I.
At anchor in that harbour of the island,
The Chinese gate,
We lay where, terraced under green-clad highland,
The sea-town sate.
Ships, steamers, sailors, many a flag and nation,
A motley crew,
Junks, sampans, all East’s swarming jubilation,
I watched and knew.
Then, as I stood, sweet sudden sounds out-swelling
On the boon breeze,
The church-bells’ chiming echoes rang out, telling
Of inland peace.
O English chimes, your music rising and falling
I cannot praise,
Although to me it come sweet-sad recalling
Dear childish days.
Yet, English chimes,—last links of chains that sever,
Worn out and done,
That land and creed that I have left for ever,—
Ring on, ring on!
II.
There is much in this sea-way city
I have not met with before,
But one or two things I notice
That I seem to have known of yore.
In the lovely tropical verdure,
In the streets, behold I can
The hideous English buildings
And the brutal English man!