A Floridian Scene

Where Pablo to the broad St. John
His dark and briny tribute pays,
The wild deer leads her dappled fawn,
Of graceful limb and timid gaze;
Rich sunshine falls on wave and land,
The gull is screaming overhead,
And on a beach 'of whiten'd sand
Lie wreathy shells with lips of red.
The jessamine hangs golden flowers
On ancient oaks in moss array'd,
And proudly the palmetto towers,
While mock-birds warble in the shade;
Mounds, built by mortal hands are near,
Green from the summit to the base,
Where, buried with the bow and spear,
Rest tribes, forgetful of the chase.
Cassada, nigh the ocean shore,
Is now a ruin, wild and lone,
And on her battlements no more
Is banner waved or trumpet blown;
Those doughty cavaliers are gone
Who hurled defiance there to France,
While the bright waters of St. John
Reflected flash of sword and lance.
But when the light of dying day
Falls on the crumbling wrecks of time,
And the wan features of decay
Wear softened beauty like the clime,
My fancy summons from the shroud
The knights of old Castile again,
And charging thousands shout aloud —
"St. Jago strikes to-day for Spain!"
When mystic voices, on the breeze
That fans the rolling deep, sweep by,
The spirits of the Yemassees,
Who ruled the land of yore, seemed nigh;
For mournful marks, around where stood
Their palm-roofed lodges, yet are seen,
And in the shadows of the wood
Their monumental mounds are green.