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V\' <. \'...* ,(? * \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 " \xe2\x80\xa2 , ^o . 4 -\' ....\xe2\x80\x9e <s> \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0-> A* *W%C\xe2\x80\x99 *, C . \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2. :Jfi^ ** 0 * \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n-\xe2\x80\x98 \'V <j 5 \xc2\xb0<, - \n\n* a ^^UAyvv^ \' v\xc2\xbb * \n\n1 A- \xe2\x80\xa2* * <j r o \n\n<S> *\xc2\xb0\xc2\xab\xc2\xb0\xc2\xb0 ^ O, * \n\nS-.^w-* ^ V * Y \xe2\x80\xa2 <V O *9 \n\n<*, * *?> a** \n\n\n^ c \n\n- "W \xe2\x80\x99 \n\n-5 o : \n\n<L Y<\xc2\xbb \n\n\' A o \n\ny \xc2\xb0*. *\xe2\x80\xa2"\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x96\xa0 *0 \n\nV * \xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xc2\xb0- o. \xc2\xab0 ** V \' \n\n* * * 3 . 5 \xc2\xbb \xe2\x80\xa2 *\xc2\xa3 .*\xc2\xbb\xe2\x80\xa2 t \n\n\nO \n\n\n\n* / 1 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nJOAQUIN MILLER \n\nFrom a Photograph taken previous to 1890 \n\n\n\nThe Poetical Works \n\nof \n\n\nJoaquin Miller \n\n\nEdited with an Introduction and Notes \n\nby \n\nStuart P. Sherman, Ph.D. \n\nProfessor of English in the University of Illinois \n\n\n<<K \n\n\n\n\nG.P.Putnam\xe2\x80\x99s Sons \n\nIS^ewYork & London \ntElje \'Knickerbocker Press \n\nX923 \n\n\n\nCopyright, 1923 \nby \n\nAbbie Leland Miller \n\n\n\nMade in the United States of America \n\n\nPREFACE \n\n\nThe justification of this edition, undertaken with the ap\xc2\xac \nproval of Mrs. Miller, is that for the first time it exhibits the full \nrange of Joaquin Miller\xe2\x80\x99s poetical works in a single volume. \nThe Bear edition in six volumes, which he had prepared in his \nlater years, must be regarded as an interesting but somewhat \nchaotic personal repository rather than as a definitive popular \nedition. Following his text and his general plan, yet with numer\xc2\xac \nous rearrangements and additions, I have reprinted here all the \npoems which he gathered into that storehouse; but in the interests \nof condensation and coherence have omitted his shredded \nmemoirs, his four plays in prose, his essays and his sheaf of press \nnotices, and have greatly abridged his copious running commen\xc2\xac \ntary. In compensation I have added more than fifty poems which \nhe discarded or overlooked but which are either of intrinsic merit \nor of value to the student of his development. The whole of the \nrare Portland volume, Joaquin , Et Al., is reprinted from the orig\xc2\xac \ninal text, except \xe2\x80\x9cJoaquin\xe2\x80\x9d and \xe2\x80\x9cBenoni,\xe2\x80\x9d which Miller had \nrevised and incorporated in Songs of the Sierras. The \xe2\x80\x9cFallen \nLeaves\xe2\x80\x9d series is restored from the American edition of Songs of the \nSun-Lands , 1873, except in the case of \xe2\x80\x9cThomas of Tigre,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\xe2\x80\x9cYosemite,\xe2\x80\x9d and \xe2\x80\x9cDead in the Sierras,\xe2\x80\x9d where the text of the \nBear edition is followed. The other principal additions are the \nseries from Shadows of Shasta and from The Building of the City \nBeautiful; and \xe2\x80\x9cLight of the Southern Cross,\xe2\x80\x9d printed from a \npamphlet supplied by Mrs. Miller, to whom and to her daughter \nJuanita I am indebted for various information contained in the \nIntroduction. \n\nS. P. S. \n\n\nin \n\n\n\nCONTENTS \n\n\nPAGE \n\nINTRODUCTION.. . . i \n\nWHEN LITTLE SISTER CAME . 41 \n\nFROM JOAQUIN , Et Al., 1869.45 \n\nIs It Worth While? ..47 \n\nZanara . 48 \n\nIn Exile . 49 \n\nTo the Bards of S. F. Bay ...... 50 \n\nMerinda .......... 50 \n\nNepenthe .......... 52 \n\nUnder the Oaks ........ 54 \n\nDirge .......... 54 \n\nVale.55 \n\nUltime ..55 \n\nSONGS OF THE SIERRAS, 1871.59 \n\nTo Maud .......... 61 \n\nWalker in Nicaragua ....... 61 \n\nThe Tale of the Tall Alcalde.88 \n\nThe Arizonian ......... 104 \n\nThe Last Taschastas.113 \n\nJoaquin Murietta ........ 120 \n\nBits From Ina, A Drama.126 \n\nEven So 137 \n\nMyrrh .......... 143 \n\nBurns .......... 146 \n\nByron ..147 \n\nKit Carson\'s Ride ........ 149 \n\n\nv \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nVI \n\n\nContents \n\n\nPAGE \n\nFALLEN LEAVES, 1873 . . . . . . .153 \n\nPalm Leaves . ....... 155 \n\nThomas of Tigre ..155 \n\nYosemite ..155 \n\nDead in the Sierras . . . . . . . .156 \n\nIn Southern California . 156 \n\nWho Shall Say?.157 \n\nA Love Song.157 \n\nIn San Francisco . 158 \n\nShadows of Shasta . . . . . . . .158 \n\nAt Sea.159 \n\nA Memory of Santa Barbara . . . . . .159 \n\nSummer Frosts ......... 160 \n\nSierras Adios ......... 160 \n\nBY THE SUN-DOWN SEAS, 1873.163 \n\nOye-Agua: Oregon . . . . . , . .165 \n\nSierra Grande Del Norte ...... 165 \n\nExodus for Oregon .. 166 \n\nThe Heroes of Oregon.168 \n\nWhere Rolls the Oregon . . . ^ . .170 \n\nPicture of a Bull . .172 \n\nVaquero.. . . .172 \n\nThe Great Emerald Land . . , . . \xe2\x80\xa2 173 \n\nTo Rest at Last , \n\nSONGS OF THE SUN-LANDS. I77 \n\nIsles of the Amazons, . j 7 ^ \n\nAn Indian Summer, . 209 \n\nFrom Sea to Sea, . . .... , 213 \n\nThe Ship in the Desert, . , k , , , , 216 \n\nThe Sea of Fire, , . 24s \n\nA Song of the South, .. 263 \n\nDawn at San Diego, . ...... 2 g 7 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nContents \n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \nVll \n\n\nPAGE \n\nSONGS OF THE HEBREW CHILDREN (OLIVE LEAVES) . 299 \n\n\nO Boy at Peace.301 \n\nAt Bethlehem, .. 3 o 3 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLa Notte\xe2\x80\x9d . 3 o 3 \n\nIn Palestine.304 \n\nBeyond Jordan,.304 \n\nFaith, . 3 o 5 \n\nHope, 305 \n\nCharity,.306 \n\nThe Last Supper.307 \n\nA Song for Peace.308 \n\nTo Russia .^oo \n\n\nTo Rachel in Russia \n\n\nSONGS OF ITALY, 1878 . \n\nThe Ideal and the Real \nA Dove of St. Mark \nComo .... \nSunrise in Venice \nVale! America . \n\nRome .... \nAttila\xe2\x80\x99s Throne, Torcello \nVenice \n\nA Hailstorm in Venice \nSanta Maria: Torcello \nIn a Gondola \nThe Capucin of Rome \n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 311 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 3i3 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 323 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 330 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 332 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 333 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 339 \n\n\' 339 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 34i \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 342 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 343 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 344 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 345 \n\n\nFROM SHADOWS OF SHASTA, 1881.347 \n\nMount Shasta.. * \xe2\x80\xa2 349 \n\nA Land That Man Has Newly Trod .... 349 \n\nThe Mountains.349 \n\nFor the Right.350 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nviii Contents; \n\n\nPAGE \n\n\n0 , the Mockery of Pity \xe2\x80\x9e \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n350 \n\n0 Tranquil Moon \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n350 \n\nLOG CABIN LINES .... \n\n\n\n\n\n\n35 i \n\nThe Soldier\xe2\x80\x99s Home, Washington \n\n\n\n\n\n\n353 \n\nOlive ...... \n\n\n\n\n\n\n356 \n\nThe Battle Flag at Shenandoah \n\n\n\n\n\n\n356 \n\nThe Lost Regiment . \n\n\n\n\n\n\n357 \n\nNewport News .... \n\n\n\n\n\n\n359 \n\nThe Coming of Spring \n\n\n\n\n\n\n359 \n\nSummer Moons at Mount Vernon \n\n\n\n\n\n\n360 \n\nThe Poem by the Potomac \n\n\n\n\n\n\n360 \n\nWashington by the Delaware . \n\n\n\n\n\n\n360 \n\nThe Bravest Battle \n\n\n\n\n\n\n361 \n\nTHE ULTIMATE WEST . \n\n\n\n\n\n\n363 \n\nTo Juanita .... \n\n\n\n\n\n\n365 \n\nCalifornia\xe2\x80\x99s Resurrection. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n366 \n\nPleasant to the Sight \n\n\n\n\n\n\n366 \n\nThe Trees ..... \n\n\n\n\n\n\n367 \n\nA Hard Row for Stumps . \n\n\n\n\n\n\n367 \n\nThe Gold That Grew by Shasta Town \n\n\n\n\n\n368 \n\nThe Sioux Chief\xe2\x80\x99s Daughter \n\n\n\n\n\n\n370 \n\nA Shasta Tale of Love \n\n\n\n\n\n\n373 \n\nLove in the Sierras . \n\n\n\n\n\n\n374 \n\nOld Gib at Castle Rocks . \n\n\n\n\n\n\n375 \n\nComanche ..... \n\n\n\n\n\n\n377 \n\nMontara ..... \n\n\n\n\n\n\n378 \n\nThe Larger College \n\n\n\n\n\n\n378 \n\nTo the Pioneers \n\n\n\n\n\n\n379 \n\n49 ...... \n\n\n\n\n\n\n380 \n\nSan Diego . \n\n\n\n\n\n\n380 \n\nPioneers to the Great Emerald Land \n\n\n\n\n\n381 \n\nAlaska . \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\n\n\n382 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nContents \n\n\nIX \n\n\nThe American Ocean \nTwilight at the Hights \nArbor Day \n\nCalifornia\'s Cup of Gold . \nBy the Balboa Seas . \nMagnolia Blossoms . \nCalifornia\xe2\x80\x99s Christmas \nThe Men of Forty-Nine . \nCuster . \n\nThe Heroes of America \n\xe2\x80\x9cThe Fourth\xe2\x80\x9d in Oregon . \nAn Answer \n\n\nKarnak \n\n\nFROM THE BUILDING OF THE CITY BEAUTIFUL, 1893 \nFeed My Sheep . \n\nUnder the Syrian Stars . \n\nThe Growing of a Soul . \n\nHow Beautiful are the Feet \nThe Sermon on the Mount \nIn the Sweat of Thy Face \nThe Christ in Egypt \nAwaiting the Resurrection at \nThe Voice of Toil \nThe Foundation Stones \nThe First Law of God \nLo! On the Plains of Bethel \nHow Shall Man Surely Save His Soul \nUnder the Olive Trees \nFrom Out the Golden Doors of Dawn \nThe Sun Lay Molten in the Sea \nHe Walked the World With Bended Heai \nThe Day Sat by With Banner Furled \nThe Toil of God .... \n\nThe Blessed Bees .... \n\n\nD \n\n\nPAGE \n\n. 382 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 383 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 383 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 383 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 384 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 384 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 384 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 385 \n\n. 386 \n\n. 386 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 387 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 389 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 391 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 393 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 393 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 393 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 394 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 394 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 395 \n\n. 395 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 396 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 397 \n\n. 397 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 398 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 398 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 399 \n\n. 400 \n\n. 400 \n\n. 401 \n\n. 401 \n\n. 401 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 403 \n\n. 403 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nx Contents \n\nMan\xe2\x80\x99s Books .... \n\nThe Truly Brave \nWhat If We All Lay Dead Below \nPut Up Thy Sword . \n\nWhy, Know You Not Soul Speaks to Sou \nThe Voice of the Dove \n\nENGLISH THEMES .... \n\nEngland . \n\nSt. Paul\xe2\x80\x99s. \n\nWestminster Abbey . \n\nOh, for England\xe2\x80\x99s Old Time Thunder! \n\nAt Lord Byron\xe2\x80\x99s Tomb \nDead in the Long, Strong Grass \nThe Passing of Tennyson . \n\nRiel, the Rebel \nMother Egypt .... \n\nAfrica ..... \n\nBoston to the Boers \n\n\nMORE SONGS FROM THE HIGHTS \n\nThe Poet . \n\nAnd Oh, the Voices I Have Heard \nThe World Is a Better World \nThe Fortunate Isles \nTo Save a Soul \nThe Light of Christ\xe2\x80\x99s Face \nGood Buddha Said \xe2\x80\x9cBe Clean, Be Clean \nTrue Greatness \nOn the Firing Line . \n\nMothers of Men \nAfter the Battle \nOur Heroes of To-day \n\n\n\n\nft \n\n\nPAGE \n\n403 \n\n404 \n\n404 \n\n405 \n405 \n405 \n\n407 \n\n409 \n\n409 \n\n410 \n410 \n410 \n412 \n\n412 \n\n413 \n\n413 \n\n414 \n\n415 \n\n4 W \n\n419 \n\n419 \n\n419 \n\n420 \n\n420 \n\n421 \n\n421 \n\n422 \n\n422 \n\n423 \n\n423 \n\n424 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nContents \n\n\nXI \n\n\nPAGE \n\nA Dead Carpenter ........ 425 \n\nQuestion?.425 \n\nDon\xe2\x80\x99t Stop at the Station Despair.426 \n\nFor Those Who Fail.426 \n\nThe River of Rest.427 \n\nDeath Is Delightful ....... 427 \n\nThe Song of the Silence ....... 428 \n\nTomorrow.428 \n\nFinale.428 \n\nMISCELLANEOUS LINES.431 \n\nThe Missouri ......... 433 \n\nDown the Mississippi at Night ..... 433 \n\nBy the Lower Mississippi ....... 434 \n\nHer Picture ......... 434 \n\nChristmas by the Great River ..... 435 \n\nHe Loves and Rides Away ...... 435 \n\nThe Queen of My Dreams ...... 437 \n\nThose Perilous Spanish Eyes ...... 438 \n\nMontgomery at Quebec ..439 \n\nThe Defence of the Alamo ...... 439 \n\nA Nubian Face on the Nile ..440 \n\nPeter Cooper ......... 440 \n\nThe Dead Millionaire ....... 440 \n\nGarfield . . 441 \n\nTo Andrew Carnegie.441 \n\nLincoln Park . 442 \n\nv\'Resurgo San Francisco ....... 442 \n\nCuba Libre ......... 444 \n\nThe Dead Czar ..445 \n\nThe Little Brown Man.446 \n\nChilkoot Pass.447 \n\nThe Fourth in Hawaiian Waters.447 \n\nLight of the Southern Cross ...... 