Panama

Two towers the old Cathedral liftsAbove the sea-walled town,—The wild pine bristles from their rifts,The runners dangle down;In either turret, staves in hand,All day the mongrel ringers standAnd sound, far over bay and land,The Bells of Panama.

Loudly the cracked bells, overhead,Of San Francisco ding,With Santa Ana, La Merced,Felípe, answering;Banged all at once, and four times four,Morn, noon, and night, the more and moreClatter and clang with huge uproarThe Bells of Panama.

From out their roosts the bellmen seeThe red-tiled roofs below,—The Plaza folk that lazilyTo mass and cockpit go,—Then pound afresh, with clamor fell,Each ancient, broken, thrice-blest bell,Till thrice our mouths have cursed as wellThe Bells of Panama.

The Cordillera guards the mainAs when Pedrarias boreThe cross, the castled flag of Spain,To the Pacific shore;The tide still ebbs a league from quay,The buzzards scour the emptied Bay:"There's a heretic to singe to-day,—Come out! Come out!"—still strive to sayThe Bells of Panama.