A THOUSAND years are nothing. Once the Ligurian, sturdy and thickset, scaled these rocks, And built his beehive huts of unhewn stone on the limestone terraces, And gathered snails for food, and fought his tribal battles. Now the Greek wanders along the shore, and oleander and rosemary Shine in the moon for him, or Daphne hides Among the laurel groves, or Heracles Drives his red cattle home along the coast-line. Later, the Roman makes great roads, and marches columns of soldiers through the dust, Where overhead some temple of Castor and Pollux on the height Gives omen of good fortune. The Christian follows, Peacefully toiling in his olive-garden, Hymning the gentle god, And turns the Temple to a shrine of Michael—rechristens Mars, St. Martin. But presently the Moor with fire and rapine sweeps the coast, Or in his mountain-fastness, for a moment resting, watches the shining scimitar of the sea Sheathed in the bay, its scabbard. Then, in their turn, Bishops and Barons rule the land, and rage against each other. In the end the Modern Buries it all in a big Hotel's foundations Or the embankment of a Railroad. Yet still beneath the surface all is alive. Still the old peasant-woman—grin-faced, big-mouthed, with big-palmed hands, short fingers, and bandy climbing legs—among the rocks Goes foraging for snails. The people still Dimly athwart the mists of time remember, Of Heracles the Savior, How on this Plain, that Promontory, he rested From his great labors in the West returning. Still the little Church of St. Michael on the rock Stands dearer to the folk for being pagan; And still provencal songs and dances gladden the vintage; And Moorish faces, and Greek, and old Phoenician, Stir in the villages a stones-throw from the rail. And still old names and festivals and customs Linger along the coast and country side; And still the hills stand, still the herbs diffuse From the warm ground the old intoxication Of aromatic sweetness. The waters still Lap blue against the rocks. The snowy Alps Look o'er the foot-hills and far out to sea, To where and when perchance a worthier race Than all that yet has been at length shall come And gaze with grateful eyes upon their beauty, And crown their slopes with gladness. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...STREET CRIES: 6. TO RICHARD WAGNER by SIDNEY LANIER THE LOCKLESS DOOR by ROBERT FROST THE LOST WAR-SLOOP by EDNA DEAN PROCTOR DAFFODILS by LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA by HENRY WOTTON |