448 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nxn \n\n\nContents \n\n\nPAGE \n\n\nSEMI-HUMOROUS SONGS . \n\nIn Classic Shades \nThat Gentle Man From Boston \nWilliam Brown of Oregon \nHorace Greeley\xe2\x80\x99s Drive . \n\nThat Faithful Wife of Idaho \nSaratoga and the Psalmist \nA Turkey Hunt in Texas . \n\nUSLAND .... \n\nThat Ussian of Usland \nSays Plato \nWelcome to the Great American Oc \nTwo Wise Old Men of Omar\xe2\x80\x99s Land \n\nSONGS OF THE AMERICAN SEAS \n\nColumbus .... \n\nA Song of Creation . \n\nWith Love to You and Yours \nAdios .... \n\n\nNOTES \n\n\nINDEX OF FIRST LINES . \n\n\nEAN \n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n* \xc2\xbb \n\n\n453 \n\n455 \n\n456 \n458 \n460 \n\n462 \n\n463 \n\n464 \n466 \n\n466 \n\n467 \n\n468 \n\n469 \n\n473 \n\n475 \n\n476 \n\n540 \n\n564 \n\n567 \n\n581 \n\n585 \n\n\nINDEX OF TITLES \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION \n\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION \n\nJoaquin Miller was a picturesque figure on the American \nscene for more than forty years. The romantic life which he had \nconceived and which he had, in considerable measure, enacted, \nhe recorded in both verse and prose, with due regard for the at\xc2\xac \ntention of posterity. Though much of his poetry is a genuine \nconquest, he wrote too easily and he wrote too much. In the \nsummer of 1921, only eight years after his death, though occa\xc2\xac \nsional curious pilgrims visited his home on The Hights above \nSan Francisco Bay, and carried off a stone from his monument \nto Moses The Law-Giver, booksellers of a dozen shops in the \ncities that fringe the bay looked up with surprise when one en\xc2\xac \nquired for a copy of his works, and replied that they had none. \nIt is not strange that popular interest refuses to float a six-volume \nedition of Miller. But our literature is not so rich in distinctive \nnational types that we can afford to let this poetical pioneer \nfade, as he is now in danger of fading, into a colorless shadow like \nthe once famous scouts who accompanied Fremont into the West. \n\nHe is, to be sure, difficult to fix for an adequate portrait, be\xc2\xac \ncause in his time he played several parts; and he himself was never \nquite sure in which of his various costumes and poses he would \nmost adorn the national gallery. An emigrant from the Middle \nBorder, a gold-hunter of the Far West, an Indian fighter, a fron\xc2\xac \ntier judge, he first rose above the horizon, in 1871, with assist\xc2\xac \nance and cheers from England, as the long-haired top-booted \n\xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 poet of the Sierras.\xe2\x80\x99 5 Even at the outset of his career, he was not \nquite satisfied with that role. His own early aspiration was rather \nto be known as \xe2\x80\x9cthe American Byron\xe2\x80\x9d; and, in keeping with that \n\n\n3 \n\n\n4 \n\n\nSntrobuction \n\n\nhigh calling, he shook off the dust of his native land, wandered \nfor a time in \xe2\x80\x9cexile,\xe2\x80\x9d and bore through Italy and the Mge&n \nIsles the pageant of his bleeding heart. Following his personal \ncontact with the Pre-Raphaelites in London, this impressionable \nmountaineer discipled himself for a brief period in the early \n\xe2\x80\x99seventiesto Swinburne and the Rossettis, was intensely \xe2\x80\x9caesthe\xc2\xac \ntic,\xe2\x80\x9d and contemplated devoting himself to the Orient. Return\xc2\xac \ning to America about 1875, he made through his middle years \nnumerous ventures in prose fiction and drama, ranging all the \nway from the Forty-Niners and the Indians of the Pacific slope \nto fast life in New York and to the more or less autobiographical \naffairs of the artist Alphonso Murietta in Italy (The One Fair \nWoman ). In what we may call his final period, after his return to \nCalifornia in the middle \xe2\x80\x99eighties, there grew strong in him a sense \nthat he was the leader of a native poetical movement, a spiritual \nseer with Messianic or at least prophetic mission; and in the flow\xc2\xac \ning hair and beard of his last years, stalking majestically under \nthe trees which he had planted by his monuments on The Hights, \nand gazing dreamily out over the Pacific, he looked the part. \n\nNow, whatever one may think of Miller\xe2\x80\x99s actual contribution \nto poetry or to prose fiction, this evolution of an Indian fighter \ninto the Moses of the Golden Gate is an extraordinary phe\xc2\xac \nnomenon. Considered merely as a detached individual, he \nis abundantly interesting to the biographer. But he repays \nsympathetic curiosity most generously perhaps when one re\xc2\xac \ngards and studies him as a register of the power exerted \nupon the individual by the American environment and the na\xc2\xac \ntional culture, even at their thinnest and crudest. To study him \nin this fashion the first requisite is a more coherent account of his \ncareer than has been hitherto available. Joaquin Miller was his \nown principal hero, but by a singular fatality his adventures have \nnever been adequately written. Certain scenes and events he \nhimself sketched repeatedly; but concerning many passages of his \nhistory he was extremely reticent. What is more serious, he had \n\n\nSntrobuctton \n\n\n5 \n\n\nno steady narrative power. Lifelong an adventurous rover, in \nlove with action, he finds it next to impossible to stick to the \nthread of his story. As soon as he grasps the pen, he overflows \nwith sentiment and moralization and he riots in description. \nConsequently his longer poems frequently produce the effect of \npanorama; and the feeling which they present remains obscure \ntill the shifting pictures are connected and explained by the \nevents of his own life. \n\nTo the student of American culture, the case of Joaquin \nMiller is the more valuable from the fact that he did not\xe2\x80\x94like \nBret Harte, for example\xe2\x80\x94put on the frontier as a literary gar\xc2\xac \nment, after an eastern upbringing. By birth and ancestry he \nbelonged in the great migration which settled the Middle Border \nand the Far West. He was born in 1841, in a covered wagon, \n\xe2\x80\x9cat or about the time it crossed the line dividing Indiana from \nOhio.\xe2\x80\x9d His mother, Margaret Witt of Dutch stock from North \nCarolina, and his father, Hulings Miller of Scotch stock from \nKentucky, were married in Indiana; and after some oscillation \nbetween Indiana and Ohio, gravitated slowly westward for a \ndecade through the Miami Reservation and up along the banks \nof the Wabash and the Tippecanoe rivers, before they heard a \nclear call to follow the overland trail to the coast. Meanwhile \nthey made various cabin homes for their young family. The \nmother cooked and sewed and wove and spun. The father worked \nhis little clearings, failed as storekeeper, served as magistrate, \nand kept school for the children of the wilderness. It was a \nrough life, but every reference of Miller to his childhood indicates \nthat it was in many respects a good and a happy life; and every \nreference to his parents is marked by a tenderness without con\xc2\xac \ndescension. These simple people were impecunious, restless, \nand not very shrewd\xe2\x80\x94rather sentimental and visionary. But \nthey were honest and pious, with the pacificism of the Quaker \ndiscipline and the abolitionism of Horace Greeley; they were loyal \nto one another and gentle and affectionate in all the family re- \n\n\n6 \n\n\nJfntrotmction \n\n\nlationships; they were kindly in their intercourse with the In\xc2\xac \ndians of the Reservation; and they were hospitable with their \nmeagre shelter to wanderers less fortunately circumstanced. \nMost of the parents\xe2\x80\x99 traits ultimately reappeared in the son, from \ntheir hospitality to their turn for roving. \n\nThe migratory influences from his immediate family were \nreenforced by the spirit of the age. The Millers were not alone \nin finding it difficult to \xe2\x80\x9csettle down\xe2\x80\x9d in the eighteen-forties. \nIt was an expansive and exploratory epoch in both the physical \nand the intellectual senses. The East was in a philosophical and \nsocial ferment. Descendants of the Puritans, corporally resident \nin Concord, were extending their mental frontiers to Greece and \nIndia; and in 1841 Emerson published the first series of his Essays, \n\xe2\x80\x9cstriking up\xe2\x80\x9d for a new world. It is not clear that these expan\xc2\xac \nsive utterances promptly reached the Indiana settlement. But \nbetween 1842 and 1844 Fremont started a movement which was \nthe material complement of Transcendentalism by his series of \nbold expeditions to the Rocky Mountains, Oregon, and Cali\xc2\xac \nfornia. Fremont\xe2\x80\x99s account of these explorations Hulings Miller \nborrowed from an Indian agent and read in the evenings to his \nassembled family. \xe2\x80\x9c I was never so fascinated,\xe2\x80\x9d says Joaquin, \xe2\x80\x9c I \nnever grew so fast in my life. Every scene and circumstance in \nthe narrative was painted in my mind to last, and to last forever.\xe2\x80\x9d \nThe hide of the \xe2\x80\x9cwoolly white horse\xe2\x80\x9d celebrated in Fremont\xe2\x80\x99s \npresidential campaign is exhibited to this day in Miller\xe2\x80\x99s home in \nCalifornia; and it may be mentioned here that Fremont\xe2\x80\x99s guide, \nthe hunter and Indian fighter Kit Carson, is the hero of one of \nMiller\xe2\x80\x99s most readable poems. In 1845 Texas was admitted to. \nthe Union, and Sam Houston, another of the poet\xe2\x80\x99s western he\xc2\xac \nroes, was elected to the United States Senate. At about this time \nthe Mormons, whom he was to commemorate in The Danites, \nwere drifting westward through Illinois and Missouri; and in \n1847 Brigham Young led the faithful into the valley of the Great \nSalt Lake. In 1849 the cry, \xe2\x80\x9cGold is discovered in California,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nintroduction \n\n\n7 \n\n\nran like prairie fire among our middle-borderers, and doubled \nthe attraction of the full section of land offered to each settler in \nOregon, in a bill introduced by Senator Linn of Missouri. By \n1850 still another of Miller\xe2\x80\x99s heroes, the enigmatic William \nWalker, was in California, soon to be preparing his filibustering \nexcursions into Mexico and Nicaragua. To add the last attrac\xc2\xac \ntion General Joe Lane, once a pupil of Hulings Miller, in the \nsugar camps of Indiana, had been appointed governor of \nOregon. \n\nThe multiplied appeals of the Far West had become irresist\xc2\xac \nible. As soon as they could equip themselves for the journey, \nthree years after the discovery of gold, the Millers started fo: the \npromised land. With a presentiment on his father\xe2\x80\x99s part that it \nwould some day be a pleasure to go over the record, Joaquin, \nthen in his eleventh year, kept a journal of -he great expedition. \nThough this unfortunately was lost, the poetic residuum of his \nimpressions is preserved in \xe2\x80\x9c Exodus for Oregon\xe2\x80\x9d and \xe2\x80\x9cThe Ship \nin the Desert.\xe2\x80\x9d As he recalled their adventure many years later, \nthey set out in wagons on the seventeenth of March, 1852; in \nMay, they crossed the Missouri above St. Joe, where they found \nthe banks for miles crowded with tents of the emigrants; followed \nthe Platte River; threaded Fremont\xe2\x80\x99s South Pass over the \nRockies; rested at Salt Lake City; skirmished with the Indians \nin the desert; descended to the head waters of the Snake River; \ncrossed the Cascade Mountains at the Dalles; and, after seven \nmonths and five days, ended their march of three thousand miles \nin Oregon, near the middle of the Willamette Valley, \xe2\x80\x9cthe most \npoetic, gorgeous and glorious valley in flowers and snow-covered \nmountains on the globe.\xe2\x80\x9d Miller\xe2\x80\x99s enthusiasm for the scenery of \nOregon is only equalled by his enthusiasm for the new settlers: \n\xe2\x80\x9cThe vast multitude,\xe2\x80\x9d he declares, that fought their way across \nthe plains in the face of cholera, hostile Indians, famine, and drouth \n\xe2\x80\x9cwas, as a rule, religious, and buried their dead with hymns and \nprayers, all along the dreary half year\xe2\x80\x99s journey on which no \n\n\n\n\n8 \n\n\nSntrobuction \n\n\ncoward ever ventured, and where the weak fell by the wayside, \nleaving a natural selection of good and great people, both in \nsoul and body.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nIt was about two years after the establishment of the Millers \nin Oregon that Joaquin\xe2\x80\x99s independent adventures began. They \nhad cultivated a little land, bought a few cows and sheep and \nhens, and were running a tavern in a small way. The father and \nelder brother were now absent, teaching school, and Joaquin and \nhis younger brother Jimmy were left with their mother to look \nafter the place. Stories brought up from the mining camps of \nCalifornia by pedlars and itinerant preachers had for some time \nbeen making him restless; and it had been conceded, he says, \nthat he was ultimately to be allowed to seek his fortune in the \nwicked and dangerous territory to the southward. In his four\xc2\xac \nteenth year, anticipating the parental consent, he ran away, and \njoining a party of miners who were opening a placer claim in a \nwooded gulch by the Klamath River, just below the border be\xc2\xac \ntween Oregon and California, he offered his services as cook and \ndishwasher. Here began his intimate acquaintance with the \ntougher and more miscellaneous element of the western popula\xc2\xac \ntion which was streaming through the Golden Gate\xe2\x80\x94the Austral\xc2\xac \nians, the European adventurers, the Mexicans, the Chinese, and \nwanderers from eastern cities. And here, if his memory is to be \ntrusted, he wrote his first song, in celebration of an adjutant \ncook\xe2\x80\x99s marriage to a woman from Australia. \n\nJoaquin was at this time small for his age, slender, pale, \nfrail-looking, with hair of the color of \xe2\x80\x9chammered gold,\xe2\x80\x9d reaching \nto his shoulders. The camp diet of bacon and beans did not agree \nwith him, and his first mining experience was terminated by a \nserious attack of scurvy. He was nursed back to health in Yreka \nby Dr. Ream and a \xe2\x80\x9ckind little Chinaman\xe2\x80\x9d; and then was taken \nby a mysterious stranger to ano\' her camp for the winter by the \nforks of several little streams which flow into the Klamath River \nfrom the north of Mt. Shasta. \xe2\x80\x9cHere,\xe2\x80\x9d he says, \xe2\x80\x9c I laid the scene \n\n\nSntrobuctton \n\n\n9 \n\n\nof \xe2\x80\x98The Danites,\xe2\x80\x99 my famous play, but have always been sorry I \nprinted it, as it is unfair to the Mormons and the Chinese.\xe2\x80\x9d The \ntall stranger with whom he spent the winter is another of Miller\xe2\x80\x99s \nheroes, whom at this period he seems to have regarded with un\xc2\xac \nqualified adoration. He figures so largely and mysteriously in \nhis work that he requires identification. In the introduction to \nthe collected poems he is described merely as \xe2\x80\x9cthe Prince,\xe2\x80\x9d and \nis said to have gone \xe2\x80\x9csouth,\xe2\x80\x9d in the spring of 1855. But in Life \nAmong the Modocs , 1873, he is represented as a very handsome \nand romantic professional gambler of great courage and chival\xc2\xac \nrous nature who was generally understood to be a prince, but \nwho, after fighting with Walker in Nicaragua, acknowledged \nhimself to be only plain James Thompson, an American. In 1876, \nMiller dedicated his First Fam\'lies of the Sierras as follows: \n\xe2\x80\x9cTo my old companion in arms, Prince Jamie Tomas, of Leon, \nNicaragua. \xe2\x80\x9d But that this \xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 Prince Jamie Tomas\xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 was the James \nThompson of Life Among the Modocs and the mysterious stranger \nof the autobiographical sketch is made clear at last by a footnote \nto the poem called \xe2\x80\x9c Thomas of Tigre,\xe2\x80\x9d in the fourth volume of \nthe Bear edition. \n\nAfter the departure of \xe2\x80\x9cthe Prince,\xe2\x80\x9d the most influential \nfriend of the strange boyhood days on Mt. Shasta was another \nrather mysterious figure, Joseph De Bloney, whom Miller had \nmet in the spring of 1855. In an apparently serious sketch of him, \nincluded in Memorie And Rime , De Bloney is described as \xe2\x80\x9ca \nCalifornia John Brown in a small way.