ROMANCE

The “wine-dark” sea menaces as of old, When young Odysseus dared; and all our ship Shudders against the midnight mountain-waves Hurrying to crush the steamer, in her plunge On black path, under wind-blown scattered stars. Strange is the contrast! Strange it is to lie Cabined and berthed, feeling like crystal, hid In a night-moving mountain; thence to see At port-hole’s glimmer, land, solemn and strange! Old as all prayers, all vigils, and all hope! As the ship stops at Patras, and bells ring, To look out on the mole-lights, red and white, And see the black, unreadable night-shore. And then, to lie back, ponder the mystery Of that one man—that little ugly man— Reviled, unknown, and unbelieved, who burned So fiercely with his message, that he sailed From port to port, to give it. My age boasts Its Christian ethics cool expedience. That age, simply knew a man named “Paul,” Who fought with beasts, endured the stripes, to give His flaming, tender, strong epistles; wrote To the people, as ’twixt starvings and shipwrecks He sailed these waters, from the “upper coasts.”