Gilberts' Panama

THE LAND OF THE COCOANUT-TREE
Away down south in the Torrid Zone,
North latitude nearly nine,
Where the eight months’ pour once past and o’er,
The sun four months doth shine;
Where ‘tis eighty-six the year around,
And people rarely agree;
Where the plantain gorws and the hot wind blows,
Lies the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree.

‘Tis the land where all insects breed
That live by bite and sting;
Where the birds are quite winged rainbows bright,
Tho’ seldom one doth sing!
Here radiant flowers and orchids thrive
And bloom perennially -
All beauteous, yes - but ordorless!
In the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree.

‘Tis a land profusely rich, ‘tis said,
In mines of yellow gold,
That, of claims bereft, the Spaniards left
In the cruel days of old!
And many a man hath lost his life
That treasure-trove to see.
Or doth agonize with streaming eyes
In the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree!

‘Tis a land that still with potent charm
And wondrous, lasting spell
With mighty thrall enchaineth all
Who long within it dwell;
‘Tis a land where the Pale Destroyer waits
And watches eagerly;
‘Tis, in truth but a breath from life to death,
In the Land of the Cocoanut-Tree.

Then, go away if you have to go,
Then, go away if you will!
To again return you will always yearn
While the lamp is burning still!
You’ve drank the Chagres water,
And the mango eaten free,
And, strange tho’ it seems, ‘twill haunt your dreams -
This Land of the Cocoanut-Tree!

SUNSET
I sit on my lofty piazza,
O’erlooking the restless sea;
(A spider glides over my forehead,
A cockroach runs over my knee!)

The god of the day is preparing
His bed for another night;
(A swarm of pestiferous sand-flies
Is obscuring the glorious sight!)

He’s piling his cloud-blankets round him,
Of crimson embroidered with gold;
(That ant crawling under my collar,
Down my spine sends a shiver of cold!)

He’s nodding - but with eyes still half open
Tips a distant sail with his fire;
(Dios mio! another mosquito
Is twanging his dissonant lyre!)

He’s sleeping - the night-lamps are twinkling
All around his limitless bed;
(A bat, darting hither and thither,
Has just missed hitting my head!)

Farewell till to-morrow, old fellow!
Thou warmest, most tropical friend!
(A centipede’s slowly approaching -
‘Tis time for my reverie to end!)

BEYOND THE CHAGRES
Beyond the Chagres River
Are paths that lead to death -
To the fever’s deadly breezes,
To malaria’s poisonous breath!
Beyond the tropic foliage,
Where the alligator waits,
Are the mansions of the Devil -
His original estates!

Beyond the Chagres River
Are paths fore’er unknown,
With a spider ‘neath each pebble,
A scorpion ‘neath each stone.
‘Tis here the boa-constrictor
His fatal banquet holds,
And to his slimy bosom
His hapless guest enfolds!

Beyond the Chagres River
Lurks the cougar in his lair,
And ten hundred thousand dangers
Hide in the noxious air.
Behind the trembling leaflets,
Beneath the fallen reeds,
Are ever-present perils
Of a million different breeds!

Beyond the Chagres River
‘Tis said - the story’s old -
Are paths that lead to mountains
Of purest virgin gold;
But ‘tis my firm conviction,
Whatever tales they tell,
That beyond the Chagres River
All paths lead straight to hell!

THE ISTHMIAN WAY
To bow and scrape and shake your hand,
To greet you with a smile so bland
That you will think no other friend
Can toward you half the good intend;
But still to cherish in one’s heart
Enough rank hate to fill a cart -
This is the Isthmian way.

To buy for gold and silver pay;
To answer yea while thinking nay,
To borrow some one’s little wealth,
And leave the country for one’s health;
To plot and scheme and slyly seek
To make some decent man a sneak -
This is the Isthmian way.

To kiss the man who wins success,
And kick the man whose luck is less;
to make of vice beatitude,
And virtue of ingratitude!
Accept all favors, but omit
To e’er return the benefit -
This is the Isthmian way.

To curry favor with the great,
And pander to one’s meanest trait;
To smash the Decalogue to bits,
But give your neighbor’s weakness fits!
Oppress the weak, uphold the strong -
In short, do everything that’s wrong -
This is the Isthmian way.

To wage a miasmatic strife,
And suffer all the ills of life;
To eat and drink one’s self to death,
And curse God with one’s latest breath;
And then a “heavenly mansion” fill
Prepared for one on Monkey Hill -
This is the Isthmian way.

God grant that haply some of us
Escape the general animus,
And travel, though but falteringly,
The nobler path of charity;
Tho’ stumbling often, still to find
More cleanly records left behind
Than by the Isthmian way.

JOHN ASPINWALL
A quaint old moke is John Aspinwall,
Who lives by the Dead-House gate,
And quaint are his thoughts, if thoughts at all
Ever lurk in his wooly pate.
For he’s old as the hills is this old black man -
Thrice doubled with age is he;
And the days when his wanderings first began
Are shrouded in mystery.

Perhaps he was living when Morgan’s crew
Came lusting for Spanish gold,
And drenched the Isthmus with bloody dew
In the brave, bold days of old.
Perhaps he was here when the pioneers
Of the days almost forgot
Made a trail o’er the land with their bitter tears
And the bones they left to rot.

Perhaps he was here when Totten came
And Baldwin and all the rest,
To build thro’ the swamps their pathway to fame
From Chagres to Ancon’s crest.
And many a night he has lain, no doubt,
By the side of some comrade ill.
Whose corpse, in the morn, he has carried out
To its rest on Monkey Hill.

For years upon years he has seen the tide
Of adventurers ebb and flow -
Success and improvidence, side by side,
Seen ceaselessly come and go.
He has seen the gamut of passion run,
Oh, thousands and thousands of times!
And witnessed the brightest, purest sun
Uncover the darkest of crimes.

Yet never a word will he answer me
Whenever he pases by,
Though often a curious light I see
In his fathomless, coal-black eye.
Oh, a quaint old moke is John Aspinwall,
Who lives by the Dead-House gate;
And quaint are his thoughts; if thoughts at all
Ever lurk in his wooly pate!