\xe2\x80\x9d According to this ac\xc2\xac \ncount, he was of an old and noble Swiss family, and had probably \ncrossed the plains with Fremont under an impulse similar to that \nwhich animated Brigham Young in Utah and Walker in Nicara\xc2\xac \ngua\xe2\x80\x94an impulse to found a new state. \xe2\x80\x9cHis ambition was to \nunite the Indians about the base of Mount Shasta and establish \na sor,; of Indian republic, the prime and principal object of which \nwas to set these Indians entirely apart from the approach of the \nwhite man, draw an impassable line, in fact, behind which the \n\n\n\nIO \n\n\n3Jntrobuctton \n\n\nIndian would be ecure in his lands, his simple life, his integrity, \nand his purity. ... It was a hard undertaking at best, peril\xc2\xac \nous, almost as much as a man\xe2\x80\x99s life was worth to befriend an \nIndian in those stormy days on the border, when every gold- \nhunter . . . counted it his privilege, to shoot an Indian on sight. \nAn Indian sympathizer was more hated in those days, is still, \nthan ever was an abolitionist. . . . De Bloney gradually \ngathered about twenty-five men around him in the mountains, \ntook up homes, situated his men around him, planted, dug gold, \ndid what he could to civilize the people and subdue the savages. \n. . . But he had tough elements to deal with. The most sav\xc2\xac \nage men were the white men. The Indians, the friendly ones, were \nthe tamest of his people. These white men would come and go; \nnow they would marry the Indian women and now join a pros\xc2\xac \npecting party and disappear for months, even years. At one \ntime they nearly all went off to join Walker in Nicaragua.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nUnder the influence of this odd character, young Joaquin seems \nfor the time to have forgotten the Oregon homestead, and to have \nembraced the dream of a little Indian republic on Mt. Shasta. \nBetween 1855 and 1859 he represents himself as living in the \nshadow of the mountains with De Bloney and the Indians and \n\xe2\x80\x9cIndian Joe,\xe2\x80\x9d a scout and horsetrader of German birth, who had \nbeen with Fremont, and who furnished Miller some of the materials \nfor his poems. He was also on intimate terms with the Indian \nchief Blackbeard, who, he remarks in Memorie And Rime , had \n\xe2\x80\x9ca very beautiful daughter,\xe2\x80\x9d and gave him a \xe2\x80\x9cbeautiful little \nvalley,\xe2\x80\x9d where he built a cabin, and \xe2\x80\x9cfirst began to write.\xe2\x80\x9d \nAccording to Life Among the Modocs, a romance with a biographi\xc2\xac \ncal core, he married the chief\xe2\x80\x99s daughter and became eventuallv \nthe leader in the movement to unite the tribes in an Indian re\xc2\xac \npublic. These stories of his Indian bride and of his fighting de\xc2\xac \nfiance of the white men seem rather more plausible when one \nforgets that he was but fourteen when he remarked the beauty \nof the girl and only seventeen when he assumed the responsibilities \n\n\nJfntrobuctton \n\n\nii \n\n\nfor which, according to Memorie And Rime, De Bloney\xe2\x80\x99s growing \ninebriety disqualified him. \n\nViewed from within by a romantic poet, this colony of ad\xc2\xac \nventurers and Indians was a noble enterprise for the preservation \nof an oppressed race; viewed from without it probably seemed \nmore like a nest of horse-thieves. Its importance for Miller was \npartly in its development of his romantic sympathy with the \noutlaw. In a paper on \xe2\x80\x9cHow I Came to be a Writer of Books,\xe2\x80\x9d \ncontributed to Lippincotts in 1886, he illustrates this point, and, \nat the same time, explains the origin of his pen-name \xe2\x80\x9cJoaquin.\xe2\x80\x9d \nHis parents had called him Cincinnatus Heine (or Hiner); but, \nduring his sojourn on Mt. Shasta, his friends had already begun \nto call him by his now familiar name. According to this account, \nhe had made several trips with Mexican horse and mule drivers \ndown into Arizona and northern Mexico, and on these expedi\xc2\xac \ntions, \xe2\x80\x9cThese Mexicans were most kind to me.\xe2\x80\x9d They, on the \ncontrary, were treated by the Anglo-Saxon conquerors of Cali\xc2\xac \nfornia wi:h a brutality which was \xe2\x80\x9cmonstrous.\xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9cIt was this,\xe2\x80\x9d \nsays Miller \xe2\x80\x9cthat had driven Joaquin Murietta, while yet a \nyouth, to become the most terrible and bloody outlaw our land \nhas ever known. A reward of many thousands had been offered \nfor hi i head, he had been captured, killed, and his head was in \nspirits and on exhibition in San Francisco, when I took up my pen \nfor the first time and wrote a public letter in defence of the Mexi\xc2\xac \ncans.\xe2\x80\x9d In consequence of this letter he was bante ingly identified \nby a Sacramento paper with ihe bandit. His friends continued \nthe banter. The name was revived when he returned to Oregon, \nand was employed to twit him when he became an editor. And \nso he finally accepted it and used it in the title of his first \nbook. \n\nIn the chapter of his relations with the Indians there are mani\xc2\xac \nfold obscurr ies and contradictions. He adhered pretty consist\xc2\xac \nently throughout his life to the assertion that he was in three \nIndian battles or campaigns, the Battle of Castle Rocks, the \n\n\n\n12 \n\n\nJfntrobuctton \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Pitt River War,\xe2\x80\x9d and a later campaign in Oregon. But according \nto one set of stories he figures as a renegade fighting with the \nIndians against the whites; while according to the other set of \nstories he is fighting with the whites against the Indians. The \nchief prose sources of the renegade story are Life Among the \nModocs and Memorie And Rime; but he still calls himself a \n\xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 renegade\xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 in the introduction to the Bear edition. On the other \nhand, there is in existence among the papers preserved by the \nMiller family a petition for damages, never presented, in which \nMiller represents himself as the victim of Indian depredations; \nand in his annotations of the poem \xe2\x80\x9cOld Gib At Castle Rocks\xe2\x80\x9d \nhe establishes by a sworn affidavit that this first battle was \nagainst the \xe2\x80\x9cModocs and Other Renegades,\xe2\x80\x9d and that his wound \nin the head was received while he was fighting at Judge Gibson\xe2\x80\x99s \nside. In Memorie And Rime , however, he declares that the battle \nof Castle Rocks was fought under the leadership of De Bloney, \nto punish unfriendly Indians for burning his camp. But in the \nintroduction to the Bear edition, he says nothing of De Bloney; \nthe leader of Miller\xe2\x80\x99s party is there represented as Mountain Joe, \nwho in the battle unites forces with Judge Gibson, the alcalde of \nthe district. \n\nThe discrepancies in his various accounts may be explained in \nthree ways. First, Miller did in his poems and prose narratives \ndeliberately adulterate his facts with imaginary elements in the \ninterest of romance, and like his early model Lord Byron, he \nenjoyed and encouraged identification of himself with all his \nhard-riding, hard-fighting, and amorous heroes. Secondly, he \ntells us that as a result of his arrow wound in the head and neck \nat the Battle of Castle Rocks, \xe2\x80\x9con the 15th day of June, 1855,\xe2\x80\x9d \nhe lost his memory for months, was \xe2\x80\x9cnearly a year\xe2\x80\x9d in recovering, \nand was somewhat feeble minded for sometime after. Thirdly, \nif he ever actually became a renegade and participated in outlaw \nraids, when he returned to \xe2\x80\x9ccivilization\xe2\x80\x9d he indulged in wise \n\xe2\x80\x9clapses of memory.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nStitrobuctton \n\n\ni3 \n\n\nWith a consciousness, then, that we are treading the uncertain \nborder between fact and fiction, we pull the arrow from Joaquin\xe2\x80\x99s \nneck in the summer of 1855, and commit him to the care of an \nIndian woman, who treats him as her son. Late in the fah, re\xc2\xac \nstored at last to his senses and beginning to recover his strength, \nhe teaches school in a mining camp near Shasta City at night and \ntries to mine by day\xe2\x80\x94rather strenuous activities for a feeble\xc2\xac \nminded convalescent! But in the following spring, 1856, he again \njoins the red men on the mountain. \xe2\x80\x9cWhen the Modocs rose up \none night and massacred eighteen men, every man in Pitt River \nValley, I alone was spared\xe2\x80\x9d;\xe2\x80\x94thus runs the introduction to the \nBear edition\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cand spared only because I was Los bobo , the fool. \nThen more battles and two more wounds. My mind was as the \nmind of a child and my memory is uncertain here.\xe2\x80\x9d But accord\xc2\xac \ning to Memorie And Rime , news of the Pitt River massacre came \nto Joaquin in the spring of 1857, when he was encamped on the \nspurs of Mt. Shasta, \xe2\x80\x9c sixty miles distant"; so that it must have \nbeen in a later stage of the * 1 war \xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 that he got his \xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 bullet through \nthe right arm.\xe2\x80\x9d Had he complicity in the massacre? He raises \nthe question. He says that he knew in advance that it had been \nplanned, and he sympathized with its perpetrators years later. \nFollowing it, he made an expedition to Shasta City for ammuni\xc2\xac \ntion to arm De Bloney\xe2\x80\x99s Indians \xe2\x80\x9cagainst the brutal and aggres\xc2\xac \nsive white men\xe2\x80\x9d; had a horse shot under him by the pursuing \nwhites, stole another horse, was overtaken, threatened with \nhanging, lodged in Shasta City jail, \xe2\x80\x9cand my part in the wild \nattempt to found an Indian republic was rewarded with a prompt \nindictment for stealing horses.\xe2\x80\x9d This, he says, was in 1859. \nAfter long confinement, he was delivered from jail by the Indians \non the night of the 4th of July, thrown upon a horse, \xe2\x80\x9cand such \na ride for freedom and fresh air was never seen before.\xe2\x80\x9d (See \nMemorie And Rime , pp. 234-235, Life Among the Modocs , chap, \nxxx, and The Tale of the Tall Alcalde.) \n\nMiller hints, in Memorie And Rime, at one more disastrous \n\n\n\n14 \n\n\nSntrobuctton \n\n\nattempt to carry out De Bloney\xe2\x80\x99s plan for the republic, followed \nby separation from his leader, and flight to Washington Territory. \nBut in the introduction to the Bear edition, he interposes at this \npoint in his career, though without dates and vaguely and briefly, \nhis connection with the filibuster William Walker. \xe2\x80\x9cI, being a \nrenegade,\xe2\x80\x9d he says, \xe2\x80\x9cdescended to San Francisco and set sail for \nBoston, but stopped at Nicaragua with Walker.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nIn his poem \xe2\x80\x9cWith Walker in Nicaragua,\xe2\x80\x9d he represents him\xc2\xac \nself as riding side by side with the filibuster in his campaigns and \nas treated by him like a son; and he always encouraged the com\xc2\xac \nmon belief that this poem had a substantial autobiographical core. \nThere is a good deal of evidence for concluding that it had none. \nWalker sailed from San Francisco in May and landed in Nica\xc2\xac \nragua on June 16, 1855. On the previous day, Miller was \nwounded at Castle Rocks in northern California. In May, \n1857, Walker left Nicaragua and was a paroled prisoner in the \nUnited States till August, i860, when he landed in Honduras, \nwhere he was executed on the 12th of September in the same year. \nMiller later associated himself with his hero by publishing the \nlast words of Walker, obtained from the priest who attended the \nexecution; but Miller says in his notes on the poem in the Bear \nedition: \xe2\x80\x9cI was not with him on this last expedition.\xe2\x80\x9d Of course \nthe intended implication is that he was with Walker on a pre\xc2\xac \nvious expedition. Recruits from California sailed down to join the \nfilibuster at frequent intervals, it is true; but, if any credit is to be \ngiven\'to Miller\xe2\x80\x99s Indian stories, he was recovering from his Castle \nRocks wound from June, 1855, till the spring of 1856, when he \njoined the red men on the mountains; he spends the winter on the \nspurs of Mt. Shasta, and in the spring of 1857 he becomes impli\xc2\xac \ncated in the Pitt River Valley War, in which he is again seriously \nwounded; and his connections with this affair are not terminated \ntill 1859. He might then have set out in time to join Walker\xe2\x80\x99s \nfatal expedition in Honduras; but he tells us that he did not. \nWalker, in his account of The War in Nicaragua , published in \n\n\nIlntrotmction \n\n\n15 \n\n\ni860, nowhere mentions the boy whom he is alleged to have \nfathered. One\xe2\x80\x99s final impression is that the poem is pure fiction, \ncolored by the tales and published narratives of the filibusters \nand perhaps by Miller\xe2\x80\x99s subsequent acquaintance with Central \nAmerica. And this impression is strengthened by Miller\xe2\x80\x99s reply \nto one who asked him point blank whether he was ever with \nWalker in Nicaragua: \xe2\x80\x9cWas Milton ever in Hell?