And as he calls his absent mate From 'mid the stately feathery date, He weaves, with silvery voice and strong, For her a wreath of gems of song. Its massive elephantine leaves The staid banana here upheaves; And far above the garden wall-- Adobe--built, and stout and tall-- Its verdant banners wave on high, In rythmic bend to zephyr's sigh; While, from the distance--softened height, With vines and cocoa--plumes bedight, The mellow tinklings faintly sound, As though in light and fragrance drowned. The train, with bells and trappings gay, Toils up the steep and devious way; While sauntering idly in the rear, Lags slowly the swathy muleteer. The warm, voluptuous tropic day, Which knows no fall nor year's decay, With sense--intoxicating power Bids all enjoy the golden hour, Unchecked by thoughts of future woe, Of blighting blast, or field of snow; For here the summer knows no death, The gentle spring no dying breath; No early grave ingulfs the bloom Nor hides their sweetness in the tomb. Like fair twin souls, from sin set free, And radiant in eternity, The favored children of the year All live and reign immortal here. Here find they what vain mortals seek, And that of which the poets speak-- A heaven on earth; 'tis here it lies, For them a mundane Paradise. Amid the scene depicted here, And mirrored in the waters clear Of Santiago's placid bay, The town of Santiago lay.

A prisoner from his grated cell Looked out upon the briny well, And in his breast an echo found For ocean's heaving, sobbing sound. And as he watched the dying day, And caught the sun's expiring ray-- He sat and gazed with yearning eye Upon the soft cerulean sky. He saw Night draw her curtains dark O'er sleeping sea and anchored bark. The eyes of heaven--the gleaming stars-- In pity watched him through the bars. He looked out on the glorious night And thought on Him--supremely bright-- The Architect of skill divine Who did the starry dome design, Which roofs this balmy southern night Replete with incense and delight-- Most grand that he has since his birth Beheld, and 'tis his last on earth! But in this solemn, dying hour, He fears not death nor human power; He looks his fate full in the face, Supported by his Savior's grace. Yet still his brave heart fondly turns To where his hearthstone fire burns, And where are gathered those for whom He'd laugh at danger scorn the tomb. He thinks of her--his bosom's wife-- And of his children, more than life; Regrets, for this alone, his end, That it with pain their hearts should rend: And now, with heart still fond and true He writes his sad, his last adieu. The night is o'er, the morning breaks, But not a heart among them quakes. A martyr band, and he their chief, They stand unmoved by fear or grief. At sharp command the column starts, And on they move, those patriot hearts, With steady step, unblenching eye; Thus nobly move they on to die. And as they pass the Consulate Which marks Columbia's flag and State Though powerless to save him now, He greets it with a loyal bow. And now they reach a massive wall Where lies imbedded many a ball; For other victims on this spot Have died beneath the murderous shot At the wall's base, a ditch their lies, Where drops the doomed one as he dies; And here the hapless victims halt, And kneel beside the waiting vault; The guard steps back--a breathless pause-- A deadly aim each soldier draws. The signal comes--a flash--a roar-- And Freedom's sons lie red with gore! As Rachel, lone and childless left, And of her own by death bereft, Wept sore, and comfort still refused, Columbia! mourn thy flag abused, Thy children bound by foreign chain, And by the ruthless alien slain. O, where those sacred ashes lie, Weep o'er the grave of noble Fry! No more from out his grated cell, He gazes at the briny swell; His children, wife, and native shore Shall see his loving face no more. His voice is now forever hushed, Quenched by the stream of life that gushed From out his body, wounded sore, But painless now forevermore. Shall butchers' scenes like these act still? Insult our flag, our brethren kill? From widows, mothers, stricken homes, From rural plains, from city domes, From friendless orphans' severed ties, From graves where buried honor lies, From north to south, from east to west, One answer comes--one sole behest: The answer will be verified When Freedom's banner, hailed with pride, Shall o'er the beauteous island queen Where now red murder's flag is seen And o'er bold Fry's forsaken grave, Forever in sad triumph wave.