Frederick George Scott (1861–1944)

THERE lies a lone isle in the tropic seas,—

A mountain isle, with beaches shining white,

Where soft stars smile upon its sleep by night,

And every noonday fans it with a breeze.

Here on a cliff, carved upward from the knees,

Three uncouth statues of gigantic height,

Upon whose brows the circling sea-birds light,

Stare out to ocean over the tall trees.

For ever gaze they at the sea and sky,

For ever hear the thunder of the main,

For ever watch the ages die away;

And ever round them rings the phantom cry

Of some lost race that died in human pain,

Looking toward heaven, yet seeing no more than they.