\xe2\x80\x9d 1 \n\nThe fiasco of De Bloney\xe2\x80\x99s and Joaquin\xe2\x80\x99s Mt. Shasta \xe2\x80\x9crepub\xc2\xac \nlic\xe2\x80\x9d fell, according to the legend, in the year of John Brown\xe2\x80\x99s \nraid at Harper\xe2\x80\x99s Ferry, and two years after the ejection of Walker \nfrom Nicaragua. In Miller\xe2\x80\x99s mind these three curious attempts \nto escape from the jurisdiction of the United States became closely \nassociated memories of forlorn hopes, with a singular appeal to \nhis imagination. Writing at Harper\xe2\x80\x99s Ferry in 1883 (Memorie \nAnd Rime , 228 ff.), he gives this account of his movements and \nsentiments following his alleged connection with Walker and De \nBloney: \xe2\x80\x9cI made my way to Washington Territory, sold my \npistols, and settled down on the banks of the Columbia, near \nLewis River, and taught school. And here it was that the story \nof John Brown, his raid, his fight, his capture, and his execution, \nall came to me. Do you wonder that my heart went out to him \nand remained with him? I, too, had been in jail. Death and \ndisgrace were on my track, and might find me any day hiding \nthere under the trees in the hearts of the happy children. And so, \nsympathizing, ! told these children over and over again the story \nof old John Brown there.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nFrom i860 to 1870 Miller was chiefly an Oregonian, though \nhe made many excursions from his base. We shall have to notice \none more interesting inconsistency which casts a suspicion over \nhis account of his life with the Indians. In the introduction to \nthe Bear edition, he says in his baffling summary fashion, without \ndates, that on his return from being \xe2\x80\x9cwith Walker,\xe2\x80\x9d he \xe2\x80\x9cwent \nhome, went to college some, taught school some, studied law at \n1 This reply was related to me by Mrs. Miller. \n\n\ni6 \n\n\nSntroiiuctton \n\n\nhome some.\xe2\x80\x9d Now, in a note to the Bear edition (vol. n., p. 185) \nhe speaks of teaching school in 1858 below Fort Vancouver, \xe2\x80\x9c dur\xc2\xac \ning vacation at Columbia College, the forerunner of the Oregon \nUniversity\xe2\x80\x9d; and, in another note (vol. 1, p. 170), he says that he \nwrote, \xe2\x80\x9cthe valedictory class poem\xe2\x80\x9d for Columbia College in \n1859. It thus appears that his attendance at \xe2\x80\x9cColumbia College\xe2\x80\x9d \nfalls in the period when, according to his other stories, he was \nengaged in his last desperate efforts to establish De Bloney\xe2\x80\x99s \n\xe2\x80\x9c Mt. Shasta republic\xe2\x80\x9d; and his valedictory poem was apparently \ndelivered in the year in which he fled from Californian justice to \nhide in Washington Territory. \n\nIf one thinks of Miller as having taken a regular college course \nending in 1859, then one must be prepared to dismiss most of the \nMt. Shasta stories as mythical; and doubtless there is a large \nelement of fiction in them. They are not, however, quite so in\xc2\xac \nconsistent with the \xe2\x80\x9ccollege\xe2\x80\x9d course as at first sight they appear. \nEugene City, in which the \xe2\x80\x9ccollege\xe2\x80\x9d was located, was not settled \ntill 1854; and the institution, with its \xe2\x80\x9cpleasant campus,\xe2\x80\x9d in \nwhich the poem was perhaps delivered five years later was noth\xc2\xac \ning more than a small town high school or seminary. And Miller, \nreturning from California in 1858, or even as late as 1859^ might, \nafter very brief instruction, have appeared as class poet in 1859. \nIt is, moreover, unfortunately necessary to regard the statements \nabout his own life made towards the close of his literary career \nwith almost as much skepticism as those which he made near its \noutset; and for an interesting reason. In his last period as the \nseer on The Hights, Miller desired to be regarded as an authorita\xc2\xac \ntive man of letters; consequently he minimized his frontier up\xc2\xac \nbringing and magnified his education and general culture. Fur\xc2\xac \nthermore, he ultimately desired to be regarded as devoutly \nAmerican and intensely pacifistic; consequently he touched very \nlightly in later years the period when he was a secessionist, he \nskilfully hinted here and there that the stories of his outlawry \nwere mythical, and he worked over his poems, making great ex- \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n3fntrotiuctton \n\n\ni7 \n\n\ncisions and adding new passages, with the purpose of harmonizing \nthem with his declaration that he would rather starve than be \ncelebrated as the poetic glorifier of war. 1 This was obviously a \ndifficult task in the case of the bloody and imperialistic career \nof Walker. \n\nIn the summer of 1861 Miller began other interesting adven\xc2\xac \ntures which are better attested. At this time he was riding Moss- \nman and Miller\xe2\x80\x99s pony express; carrying letters and gold dust \nbetween Walla Walla, Washington, and the newly opened mines \nat Millersburg in Idaho. Attracted by certain contributions of \n\xe2\x80\x9cMinnie Myrtle\xe2\x80\x9d appearing in the newspapers of his pack, he \nwrote to her and had replies. His mining ventures yielded him \nenough to enable him to build a \xe2\x80\x9cbeautiful new home\xe2\x80\x9d for his \nparents, and also to buy a newspaper. In 1863 he began to edit \nThe Democratic Register in Eugene, Oregon, and he avowed south\xc2\xac \nern sympathies which aroused the community. Though he had \nbeen brought up an ardent abolitionist and his elder brother John \nhad entered the northern army, he himself had imbibed, in his \n\xe2\x80\x9ccollege,\xe2\x80\x9d which was tainted with disloyalty, or from the friends \nof Walker, who was a pro-slavery man, or elsewhere\xe2\x80\x94principles \nand sentiments obnoxious to the aroused Unionist spirit of Oregon. \nAs he explained it in Memorie And Rime , \xe2\x80\x9cwhen the war came, \n\n1 \xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x98 The Tale of the Alcalde,\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x99 he says in his note in the Bear edition, \xe2\x80\x9chas \nbeen a fat source of feeding for grimly humorous and sensational writers, who \nlong ago claimed to have found in it the story of my early life; and strangely \nenough I^was glad when they did so, and read their stories with wild delight. \nI don\xe2\x80\x99t know why I alw T ays encouraged this idea of having been an outlaw, but \nI recall that when Trelawny told me that Byron was more ambitious to be \nthought the hero of his wildest poems than even to be King of Greece I could \nnot help saying to myself, as Napoleon said to the thunders preceding Water\xc2\xac \nloo, \xe2\x80\x98We are of accord.\xe2\x80\x99 The only serious trouble about the claim that I made \nthe fight of life up the ugly steeps from a hole in an adobe prison-w T all to the \nfoothills of Olympus instead of over the pleasant campus of a college is the fact \nthat \xe2\x80\x98our friends the enemy\xe2\x80\x99 fixed the date at about the same time in which I \nam on record as reading my class poem in another land.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\ni8 \n\n\nSntroliuctton \n\n\nand the armies went down desolating the South, then with that \nfatality that has always followed me for getting on the wrong side, \nsiding with the weak, I forgot my pity for the one in my larger \npity for the other.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHis entrance into journalism brought him again to the atten\xc2\xac \ntion of his unknown correspondent, \xe2\x80\x9cMinnie Myrtle,\xe2\x80\x9d who was \nthen living in a mining and lumber camp at Port Orford by the \nsea, not far from the southern boundary of Oregon. Twenty \nyears later, when this lady died in New York, in May, 1883, \nMiller told in his own fashion the story of his brief unhappy re\xc2\xac \nlations with her. Since they made a turning point in his career \nand introduced into his poetry additional \xe2\x80\x9cByronic\xe2\x80\x9d notes, let \nus have an abridgment of his own version of the affair as set forth \nin Memorie And Rime. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhen I came down from the mountains and embarked in \njournalism, she wrote to me, and her letters grew ardent and full \nof affection. Then I mounted my horse and rode hundreds of \nmiles through the valleys and over the mountains, till I came to \nthe sea, at Port Orford, then a flourishing mining town, and there \nfirst saw \xe2\x80\x98 Minnie Myrtle.\xe2\x80\x99 Tall, dark, and striking in every re\xc2\xac \nspect, this first Saxon woman I had ever addressed had it all her \nown way at once. She knew nothing at all of my life, except that \nI was an expressman and country editor. I knew nothing at all \nof hers, but I found her with kind, good parents, surrounded by \nbrothers and sisters, and the pet and spoiled child of the mining \nand lumber camp. . . . The heart of the bright and merry girl \nwas brimming full of romance, hope, and happiness. I arrived on \nThursday. On Sunday next we were married! Oh, to what else \nbut ruin and regret could such romantic folly lead?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cProcuring a horse for her\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94for she, too, was an excellent \nand daring rider\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cwe set out at once to return to my post, far \naway over the mountains.\xe2\x80\x9d After a week\xe2\x80\x99s ride, the bridal couple \nreached their intended home in Eugene, \xe2\x80\x9c but only to find that my \npaper had been suppressed by the Government, and we resolved \n\n\nSntrobuctton \n\n\n19 \n\n\nto seek our fortunes in San Francisco. But we found neither \nfortune nor friends in that great city.\xe2\x80\x9d In 1863 Mrs. Fremont \nwas there, and Charles Warren Stoddard, and Prentice Mulford, \nand Ina Coolbrith. Bret Harte was writing for The Golden Era. \nThe nucleus was already formed of the literary group which \nMark Twain joined in 1864, an d which launched The Californian \nand The Overland Monthly. Whether at this time Miller made \nany attempt to break into the \xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 western school \xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 does not appear. \nIf he did so, we can understand his failure. He was still a very \nimmature writer, though Stoddard records that he did contribute \nto The Golden Era , \xe2\x80\x9cfrom the backwood depths of his youthful \nobscurity.\xe2\x80\x9d But coming as he did in the midst of the Civil War \nto the outskirts of a group animated by Bret Harte, then en\xc2\xac \ngaged in writing strongly patriotic verse and prose, the editor of a \npaper which had just been suppressed for disloyalty could hardly \nhave expected a very cordial reception. \n\nOne is tempted to conjecture that Miller\xe2\x80\x99s failure to establish \na literary or journalistic connection in the city may perhaps have \ndashed a little the spirits of his bride. At any rate, he says that \neven while they were living in San Francisco, she had presenti\xc2\xac \nments of \xe2\x80\x9cwreck and storm and separation for us.\xe2\x80\x9d If thwarted \naspiration for more literary and social life than she had enjoyed \nin the lumber camp had stimulated these presentiments, they \nmust have been strengthened when Joaquin bought a band of \ncattle and journeyed with his wife and baby to a new mining camp \nat Canyon City, in eastern Oregon. As for him, it was the life \nto which he had always been accustomed, and he threw himself \ninto the task of establishing himself with unwonted application \nof his restless energy. He practised law among the miners, he \nplanted the first orchard in the land, he led in his third Indian \ncampaign, he was rewarded in 1866 by election, for a four-year \nterm, as judge of the Grant County court, and finally, he had \nbegun to occupy himself seriously with poetry. In 1868 he pub\xc2\xac \nlished a pamphlet of Specimens, and in 1869, Portland, Oregon, \n\n\n20 \n\n\nSntrobuctum \n\n\nhis first book: \xe2\x80\x9c Joaquin , Et Al., By Cincinnatus H. Miller,\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94 \ndedicated \xe2\x80\x9cTo Maud.\xe2\x80\x9d 1 \n\nAmbition and a multitude of business, as he depicted the \nmatter, had made him not the most genial of companions: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOften I never left my office till the gray dawn, after a day of \ntoil and a night of study. My health gave way and I was indeed \nold and thoughtful. Well, all this, you can see, did not suit the \nmerry-hearted and spoiled child of the mines at all. . . . She \nbecame the spoiled child here that she had been at her father\xe2\x80\x99s, \nand naturally grew impatient at my persistent toil and study. But \nshe was good all the time . . . Let me say here, once for all, \nthat no man or woman can put a finger on any stain in this \nwoman\xe2\x80\x99s whole record of life, so far as truth and purity go. But \nshe was not happy here. Impatient of the dull monotony of the \nexhausted mining camp . . . she took her two children and \nreturned to her mother, while I sold the little home . . . prom\xc2\xac \nising to follow her, yet full of ambition now to be elected to a place \non the Supreme Bench of the State .... She had been absent \nfrom me quite a year, when ... I went to Portland, seeking the \nnomination for the place I desired. But the poor impatient lady, \nimpulsive as always and angry that I had kept so long away, had \nforwarded papers from her home, hundreds of miles remote, to \na lawyer here, praying for a divorce. This so put me to shame \nthat I abandoned my plans and resolved to hide my head in Eu\xc2\xac \nrope.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nTo \xe2\x80\x9chide\xe2\x80\x9d his head was hardly the prime object of Miller\xe2\x80\x99s \nfirst trip abroad, nor, except by a wide poetic license, can the \nphrase be used to describe his activities there. His object was \nmore candidly presented in his Byronic \xe2\x80\x9cUltime,\xe2\x80\x9d the last poem \nof the little volume, Joaquin , Et Al ., published in Portland in \n1869\xe2\x80\x94 a poem written as if in premonition of death: \n\n1 The contents were: \xe2\x80\x9cJoaquin," \xe2\x80\x9cIs It Worth While," \xe2\x80\x9cZanara," \xe2\x80\x9cIn \nExile," \xe2\x80\x9cTo the Bards of S. F. Bay," \xe2\x80\x9cMerinda,\xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9cNepenthe," \xe2\x80\x9cUnder the \nOaks," \xe2\x80\x9cDirge," \xe2\x80\x9cVale,\xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9cBenoni," and \xe2\x80\x9cUltime." \n\n\nSntrobuctton \n\n\n21 \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9c It was my boy-ambition to be read beyond the brine.