Tantramar! Tantramar! I see thy cool green plains afar. Thy dykes where grey sea-grasses are, Mine eyes behold them yet.
But not the gladness breathed of old Thy bordering, blue hill-hollows hold; Thy wind-blown leagues of green unrolled, Thy flats the red floods fret,
Thy steady-streaming winds--no more These work the rapture wrought of yore, When all thy wide bright strength outbore My soul from fleshly bar.
A darkness as of drifted rain Is over tide, and dyke, and plain. The shadow-pall of human pain Is fallen on Tantramar.
A little garden gay with phlox, Blue corn-flowers, yellow hollyhocks, Red poppies, pink and purple stocks, Looks over Tantramar.
Pale yellow drops the road before The hospitable cottage-door,-- A yellow, upland road, and o’er The green marsh seeks the low red shore And winding dykes afar.
Beyond the marsh, and miles away, The great tides of the tumbling bay Swing glittering in the golden day, Swing foaming to and fro; And nearer, in a nest of green, A little turbid port is seen, Where pitch-black fishing-boats careen, Left when the tide runs low.
The little port is safe and fit. About its wharf the plover flit, The grey net-reels loom over it, With grass about their feet.
In wave and storm it hath no part, This harbour in the marshes’ heart; Behind its dykes, at peace, apart It hears the surges beat.
The garden hollyhocks are tall; They tower above the garden wall, And see, far down, the port, and all The creeks, and marshes wide;
But Margery, Margery, ’Tis something further thou wouldst see! Bid all thy blooms keep watch with thee Across the outmost tide.
Bid them keep wide their starry eyes To warn thee should a white sail rise, Slow climbing up, from alien skies, The azure round of sea.
He sails beneath a stormy star; The waves are wild, the Isles afar; Summer is ripe on Tantramar, And yet returns not he.
Long, long thine eyes have watched in vain, Waited in fear, and wept again. Is it no more than lover’s pain That makes thy heart so wild?
At dreams within the cottage door The old man’s eyes are lingering o’er The little port,--the far-off shore,-- His dear and only child.
And at her spinning-wheel within The mother’s hands forget to spin. With loving voice she calls thee in,-- Her dear and only child.