Moan, moan, great Pacific, moan!
For the Inca of old, with his treasures untold,
From Peruvian shores is gone.
Still moan, Pacific, moan!
Wave, wave, mild Pacific, wave!
On the light, sandy bar of thine islands afar,
In banana-tree grove is the old tale of love
Still told by the dusky brave.
Wave gently, Pacific, wave!
XLVIII.
I know not what it was that bade me seek
A letter from my Love. She promised not
To write to me, nor did I ever speak
Of that sad sorrow which would be my lot
In wandering alone and friendless here,
And hearing nought from her so fondly dear.
But some small quiet voice, scarce listened to,
Enforced by its importunate command
This tardy recognition, sooner due;
And having sought a letter, now I stand
And hold in trembling hand the paper she
Has held, and written on so daintily.
L.
To read her words beneath the public eye
Were desecration. I must seek a spot
Where I alone can commune quietly
With her, and where the vulgar gaze is not.
Then let me seek the free and open air,
And read my loved one's words of greeting there.
LI.
What writes my Love? Ah Love! thou hast been ill.
Dread fever laid thee low when I had gone,
And I was not beside thee—by his will
Except for whom thou now had'st been my own.
And, though he be thy father, may my curse
Rest on him; and I would I could do worse.