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAs soon as Joaquin, EtAl. was published, what Miller burned \nfor was a literary recognition impossible on the Oregon frontier. In \nMarch of 1869, he wrote from Portland to Charles Warren Stod\xc2\xac \ndard to solicit his interest in getting the book adequately noticed \nin 7 he Overland Monthly , which had been launched two months \nbefore. Stoddard was absent in Hawaii; but in January, 1870, \nBret Harte gave Joaquin a humorous but not unfriendly salute in \nthe new magazine: \xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98We find in \xe2\x80\x98Joaquin, et al. \xe2\x80\x99 the true poetic \ninstinct, with a natural felicity of diction and a dramatic vigour \nthat are good in performance and yet better in promise. Of \ncourse, Mr. Miller is not entirely easy in harness, but is given to \npawing and curvetting; and at such times his neck is generally \nclothed with thunder and the glory of his nostrils is terrible.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nFollowing this recognition from the leading literary periodical \nof the Far West, Miller came down from Oregon to embrace the \nbards of San Francisco Bay\xe2\x80\x94so romantically addressed by him \nin Joaquin , Et Al .\xe2\x80\x94came to embrace them and to be embraced \nby them\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cclad,\xe2\x80\x9d says Stoddard, who had now returned from \nHawaii, \xe2\x80\x9cin a pair of beaded moccasins, a linen \xe2\x80\x98duster\xe2\x80\x99 that fell \nnearly to his heels, and a broad-brimmed sombrero .\xe2\x80\x9d Fresh, \nbreezy, ingenuous, Miller exclaimed at once, \xe2\x80\x9cWell, let us go and \ntalk with the poets.\xe2\x80\x9d Stoddard took him around to call upon \nBret Harte, and presented him also to the most lyrical third of \ntheir Trinity, the local Sappho, Ina Coolbrith, who was at once \nimpressive and sympathetic. But on the whole, literary glory \nat the Golden Gate was paler than his expectations\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9che had \nbeen somewhat chilled by his reception in the metropolis.\xe2\x80\x9d Had \nhe really desired to hide his head, he might have accepted Stod\xc2\xac \ndard\xe2\x80\x99s invitation to flee away with him to the South Seas. In\xc2\xac \nstead of doing so, Miller accepted a wreath of laurel from Ina \nCoolbrith, to lay on the tomb of Byron, and, in midsummer of \n1870, \xe2\x80\x9cstarted for England in search of fame and fortune.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nOne dwells upon his first visit to the old world, because now \n\n\n22 \n\n\nJfntrobuction \n\n\none sees for the first time adequately manifested the literary \nsensibility and the imaginative yearning which for years had been \nsecretly growing in the heart of the judge of Grant County, Ore\xc2\xac \ngon. Here is an astounding fact: jottings from a diary, preserved \nin Memorie And Rime , prove that this backwoodsman went \nabroad, not with the jaunty insolence of Mark Twain\xe2\x80\x99s jolly \nPhilistines, but rather in the mood of Henry James\xe2\x80\x99s delicately \nnurtured \xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 passionate pilgrims\xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 of the decade following the Civil \nWar, those sentimental and aesthetically half-starved young \nAmericans, who in the middle years of the last century flung \nthemselves with tearful joy on England and Europe as the dear \nhomeland of their dreams. There is a touch, sometimes more than \na touch, of the theatrical in his gesture; but there is an unques\xc2\xac \ntionable depth of sincere feeling animating the performance as a \nwhole. \n\nThere is even a touch of pathos\xe2\x80\x94the more affecting because \nhe himself, for once, seems hardly aware of it\xe2\x80\x94in the memoranda \nof his departure from New York. He bought his ticket on August \nio, 1870, \xe2\x80\x9csecond class, ship Europa, Anchor Line, to land at \nGlasgow; and off to-morrow.\xe2\x80\x9d While waiting for the sailing, he \nnotes that he has tried in vain to see Horace Greeley and Henry \nWard Beecher, but has got some leaves from a tree by the door of \nBeecher\xe2\x80\x99s church \xe2\x80\x9cto send to mother.\xe2\x80\x9d There, in a sentence, was \nhis unconscious epitome of what the higher culture of the Amer\xc2\xac \nican metropolis had to offer in 1870 to a passionate pilgrim, to a \nromantic poet: the editorials of a great journalist, the sermons of a \ngreat preacher\xe2\x80\x94a rebuff from the office of the one, and a leaf \nfrom a tree of the other. A note of the voyage, which he seems to \nhave found very dreary, reminds us that the Franco-Prussian \nWar was then in progress: \xe2\x80\x9cA lot of Germans going home to fight \nfilled the ship; a hard, rough lot, and they ate like hogs.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nArrived in Scotland, he turns his back on commercial Glas\xc2\xac \ngow, and makes straight for the haunts of Burns. On September \n10, he writes: \xe2\x80\x9cGod bless these hale and honest Scotch down \n\n\nSntrobuctton \n\n\n23 \n\n\nhere at peaceful Ayr. . . . One man showed me more than \na hundred books, all by Ayrshire poets, and some of them \nsplendid! I have not dared to tell any one yet that I too hope to \npublish a book of verse. ... I go every day from here to the \n\xe2\x80\x98 Auld Brig\xe2\x80\x99 over the Doon, Highland Mary\xe2\x80\x99s grave, and Alloway\xe2\x80\x99s \nauld haunted kirk! . . . Poetry is in the air here. I am work\xc2\xac \ning like a beaver . . . September 18: In the sunset to-day, \nas I walked out for the last time toward the tomb of Highland \nMary, I met a whole line of splendid Scotch lassies with .sheaves \nof wheat on their heads and sickles on their arms. Their feet \nwere bare, their legs were bare to the knees. Their great strong \narms were shapely as you can conceive; they were tall, and their \nlifted faces were radiant with health and happiness. I stepped \naside in the narrow road to enjoy the scene and let them pass. \nThey were going down the sloping road toward some thatched \ncottages by the sea; I towards the mountains. How beautiful! \nI uncovered my head as I stepped respectfully aside. But giving \nthe road to women here seems to be unusual. . . .\xe2\x80\x9d Having \npaid his devotions to Burns, his \xe2\x80\x9cbrother,\xe2\x80\x9d he goes on into the \nScott country, wades the Tweed, and spends a night in Dryburgh \nAbbey. \n\nThence he proceeds, with ever more reverential mood, to \nNottingham, where he lays his western laurel on the tomb of his \n\xe2\x80\x9cmaster,\xe2\x80\x9d Byron, and bargains with the care-taker \xe2\x80\x9cto keep the \nwreath there as long as he lives (or I have sovereigns). \xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9c O my \n\npoet! \xe2\x80\x9d he cries, \xe2\x80\x9c Worshipped where the world is glorious with the \nfire and the blood of youth! Yet here in your own home\xe2\x80\x94ah \nwell!\xe2\x80\x9d The parallelism between Byron\xe2\x80\x99s fate and his own, on \nwhich he broods in Nottingham, stimulates him to fresh poetical \nefforts. On September 28, the record runs: \xe2\x80\x9cHave written \nlots of stuff here. I have been happy here. I have worked and \nnot thought of the past. But to-morrow I am going down to \nHull, cross the Channel, and see the French and Germans fight. \nFor I have stopped work and begun to look back. ... I see \n\n\n24 \n\n\nSntroimctton \n\n\nthe snow-peaks of Oregon all the time when I stop work. . . . \nAnd then the valley at the bottom of the peaks; the people there; \nthe ashes on the hearth; the fire gone out. . . . The old story \nof Orpheus in hell has its awful lesson. I, then, shall go forward \nand never look back any more. Hell, I know, is behind me. \nThere cannot be worse than hell before me. ... Yet for all this \nphilosophy and this setting the face forward, the heart turns \nback.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAfter a glimpse of the war, he began on November 2, 1870, his \nadventures in London,\xe2\x80\x94which he found delightfully different \nfrom New York\xe2\x80\x94by walking straight to Westminster Abbey, \nguided only by the spirit in his feet. Later, he continued his \npassionate pilgrimage by looking up the haunts of Washington \nIrving and Bayard Taylor, and he lived for a while in Camber\xc2\xac \nwell, because Browning had lived there. In February, 1871, he \nwas lodged in a garret of the poet Cowley\xe2\x80\x99s house, \xe2\x80\x9cright back of \nthe Abbey,\xe2\x80\x9d looking out on Virginia creepers planted by Queen \nElizabeth, and listening to the sound of the city\xe2\x80\x99s bells. Re\xc2\xac \nfreshed from his bath in the stream of poetic tradition and \xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 at\xc2\xac \nmospherically\xe2\x80\x9d inspired, Miller made a little book called Pacific \nPoems , containing \xe2\x80\x9c Arazonian\xe2\x80\x9d and his drama \xe2\x80\x9cOregonia,\xe2\x80\x9d and, \nhaving printed, at his own expense, a hundred copies, he scoured \nthe city seeking a publisher. But the publishers would have none \nof it. Murray, \xe2\x80\x9cson of the great Murray, Byron\xe2\x80\x99s friend,\xe2\x80\x9d re\xc2\xac \nceived him, indeed, and showed him many pictures of Byron, but \nrejected the proffered opportunity to become Joaquin\xe2\x80\x99s publisher, \nsaying, with definitive uplifted finger: \xe2\x80\x9cAye, now, don\xe2\x80\x99t you know \npoetry won\xe2\x80\x99t do? Poetry won\xe2\x80\x99t do, don\xe2\x80\x99t you know?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nIn other quarters he met with better fortune. Knocking at \nthe door of Punch, as a nameless American, he was cordially \nreceived by \xe2\x80\x9cmy first, firmest friend in London,\xe2\x80\x9d a man in whose \narms Artemus Ward had died,\xe2\x80\x94Tom Hood, son of the famous \nhumorist. By March, 1871, he got his Pacific Poems to the re\xc2\xac \nviews and into a kind of private circulation without a publisher. \n\n\nSntrobuctton \n\n\n25 \n\n\nAlmost at once both book and author began to catch the fancy of \nthe London literary tasters, who are always hospitably inclined \nto real curiosities from overseas, and welcome a degree of crudity \nin a trans-Atlantic writer as evidence that he is genuinely Amer\xc2\xac \nican. By the end of the month, \xe2\x80\x9c Arazonian\xe2\x80\x9d was attributed by \nthe Saint James Gazette to Robert Browning; and, notes the diary, \n\xe2\x80\x9cWalter Thornbury, Dickens\xe2\x80\x99s dear friend, and a better poet than \nI can hope to be, has hunted me up, and says big things of the \n\xe2\x80\x98Pacific Poems\xe2\x80\x99 in the London Graphic .\xe2\x80\x9d There are, moreover, \n\xe2\x80\x9ctwo splendid enthusiasts from Dublin University.\xe2\x80\x9d And, \nfinally, Tom Hood has introduced him to the society poet of the \ncity, who, in turn, has given him letters \xe2\x80\x9cto almost everybody\xe2\x80\x9d; \nand so he is socially launched. With this encouragement and \nbacking, he attacks the .publishers again, this time successfully. \nBy April, 1871, Longmans has brought out his Songs of the \nSierras , and Miller\xe2\x80\x99s \xe2\x80\x9cboy-ambition\xe2\x80\x9d is accomplished. \n\nAt one stride he had stepped from backwoods obscurity into \nthe full noontide of glory; and it is not strange that the remem\xc2\xac \nbrance of his English reception dazzled him for the rest of his life. \nIt is hardly an exaggeration to say that this acclaim was instan\xc2\xac \ntaneous, enthusiastic, and unanimous\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cover generous,\xe2\x80\x9d he \ncalled it, years later, when he published in the Bear edition some \nthirty pages of appreciations from the English press, including \nThe Spectator , The Athenaeum , The Saturday Review, The Pall Mall \nGazette, The Illustrated London News, The Academy, The Evening \nStandard, The Westminster Review, The Dark Blue, The London \nSunday Times, Chambers\'s Journal, Frazer\'s Magazine, The Even\xc2\xac \ning Post, The Globe, The Morning Post, and others. These are \nlargely concerned with his first volume, The Songs of the Sierras. \nThe reviewers, in general, touch lightly upon his obvious inequali\xc2\xac \nties, blemishes, slips in grammar, and faults in metre; some of \nthem apologize slightly for his frontier culture, more recognize it \nboldly as the .source of his power, and proceed to speak in glow\xc2\xac \ning terms of his freshness of theme and treatment, of his tropical \n\n\n26 \n\n\nSntrobuction \n\n\ncolor, his myth-making power, his fluent, rapid, and melodious \nverse, and \xe2\x80\x9c the supreme independence, the spontaneity, the all- \npervading passion, the unresting energy, and the prodigal wealth \nof imagery which stamp the poetry before us.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThey did not hesitate, this chorus of reviewers, to tell him \nthat his poetry was the most important that had ever come out of \nAmerica. Nor did they stop with this equivocal praise. The \nAthenceum found him like Browning in his humor and in the \nnovelty of his metaphor. The Saturday Review dwelt on his By- \nronic qualities, and remarked in him \xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 a ring of genuineness which \nis absent from Byron.\xe2\x80\x9d The Westminster Review thought that he \nreminded one of Whitman, with the coarseness left out. And \nThe Academy gravely declared, that \xe2\x80\x9cthere is an impassable gap \nbetween the alien couleur locale of even so great a poet as Victor \nHugo in such a work as Les Orientales , and the native recipiency \nof one like our California author, whose very blood and bones are \nrelated to the things he describes, and from whom a perception \nand a knowledge so extremely unlike our own are no more separ\xc2\xac \nable than his eye, and his brain.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nIn the wake of the journalistic ovation, social invitations came \nin upon the poet faster than he could accept or answer them. \nAmong those which he had put aside were three letters, signed \n\xe2\x80\x9cDublin.\xe2\x80\x9d His Irish friends discovered these and explained that \nthey were from the Archbishop (Trench). \xe2\x80\x9c At \xe2\x80\x98 Dublin\xe2\x80\x99s\xe2\x80\x99 break\xc2\xac \nfast,\xe2\x80\x9d says Miller, \xe2\x80\x9cI met Robert Browning, Dean Stanley, Lady \nAugusta, a lot more ladies, and a duke or two, and after break\xc2\xac \nfast, \xe2\x80\x98 Dublin\xe2\x80\x99 read to me\xe2\x80\x94with his five beautiful daughters \ngrouped about\xe2\x80\x94from Browning, Arnold, Rossetti, and others, \ntill the day was far spent.