Over the high ship’s tumble-home
    A pinnace slid,
    Slow, lowered from the squealing davit-ropes,
    And from a port a-square with lantern light,
    The little, leather trunks were passed,
    Ironbound and quaint; while down the vessel’s side
    With voluble advice, bon voyage and au revoir,
    The chatting Frenchmen came—­
    Click-clap of rapiers clipping on hard boots,
    Cocked hats and merry eyes.

    The great ship backs its yards,
    With drooping sails, await,
    A spider-web of spars and lantern-lights,
    While like a pilot shark, the slim canoe,
    A V-shaped ripple wrinkling from its jaws,
    Slides noiselessly across the swells,
    Leading the swinging boat’s crew to the beach;
    And all the world slides up—­
    And then the stars slide down—­
    As ocean breathes; while evening falls,
    And destiny is being rowed ashore.

    The twilight-muffled bells of town, the bark of dogs,
    The distant shouts, and smell of burning wood,
    Fall graciously upon their sea-tired sense. 
    Wide-trousered, barefoot sailors carry them to land,
    Tho’ snake-voiced waves flaunt frothing up the beach;
    The horse-hide trunks are piled upon a dune;
    And there a little Frenchman takes his stand,
    Hawk-faced and ardent,
    While his brown cloak droops about him
    Like young falcon plumes.

    Gray beach, gray twilight, and gray sea—­
    How strange the scrub palmettoes down the coast! 
    No purple-castled heights, like dear Auvergne,
    Against the background of the Puy de Dome,
    But land as level as the sea, a sandy road
    That twists through myrtle thickets
    Where the black boys lead. 
    Far down a moss-draped avenue of oaks
    There is a flash of torches, and the lights
    Go flitting past the bottle panes;
    A cracked plantation bell dull-clangs;
    The beagles bay,
    Black faces swarm, with ivory eyeballs glazed—­
    Court dwarfs that served thick chocolate, on their knees
    In damasked, perfumed rooms at grand Versailles,
    Were all the blacks the French had ever seen.

    Major Huger, lace-ruffled shirt, knee-breeks,
    A saddle-pistol in his hand,
    Waits on the terrace,
    Ready for “hospitality” to British privateers;
    But now no London accent takes his ears,
    No English bow so low, “Good evening, sair;
    I am de la Fayette, and these, monsieur,
    My friends, and this, le Baron Kalb.”

    Welcome’s the custom of the time and land—­
    And these are noblemen of France! 
    Now is Bartholomew for turkeycocks,
    Old wines decant, the chandeliers flare up,
    The slave row brims with lights;
    And horses gallop off to summon guests.