\xe2\x80\x9d The other great feast of the season \nwas an all-night dinner with Dante Gabriel Rossetti, at which all \n\xe2\x80\x9cthe literary brain\xe2\x80\x9d of London was present. As he recalled the \nevent, with an intoxication of delight, later in the summer: \n\xe2\x80\x9cThese giants of thought, champions of the beautiful earth, \npassed the secrets of all time and all lands before me like a mighty \n\n\n\nSnttotmction \n\n\n27 \n\n\npanorama. ... If I could remember and write down truly \nand exactly what these men said, I would have the best and the \ngreatest book that was ever written.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nFrom this rather bewildering contact with the Pre-Raphaelite \ngroup, Miller departed with a vivid conviction that he, too, was \nabove all else, a lover of the beautiful; and he carried away a \nstrong impression, which markedly affected his next volume of \npoems, that beauty is resident in \xe2\x80\x9calliteration and soft sounds.\xe2\x80\x9d \nPerhaps, however, the most noteworthy utterance which he pre\xc2\xac \nserved was his own reply to a question of Rossetti\xe2\x80\x99s: \n\n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x9cNow, what do you call poetry?\xe2\x80\x99 and he turned his great \nItalian eyes tenderly to where I sat at his side.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x9cTo me a poem must be a picture,\xe2\x80\x99 I answered.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThere was more than a drop of bitterness mingled in the joy of \nhis English welcome. With the cup raised to his lips, he wrote in \nhis diary, \xe2\x80\x9c I was not permitted to drink.\xe2\x80\x9d In the midsummer of \nthis most triumphal year, he received news that his sister had died. \nHe returned to the United States, only in time to attend the death\xc2\xac \nbed of his elder brother in Pennsylvania. Revisiting his parents \nin Oregon, he found his mother in broken health and failing mind. \nFurthermore, the American reception of his poems lacked the \nwarmth of the English cordiality. The traditional supercilious\xc2\xac \nness of the East towards the West and a resentful unwillingness \nto have this uncouth frontiers-man accepted abroad as a leading \nor even a significant representative of American letters\xe2\x80\x94these \nnot altogether lovely notes are strident in a review in the New \nYork Nation in 1871: \xe2\x80\x9cIt is the \xe2\x80\x98 sombreros \xe2\x80\x99 and \xe2\x80\x98 serapes \xe2\x80\x99 and \n\xe2\x80\x98 gulches,\xe2\x80\x99 we suppose, and the other Californian and Arizonian \nproperties, which have caused our English friends to find in Mr. \nMiller a truly American poet. He is Mr. William Rossetti\xe2\x80\x99s latest \ndiscovery. We trust, however, that we have no monopoly of ig\xc2\xac \nnorance and presumption and taste for Byronism. In other \nclimes, also, there have been Firmilians, and men need not be \nborn in California to have the will in excess of the understand- \n\n\n28 \n\n\nSntrobuction \n\n\ning and the understanding ill informed. There are people of all \nnationalities whom a pinch more brains and a trifle more of diffi\xc2\xac \ndence would not hurt.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe chilliness of American literary criticism was not all, nor \nperhaps the worst, that Miller had to face on his return to the \nUnited States. During his absence in Europe, he had been ac\xc2\xac \ncused at home, and not without a basis in fact, of deserting his \nwife. His celebrity as author of Songs of the Sierras gave news\xc2\xac \npaper value to the story. And in the fall of 1871, \xe2\x80\x9cMinnie \nMyrtle\xe2\x80\x9d made the entire subject a topic for editorial comment \nboth at home and abroad by corroborating the story and then \nproceeding, in the spirit of magnanimity or of irony or of publicity, \nto justify the poet. Early in 1872, The Saturday Review sum\xc2\xac \nmarized \xe2\x80\x9cMinnie Myrtle\xe2\x80\x99s\xe2\x80\x9d communication to the American \npress, and discussed it at length, with elaborate comparison of the \nclassical case of Lord Byron. From this discussion the following \nextract will suffice for our purposes: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe public, she holds [by her own act belying the conten\xc2\xac \ntion], has nothing to do with Mr. Miller except as a poet, and has \nno right to sit in judgment on his conduct as a husband or father; \nand in the next place, poets are different from other people, and \ntheir lives must be judged, if at all, by a different standard. \nMr. Miller, we are informed, \xe2\x80\x98felt that he was gifted, and his \nmind being of a fine, poetic structure, and his brain very delicately \norganized, the coarse and practical duties of providing for a \nfamily, and the annoyance of children, conflicted with his dreams \nand literary whims.\xe2\x80\x99 It had been for years his ambition to go to \nEurope and become famous. Time and money were of course \nnecessary to his project, and when he wrote to his wife that he \nshould be absent for five or six years, and that she must not ex\xc2\xac \npect to hear from him often, she thought it would be better to \nrelease him at once from domestic obligations. . . . Mrs. \nMiller assures us that she fully sympathized with her husband\xe2\x80\x99s \nprojects, and that she believes them to be justified by their prac- \n\n\n\nintroduction \n\n\n29 \n\n\ntical results. \xe2\x80\x98 Mr. Miller,\xe2\x80\x99 she says, \xe2\x80\x98felt that he had gifts of the \nmind, and if his system of economy was rigid and hard to endure, \nit was at least a success; and if he needed all his money to carry \nout his plans, I am satisfied that he thus used it. . . . As we \nare both mortals, it would be affectation in me were I to profess \nto take upon myself all the blame, but I ask to bear my full share. \n. . . Good sometimes comes of evil. . . . Our separation \nand sorrows produced the poems of \xe2\x80\x98Myrrh\xe2\x80\x99 and \xe2\x80\x98Even So.\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nIt was at about this point in his career that Miller proved the \nadage about a prophet in his own country. \n\nAnd now perhaps he did seriously consider hiding his head for \na time in Europe\xe2\x80\x94hiding it in the Byronic fashion. From early \nin 1872 till 1875 \xe2\x80\x9cChilde\xe2\x80\x9d Miller wandered extensively, returning \nto Europe with a wide detour by way of South America and the \nNear East. From scattered references one gathers that he made \nacquaintance with the Emperor of Brazil, that he went down the \nDanube and up the Nile, saw Athens and Constantinople, visited \nPalestine, and was \xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98in and about the tomb of buried empires and \nforgotten kings.\xe2\x80\x9d These wanderings, impossible to trace in de\xc2\xac \ntail, were interrupted and punctuated by considerable periods of \nsteady literary work, by visits to England, by a sojourn in Italy, \nand by publications\xe2\x80\x94all of which can be dated with tolerable \naccuracy. \n\nBeside the new edition of Songs of the Sierras , he published in \n1873 the first reflection of these travels in Songs of the Sun-Lands. \nOf this, a reviewer in the Athenceum said, \xe2\x80\x9c Mr. Miller\xe2\x80\x99s muse in \nthis, its second flight, has taken the same direction as in its first \nessay, but, upon the whole, we think, with a stronger wing.\xe2\x80\x9d In \nthe prelude to the first long poem in the book, Miller cries with \nfine bravado that \xe2\x80\x9cthe passionate sun and the resolute sea\xe2\x80\x9d have \nbeen his masters, \xe2\x80\x9cand only these.\xe2\x80\x9d 1 So far as the prosodical \nqualities of this collection are concerned, this announcement is \n\n1 This poem, \xe2\x80\x9cAn Answer," he transferred in his collective edition to the \nend of the series called The Ultimate West. \n\n\n\n30 \n\n\nSntrobuctton \n\n\namusing, because nowhere else in his work does he show himself \nso obviously the \xe2\x80\x9csedulous ape\xe2\x80\x9d of his English contemporaries. \nThe volume is dedicated to the Rossettis; in \xe2\x80\x9c Isles of the Ama\xc2\xac \nzons\xe2\x80\x9d he is affected by the stanza of \xe2\x80\x9c In Memoriam\xe2\x80\x9d and he also \nechoes Mrs. Browning; remembering the Rossetti dinner of 1871, \nhe works on the theory that \xe2\x80\x9ca poem must be a picture,\xe2\x80\x9d and he \nis everywhere studious of \xe2\x80\x9calliteration and soft sounds\xe2\x80\x9d; finally \nin the Palestinian sequence called \xe2\x80\x9cOlive Leaves,\xe2\x80\x9d the influence of \nSwinburne has quite transformed and disguised the sound of his \nvoice: \n\n\nWith incense and myrrh and sweet spices, \n\nFrankincense and sacredest oil \nIn ivory, chased with devices \n\nCut quaint and in serpentine coil; \n\nHeads bared, and held down to the bosom; \n\nBrows massive with wisdom and bronzed; \n\nBeards white as the white may in blossom, \n\nAnd borne to the breast and beyond,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nCame the Wise of the East, bending lowly \nOn staffs, w r ith their garments girt round \nWith girdles of hair, to the Holy \nChild Christ, in their sandals. \n\nDespite all this mimicry in the manner, the stuff in the Songs \nof the Sun-Lands is, in great measure, Miller\xe2\x80\x99s own. In \xe2\x80\x9c Isles of \nthe Amazons \xe2\x80\x9d he considers himself as a scout of the imagination, \na Kit Carson of poetry, who has carried his banner from Oregon \nand the Sierras to plant it in South American islands by a mighty \nunsung river. His hero, a singing warrior fleeing from strife to \nseek a Utopian peace and felicity, is once more a kind of self\xc2\xac \nprojection. \xe2\x80\x9cFrom Sea to Sea\xe2\x80\x9d is a poetical reminiscence of a \ntranscontinental journey by the new Pacific Railway. \xe2\x80\x9cBy the \nSun-Down Seas,\xe2\x80\x9d which he later cut up into its constituent pic\xc2\xac \ntures, sings the glories of Oregon and the emigrants. In \xe2\x80\x9cOlive \nLeaves,\xe2\x80\x9d his garland from Palestine, he begins a peculiarly Amer- \n\n\nintrobuction \n\n\n3i \n\n\nican reappropriation of Christianity and an assimilation of it to \nhis growning humanitarian sentiment. And \xe2\x80\x9cFallen Leaves\xe2\x80\x9d \nare for the most part memories of the West. So that if he does not \nexhibit any very daring unconventionalities in form, he does \nemploy his forms with a good deal of flexibility in imaginatively \nmolding the raw stuff of American experience. \n\nIn 1873, also, Miller published in France and England the \nmost original and the most poetical of all his books in prose, and, \non the whole, perhaps the most interesting book that he ever \nproduced, Life Among the Modocs, which circulated in translations, \nlater editions, and abridgments, pirated or otherwise, under var\xc2\xac \nious titles\xe2\x80\x94as Unwritten History, Scenes de la vie des mineurs et \ndes Indiens de California, Paquita, My Own Story, and My Life \nAmong the Indians. In 1872 and 1873 the Modoc Indians were \nattracting the attention of the public by their stubborn resistance \nto the government\xe2\x80\x99s attempt to move them from their old lands \nto a new reservation. In the course of this resistance their killing \nof two peace commissioners naturally excited popular indignation. \nBut in Miller, instinctively sympathetic with the underdog, the \nlast hopeless stand of this warlike tribe, which he had known in \nhis boyhood, appealed strongly to the humanitarian sentiment, \nstirred up old memories, and aroused the imagination. He had, \nas we have seen, in at least one of his \xe2\x80\x9ccampaigns\xe2\x80\x9d fought against \nthem; but now as a poet and Utopian he is all on their side, he \nembraces their cause, he speaks from their point of view, he \nmakes himself one of them. \n\nIn the introduction to the Bear edition he gives this brief ac\xc2\xac \ncount of the origin of the book: \xe2\x80\x9cHaving met the Prince on a visit \nfrom Nicaragua at the time, he helped me to recall our life among \nthe Modocs, adding such romance of his own as he chose.\xe2\x80\x9d \nElsewhere he acknowledges the collaboration of Prentice Mulford. \nHow much is due to the influence of these collaborators, one can\xc2\xac \nnot say; but there is a continuity of narrative and dramatic and \nidyllic interest in the tale, unequalled in Miller\xe2\x80\x99s other prose fic- \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n32 \n\n\nintroduction \n\n\ntion. The authors enter with genuine enthusiasm into the exhibi\xc2\xac \ntion of the white man\xe2\x80\x99s inhumanity, the virtues of the \xe2\x80\x9cnoble \nsavage,\xe2\x80\x9d the chivalry of the Prince, the heroic fidelity of Paquita, \nthe yellow-haired poetic renegade and his dusky bride, and the \nromantic and melancholy charm of life on the forested slopes of \nMt. Shasta. There is a wavering thread of autobiographical fact \n\n\nrunning through the romance; but the romance is here far more \nsignificant than the thread of fact; all that Miller, as a poetic \n\n\ndreamer, longed to have been, all that he could not be, inextric\xc2\xac \nably fused with what he was, is here projected, beautifully, by his \nimagination. He so long encouraged the acceptance of the book \nas \xe2\x80\x9chistory\xe2\x80\x9d that perhaps in his later years he actually lost the \nability, never notable in him, to distinguish what he had done \nfrom what he had dreamed. In 1874 this book, with the title \nUnwritten History: Life Among the Modocs, was brought out in \na subscription edition by the American Publishing Company, \nand in the advertising pages of this edition is third in a list begin\xc2\xac \nning with Mark Twain\xe2\x80\x99s The Gilded Age and Josh Billings\xe2\x80\x99s \nEverybody\'s Friend. \n\nIn Memone And Rime , Miller says that he returned to London \nin November, 1874, from his long wanderings in Europe. Ap\xc2\xac \nparently, however, he had returned to England in the preceding \nyear, perhaps partly to enjoy the reclame of his two new bobks. \nIn 1873, at any rate, he made his acquaintance with that poet \nand patron of the arts and great organizer of literary breakfasts, \nLord Houghton. In Reid\xe2\x80\x99s Life of Lord Houghton little record re\xc2\xac \nmains of this friendship, except a letter of August 5, 1873, ad\xc2\xac \ndressed to Gladstone, in which Miller is commended as \xe2\x80\x9cmost \ninteresting as poet and man, I have known and asked nothing \nas to his private life.\xe2\x80\x9d Augustus Hare ( The Story of My Life , \nvol. iv) makes a supercilious reference to the poet\xe2\x80\x99s appearance \nat one of these breakfasts: \xe2\x80\x9cJoaquin Miller would have been \nthought insufferably vulgar if he had not been a notoriety: as it \nwas, every one paid court to him.\xe2\x80\x9d But various letters and refer- \n\n\n3ntrobuction \n\n\n33 \n\n\nences in Traubel\xe2\x80\x99s With Walt Whitman in Camden show that Miller \nreturned Lord Houghton\xe2\x80\x99s courtesies in America, in 1875, and at\xc2\xac \ntempted to bring about a meeting between his English friend \nand Whitman. Furthermore Miller speaks of traveling with \nLord Houghton in Greece; and in a note of the Bear edition (vol. \niv., p. 154) he gives interesting hints at the sort of figure that he \nhimself made in English country life: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBorn to the saddle and bred by a chain of events to ride with \nthe wind until I met the stolid riders of England, I can now see \nhow it was that Anthony Trollope, Lord Houghton and others of \nthe saddle and \xe2\x80\x98meet\xe2\x80\x99 gave me ready place in their midst. . . . \nIn all our hard riding I never had a scratch. One morning Trol\xc2\xac \nlope hinted that my immunity was due to my big Spanish saddle, \nwhich I had brought from Mexico City. I threw my saddle on the \ngrass and rode without so much as a blanket. And I rode neck to \nneck; and then left them all behind and nearly every one un\xc2\xac \nhorsed. Prince Napoleon was of the party that morning; and as \nthe gentlemen pulled themselves together on the return he kept \nby my side, and finally proposed a tour through Notts and Sher\xc2\xac \nwood Forest on horseback. And so it fell out that we rode to\xc2\xac \ngether much.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nWith so much cordiality manifesting itself abroad and so little \nat home, it is not strange that Miller, after this second visit to \nEngland, should have entertained for a time the notion of fixing \nhis residence in a foreign land. It behooved him, furthermore, as \na faithful follower of Lord Byron, to dwell in Italy. He says, \nwith customary indefiniteness as to dates, that, in the footsteps \nof his hero, he \xe2\x80\x9clived long enough at Genoa to find that his life \nthere, along with the Shelleys, was simple, sincere, and clean. \nFrom Genoa I went to Florence, as the guest of our Consul Gen\xc2\xac \neral, Lorimer Graham. I wanted to live with Mr. Graham be\xc2\xac \ncause he and his most amiable lady lived in the house occupied \nby Byron and the Shelleys, when they made their home in Flor\xc2\xac \nence. At Venice, under the guidance of Browning, who had left \n\n\n3 \n\n\n34 \n\n\nSntrotiuction \n\n\nFlorence to live in this latter place, after the death of his gifted \nwife, I found only the same story of industry, sobriety and devo\xc2\xac \ntion to art.\xe2\x80\x9d Charles Warren Stoddard gives a glimpse of Miller\xe2\x80\x99s \nsecretive life in Rome, picturing him driving out with the \xe2\x80\x98 1 Pink \nCountess,\xe2\x80\x9d and declares that Miller\xe2\x80\x99s Italian novel, The One \nFair Woman, 1876, with its epigraphs from Byron, Browning, \nSwinburne, and Hay, \xe2\x80\x9cembodies\xe2\x80\x9d much of Miller\xe2\x80\x99s Roman life, \nand is \xe2\x80\x9cone of the truest tales he ever told.\xe2\x80\x9d Additional light on \nthis period is thrown by Songs of Italy , 1878, a collection mani\xc2\xac \nfestly produced under the influence of Browning. The Ship in the \nDesert , published in book form in 1875, is preceded by an elo\xc2\xac \nquent prose inscription to his parents, dated August, 1874, at \nLake Como. At about this time Miller bought some land near \nNaples and, in company with an English poet, meditated settling \nthere; but malarial fever attacked them both, his friend died, and \nthe Italian chapter of his life was ended. \n\nIn November, 1875, Miller dated at Chicago an introductory \nallegorical poem, prefixed to Mary Murdock Mason\xe2\x80\x99s little \nItalian novel Mae Madden, published in 1876. In the course of \nthe next decade he roved widely, as was his wont, but this is, in \ngeneral, the period of his experiments at living in eastern cities, \nincluding Boston, New York, and Washington, where he built \nhimself a log cabin, and, in his frontier costume, became the \npicturesque publicity man for the \xe2\x80\x9cwestern school.\xe2\x80\x9d Bret Harte \nand Mark Twain, now at the height of their production, were \ncreating a lively demand for the tales of the pioneers; and Miller \nperhaps perceived that if he was to have his due profit of the \npopular interest he must renounce his Italian and Oriental in\xc2\xac \nclinations and return to his native fields. In 1876, at any rate, \nhe published First Families of the Sierras, a prose tale of the \nForty-Niners, marked by that chivalric sentiment for women and \nby that idealization of the noble men in red shirts, which are dis\xc2\xac \ntinctive \xe2\x80\x9cnotes\xe2\x80\x9d of this literary movement. In The Baroness of \nNew York, 1877, a long romantic medley in verse, he dismally \n\n\nSntrofcuctton \n\n\n35 \n\n\nfailed in his attempt to extend the adventures of his western \nheroine into the society of the metropolis. A presentation copy \nof this book, now in the possession of the University of Chicago, \nbears the author\xe2\x80\x99s own veracious comment that it \xe2\x80\x9cisn\xe2\x80\x99t worth a \ndamn.\xe2\x80\x9d Though he salvaged a portion of it in \xe2\x80\x9cThe Sea of Fire,\xe2\x80\x9d \nthe original title disappeared from his collective edition. Soon \nafter his return to America, he began to be visited by dramatic \naspirations; and in 1881 he achieved considerable success with \nThe Danites in the Sierras. The three other plays which he pre\xc2\xac \nserved\xe2\x80\x94 Forty-Nine , Tally-Ho , and An Oregon Idyl \xe2\x80\x94are like \nThe Danites in presenting incidents in the story of the frontier. \nIn 1881, he published also The Shadows of Shasta , a prose tale \nanticipating Helen Hunt Jackson\xe2\x80\x99s Ramona in indignation at our \ntreatment of the Indians. In 1884 falls the interesting but very \nfragmentary autobiographical miscellany called Memorie And \nRime. With The Destruction of Gotham , 1886, a sensational novel \nof class-conflict in New York City, Miller somewhat significantly \nterminated his search for fortune and glory in the eastern states. \n\nHe had been a sentimental pilgrim in England, a poetic re\xc2\xac \nfugee in Italy, and a picturesque visitor\xe2\x80\x94an ambassador from \nthe Sierras\xe2\x80\x94even in New York and Washington. Though he had \nenjoyed playing aik + hese parts, perhaps by 1886 he felt that he \nand his pubhc were beginning to lose their zest for one another. \nFurthermore he had now married again and at least entertained \nthe thoughi of settling down. The loss of considerable money in \nWall Street speculations had shaken his faith in \xe2\x80\x9ccapitalistic \nsociety\xe2\x80\x9d and had weakened the Babylonian attractions of metro\xc2\xac \npolitan life. He remembered the mountains and the seas of the \nWest. He remembered also Sir Walter Scott\xe2\x80\x99s castle and estate \nat Abbotsford as a general model of the fashion in which a great \npoet should live. Mingled with these memories, in the back\xc2\xac \nground of his mind there was a curious accumulation of Utopian \nand Arcadian dreams which from his boyhood he had vaguely \ndesired to realize. And so at last the prophet returned to his own \n\n\n\n36 \n\n\nSntrolmctton \n\n\ncountry, and entering upon a tract of land upon the hills looking \nover Oakland to San Francisco Bay, he built there a house for his \nwife which he called The Abbey (commemorating at once her \nname and Dry burgh and Newstead Abbeys), a second cottage \nfor his old mother, a third \xe2\x80\x9cbower\xe2\x80\x9d for his daughter, and a little \nguest house for whatever visitor, white, black, or yellow, cared to \noccupy it. There, too, he planted thousands of trees in the shape \nof a gigantic cross, and beneath them on the crest of the hill he \nbuilt for himself a funeral pyre of the rough cobble, and he erected \nthree monuments of stone to three heroes: General Fremont, \nRobert Browning, and Moses. \n\nMiller says that his choice of this retreat on the hills was deter\xc2\xac \nmined by the relative cheapness of the land; but he was not a \npractical man, and he must soon have forgotten this practical \nconsideration in the more characteristic reflection that The \nHights was just the right setting for a man like him. His pri\xc2\xac \nmary purpose there was not to follow any gainful occupation but to \nlive as all poetic Utopians have held that a man should live, toiling \na couple of hours each day at honest labor of the hands and \ndevoting the rest of life to love, friendship, and art. The liter\xc2\xac \nary expression of his dream appears in The Building of the City \nBeautiful , 1893, a Utopian romance obviously related to the \nwritings of Ruskin and William Morris but apparently inspired \ndirectly by Miller\xe2\x80\x99s conversations with a Jewish radical in Pales\xc2\xac \ntine. He had it in mind also to gather around him likeminded \nworkers and friends, who should give to the world below them an \nillustration of the felicity in store for humanity when the base \npassions which now govern society are eradicated. Several young \npoets and artists came to him and tarried for a time in his guest \nhouse, moved by curiosity or the hopes of youth\xe2\x80\x94among them \nseveral Japanese, including Yone Noguchi. And students from \nthe University in Berkeley and travelers from remoter places \nmade little pilgrimages up into the hills to visit this romantically \ncostumed poet and seer who had fought with Indians and now \n\n\nSntrobuction \n\n\n37 \n\n\npreached universal love and peace. To his disciples and lovers \nhe lectured in a somewhat oracular tone on the laws of the new \nAmerican poetry, on the conduct of life, and on the new religious \nspirit which is to embrace all mankind. \n\nMiller\xe2\x80\x99s visitors did not always, however, find him preaching \npeace. His pacificism, like the popular American variety, was \ntempered by hatred of oppression and readiness to fight \xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 on the \nside of the Lord.\xe2\x80\x9d He accepted the \xe2\x80\x9cidealistic\xe2\x80\x9d interpretation of \nthe Spanish-American war, and chanted lustily his encourage\xc2\xac \nment of the struggle to free the Cubans from the tyranny of \nSpain. On the other hand, in his Chants for the Boer , 1900, he \nprotested indignantly against the British imperial policy in \nSouth Africa; and his strong pro-English sympathies give a cer\xc2\xac \ntain moral quality to his indignation. \xe2\x80\x9cFind here,\xe2\x80\x9d he cries, \n\xe2\x80\x9cnot one ill word for brave old England; my first, best friends \nwere English. But for her policy, her politicians, her speculators, \nwhat man with a heart in him can but hate and abhor these ? \nEngland\xe2\x80\x99s best friends to-day are those who deplore this assault \non the farmer Boers, so like ourselves a century back.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThere was an interesting element of inconsistency between \nthe popular American humanitarianism which Miller had grad\xc2\xac \nually adopted as his religion and his strongest poetical impulses, \nwhich were adventurous and imperialistic. In these later years \nthe fire of his fighting youth slumbered in the veins of the white- \nbearded seer, but it was never extinguished, and, every now and \nthen, it flashed out. In such seasons pilgrims to The Hights found \nthat he was not at home. He was a restless soul\xe2\x80\x94like most Uto- \npists, ill adapted to the permanency of a Paradise. There was, \nmoreover, a steadily disquieting feature in the prospect from his \nhills. At his feet, the great ships rode at anchor. But before \nhis eyes daily they lifted anchor and spread their wings and sailed \naway, out through the shining Golden Gate into the Pacific, and \ndisappeared on pathless ways over the rim of the world. For \nhim, even at the age of sixty, the attraction of unknown places \n\n\n38 \n\n\nSntrobuction \n\n\nwas magical. He followed \xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98 the gleam\xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 to the islands of the South \nSeas, to Japan, to Alaska. In 1897-8 he was correspondent of the \nNew York Journal in the Klondike. Trying to pass from the \nKlondike to the Bering Sea by way of the Yukon, he finds the \nriver closed at the edge of the Arctic Circle. \xe2\x80\x9c It was nearly two \nthousand miles to the sea, all ice and snow, with not so much as a \ndog-track before me and only midnight round about me. There \nwas nothing to do but to try to get back to my cabin on the \nKlondike. In the line of my employment I kept a journal of the \nsolitary seventy-two days and nights\xe2\x80\x94mostly night\xe2\x80\x94spent in the \nsilent and terrible ascent of the savage sea of ice.\xe2\x80\x9d The imagina\xc2\xac \ntive harvest of these later adventures was first gathered up in As \nIt Was in the Beginning , 1903, a curious poetical fantasy, oddly \nbrought forth in San Francisco in pamphlet form with a cover \ndecorated by a figure of a stork bearing in his bill the infant Roose\xc2\xac \nvelt in spectacles. In 1907, worked over and shorn of its more \ngrotesque features, the poem reappeared in dignified form as \nLight , with the interesting prefatory avowal: \xe2\x80\x9cMy aspiration is \nand ever has been, in my dim and uncertain way, to be a sort of \nColumbus\xe2\x80\x94or Cortez.\xe2\x80\x9d (In the collective edition the title is \nchanged once more to A Song of Creation.) \n\nWhen Miller finally reviewed his own work and prepared his \ncollective edition, he saw that much of his verse had been hastily \nwritten, journalistic, prolix, lacking in form and concentration; \nand he manfully discarded many long passages of it. At the same \ntime he felt as never before the importance of his own position \nin American poetry. He had not really achieved a distinctive \npoetical style. He had not been a thinker. He had been a path\xc2\xac \nfinder of the imagination; like Whitman, he had blazed a way \ninto new territories. He had brought something of beauty and \nsplendor into American literature. He exulted in the wide lands \nand seas which he first had annexed to the provinces of song. He \nhad sung the exodus across the plains. He had pictured the great \nAmerican desert. He had celebrated the forested heights of the \n\n\nSntrobuctton \n\n\n39 \n\n\nSierras, the giant trees of the Mariposa Grove, and the falls of \nthe Yosemite. He had been a myth-maker and had sown with \npoetic legends all his western land from the Yukon and the \nsnowy peaks of Mt. Rainier and Mt. Shasta through the golden \npoppy fields of the central valleys to San Diego Bay, Nicaragua, \nand the Amazon River. He had made captive for romance the \noutlaws of old Spanish California, the priests and bandits of \nMexico, the scouts of Fremont, dusky Indian heroines, and the \nmotley multitude of the gold-seekers. He had been the champion \nof oppressed peoples\xe2\x80\x94the Southern Confederacy, the native \nAmerican tribes, the Jews of Russia and Palestine, the Cubans, \nthe Boers, the yellow men and the Mexicans in California. And \nthen, to widen his horizon at sunset, he had threaded the golden \nstraits and had sailed \xe2\x80\x9con and on\xe2\x80\x9d to the Arctic Seas, to Hawaii, \nto the Orient, chanting as he sailed, ever ready for fresh adven\xc2\xac \nture, ever in love with light, color, and movement, ever himself \nthe romantic troubadour, the picturesque incarnation of the \nspirit which pervades his poems. \n\n\n\n\nWHEN LITTLE SISTER CAME \n\n\n41 \n\n\nWHEN LITTLE SISTER CAME \n\n\nWe dwelt in the woods of the Tippe\xc2\xac \ncanoe, \n\nIn a lone, lost cabin, with never a \nview \n\nOf the full day\xe2\x80\x99s sun for a whole year \nthrough. \n\nWith strange half hints through the \nrusset corn \n\nWe three were hurried one night. \nNext mom \n\nThere was frost on the trees, and a \nsprinkle of snow \n\nAnd tracks on the ground. We \nburst through the door, \n\nAnd a girl baby cried\xe2\x80\x94and then we \nwere four. \n\n\nWe were not sturdy, and we were not \nwise, \n\nIn the things of the world, and the \nways men dare; \n\nA pale-browed mother with a \nprophet\xe2\x80\x99s eyes, \n\nA father that dreamed and looked \nanywhere, \n\nThree brothers\xe2\x80\x94wild blossoms, tall \nfashioned as men \n\nAnd we mingled with none, but we \nlived as when \n\nThe pair first lived, ere they knew the \nfall; \n\nAnd loving all things we believed in \nall. \n\n\n43 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFROM JOAQUIN, Er Al\xe2\x80\x9e 1869 \n\n\n45 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIS IT WORTH WHILE? \n\n\nIs it worth while that we jostle a \nbrother \n\nBearing his load on the rough road \nof life? \n\nIs it worth while that we jeer at each \nother \n\nIn blackness of heart?\xe2\x80\x94that we \nwar to the knife? \n\nGod pity us all in our pitiful strife. \n\nGod pity us all as we jostle each \nother; \n\nGod pardon us all for the triumphs \nwe feel \n\nWhen a fellow goes down \'neath his \nload on the heather, \n\nPierced to the heart: words are \nkeener than steel, \n\nAnd mightier far for woe or for weal. \n\nWere it not well in this brief little \niourney \n\nOverthe isthmus downintothetide, \n\nWe give him a fish instead of a ser\xc2\xac \npent \n\nEre folding hands to be and abide \n\nFor ever and aye in dust at his side? \n\nLook at the roses saluting each other; \n\nLook at the herds all at peace on \nthe plain\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMan, and man only, makes war on \nhis brother, \n\nAnd dotes in his heart on his peril \nand pain\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nShamed by the brutes that go down \non the plain. \n\nIs it worth while we should in the \ndust humble \n\nOur fellows with whispers of guile \nand mistrust? \n\nGod pity us all! Time eft-soon will \ntumble \n\nAll of us together like leaves in a \ngust, \n\nHumbled indeed, down into the \ndust. \n\nWhy should we envy a moment of \npleasure \n\nSome poor fellow-mortal has wrung \nfrom it all? \n\nOh! could you look into his life\xe2\x80\x99s \nbroken measure\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLook at the dregs\xe2\x80\x94at the worm\xc2\xac \nwood and gall\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLook at his heart hung with crape \nlike a pall\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLook at the skeletons down by his \nhearthstone\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLook at his cares in their merciless \nsway, \n\nI know you would go and say ten\xc2\xac \nderly lowly, \n\nBrother\xe2\x80\x94my brother, for aye and \nfor aye, \n\nLo! Lethe is washing the blackness \naway. \n\n\n47 \n\n\n\n\n4 8 \n\n\nZanara \n\n\nZANARA \n\n\nNo! It was not well, Zanara, \n\nWhile the fever held its riot\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhen the doctors bid be quiet\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat you came to my bed-side \nIn the middle of the night, \n\nWith your two hands on your heart\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat you pressed on my bed-side \nIn the absence of my bride, \n\nAnd so pressed upon your heart \nThat the blood all thick and black\xc2\xac \nened, \n\nWhen your long white fingers slack\xc2\xac \nened, \n\nOozed between them to the floor. \n\nOh! This mouldy, gory floor! \n\nThen your linen it was moulded, \n\nAnd streaked yellow where it folded, \nAnd your bosom it was bare, \n\nWhich you know was nothing fair \nIn the absence of my bride, \n\nThen your heavy, slimy hair, \nCreeping, clinging round your \nbosom\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nClammy bosom, blue and bare, \nWhich you did not try to hide. \n\nThen your eyes had such a glare, \n\nAnd the smell of death was there, \nAnd the spirits that were with you \nWhistled through the mossy door, \nAnd they danced upon my bosom, \nAnd they tangled up my hair, \n\nAnd made crosses on the floor. \n\nNo! All this was nothing fair \n\n\nWhile the fever held its riot\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhen the doctors bid be quiet. \n\nIt was not my fault, remember, \n\nAll this life of black disasters\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAll this life of dark December\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAll this heart-sickness and sadness, \nThough we both did have our mas\xc2\xac \nters, \n\nYours was Love and mine Ambition\xe2\x80\x94 \nMine is driving me to\xe2\x80\x94madness, \nYours has drove you to perdition. \n\nBut some time, if you so will it, \nWhen this hot brain is less rabid\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen our masters both are sleeping\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen the storm the stars is keeping, \nLeave the darkness where they laid \nyou\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLeave the dampness you inhabit\xe2\x80\x94 \nLeave that yellow, moulded linen\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat dull, sullen, frozen stare, \n\nAnd the cold death in your hair; \nThen I will no more upbraid you. \n\nI will meet you just one minute \nBy the oak-tree, you remember, \n\nWith the grapervine tangled in it\xe2\x80\x94 \nMeet you, while my bride is sleep\xc2\xac \ning\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhile the storm the stars is keeping. \n\nI will press your bosom gory\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI will tell you one sweet story, \n\nWith sweet balm and healing in it. \nBut remember, now remember, \n\nI can stay there but one minute. \n\n\n\n3n Cxile \n\n\n49 \n\n\nIN EXILE \n\n\nAlone on this desolate border\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOn this ruggedest, rim\xe2\x80\x99d frontier, \nWhere the hills huddle up in disorder \nLike a fold in mortal fear\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere the mountains are out at the \nelbow, \n\nAnd their yellow coats seedy and \nsere\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere the river runs sullen and yellow \nThis dismalest day of the year. \n\nI go up and down on the granite, \nLike an unholy ghost under bans. \nOh, Christ! for the eloquent quiet! \n\nFor the final folding of hands! \nWhat am I? Where am I going? \n\nI look at the lizard that glides \nOver the mossy boulder \n\nWith green epaulets on his sides. \n\nMy feet are in dust to the ankles, \nMy heart, it is dustier still; \n\nWill never the dust be levelled \n\nTill the heart is laid under the hill? \nWhy this yearning and longing? \n\nThis dull desolation and void? \nPussy cat seeking a corner? \n\nAlone! yet for ever annoyed? \n\nI look at the sun shining over, \n\nA cloud is swinging on hinges \nAnd is trying his glory to cover. \n\nBut see! his beams in the fringes \nAre tangled and fastened in falling, \nAnd a sailor above us is calling \n\xe2\x80\x9cUntangle the ravels and fringes.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nIn grim battle lines above us \nGray, oarless ships are wheeling\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA flash\xe2\x80\x94a crash appalling\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA hurling of red-hot spears\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nHark to the thunder calling \nIn fierce infernal chorus. \n\nNow silver sails are falling \nLike silver sheens before us. \n\nWhat Nelson to fame aspires \nIn the chartless bluer deep \nWhere navies and armies track? \n\nLo! I have seen their fires \nAt night as they bivouac; \n\nAnd they battle, and bleed, and weep, \nFor this rain is warm as tears. \n\nOh! why was I ever a dreamer? \n\nBetter a brute on the plain, \n\nOr one who believes his redeemer \nIs greed, and gold, and gain, \n\nOr one who can riot and revel, \n\nThan be pierced with intolerable \npain \n\nOf poesy darling, in travail, \n\nThat will not be born from the brain. \n\nO bride by the breathing ocean \nWith lustrous and brimming eye, \nPour out the Lethean potion \nTill a lustrum rolleth by, \n\nLulling a soul\xe2\x80\x99s commotion, \n\nPlashing against the sky\xe2\x80\x94 \nCalming a living spectre \n\nWith its two hands tossed on high. \n\nAre sea winds mild and mellow \nWhere my sun-browned babies are, \nA-weaving silk and yellow \n\nSeamed sunbeams in their hair? \n\nGo on and on in disorder \nO cloud with the silver rim, \n\nWhile tangled up in your border \nThe glinting sunbeams swim. \n\n\n4 \n\n\n\n\n50 \n\n\n\xc2\xaeo tfje Partig of \xc2\xa3?. Jf. Pap \n\nTO THE BARDS OF S. F. BAY \n\n\nI am as one unlearned, uncouth, \nFrom country come to join the \nyouth \n\nOf some sweet town in quest of truth; \n\nA skilless northern Nazarene\xe2\x80\x94 \nFrom whence no good can ever come. \nI stand apart as one that\xe2\x80\x99s dumb. \n\nI hope\xe2\x80\x94I fear\xe2\x80\x94I hasten home. \n\nI plunge into my wilds again. \n\nI catch your dulcet symphonies, \n\nI drink the low sweet melodies \nThat stream through these dark \nfeathered trees \n\nLike echoes from some far church - \nbell, \n\nOr music on the water spilled \nBeneath the still moon\xe2\x80\x99s holy spell, \nAnd life is sweeter\xe2\x80\x94all is well\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe soul is fed. The heart is filled. \n\nI move among these frowning firs, \nBlack bats wheel by in rippled whirs, \nWhile naught else living breathes or \nstirs. \n\nI peep\xe2\x80\x94I lift the boughs apart\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nI tiptoe up\xe2\x80\x94I try to rise\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI strive to gaze into the eyes \nOf charmers charming thus so wise\xe2\x80\x94 \nI coin your faces on my heart. \n\nI greet you on your brown bent hills \nDiscoursing with the beaded rills, \n"While over all the full moon spills \nHis flood in gorgeous plenilune. \nW\xe2\x80\x99hite skilful hands sweep o\xe2\x80\x99er the \nstrings, \n\nI heed as when a seraph sings, \n\nI learn to catch the whisperings, \n\nI list into the night\xe2\x80\x99s sweet noon. \n\nI see you by the streaming strand, \n\nA singing sea-shell in each hand, \n\nAnd silk locks tossing as you stand, \nAnd tangled in the toying breeze. \nAnd lo! the sea with salty tears, \nWhile white hands toss, then disap^ \npear, \n\nDoth plead that you for years and \n\nyears \n\nWill stay and sing unto the seas. \n\n\nMERINDA \n\n\nAnd this then is all of the sweet life \nshe promised! \n\nAnd this then is all of the fair life I \npainted! \n\nDead, ashen fruit, of the dark Dead \nSea border! \n\nAh yes, and worse by a thousand \nnumbers, \n\nSince that can be cast away at willing, \n\n\nWhile desolate life with its dead hope \nburied \n\nClings on to the clay, though the \nsoul despise it. \n\nBack, backward, to-night, is memory \ntraversing, \n\nOver the desert my weary feet \ntravelled\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n\n\nJfttertnba \n\n\n51 \n\n\nThick with the wrecks of my dear \nheart-idols\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd toppling columns of my ambi\xc2\xac \ntion\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nRed with the best of my hot heart\xe2\x80\x99s \npurple. \n\nDown under the hill and under the \nfir-tree, \n\nBy the spring, and looking far out in \nthe valley, \n\nShe stands as she stood in the glori\xc2\xac \nous Olden, \n\nSwinging her hat in her right hand \ndimpled. \n\nThe other hand toys with a honey\xc2\xac \nsuckle \n\nThat has tiptoed up and tried to kiss \nher. \n\nHer dark hair is twining her neck and \nher temples \n\nLike tendrils some beautiful Parian \nmarble. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98O eyes of lustre and love and passion! \n\nO radiant face with the sea-shell \ntinted! \n\nWhite cloud with the sunbeams \ntangled in it! \xe2\x80\x99 \n\nI cried, as I stood in the dust beneath \nher, \n\nAnd gazed on the God my boy-heart \nworshipped \n\nWith a love and a passion a part of \nmadness. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Dreamer,\xe2\x80\x99 she said, and a tinge of \ndispleasure \n\nSwept over her face that I should dis\xc2\xac \nturb her, \n\n\xe2\x80\x98All of the fair world is spread out \nbefore you; \n\n\nGo down and possess it, with love \nand devotion, \n\nAnd heart ever tender and touching \nas woman\xe2\x80\x99s, \n\nAnd life shall be sweet as the first \nkiss of morning.\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nI turned down the pathway, blinded \nno longer; \n\nAnother was coming, tall, manly, \nand bearded. \n\nI built me a shrine in the innermost \ntemple\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIn the innermost rim of the red puls\xc2\xac \ning heart \n\nAnd placed her therein, sole pos\xc2\xac \nsessor and priestess, \n\nAnd carved all her words on the walls \nof my heart. \n\nThey say that he wooed her there \nunder the fir-tree \n\nAnd won her one eve, when the katy\xc2\xac \ndids mocked her. \n\nWell, he may have a maiden and call \nher Merinda; \n\nBut mine is the one that stands there \nfor ever \n\nLeisurely swinging her hat by the \nribbons. \n\nThey say she is wedded. No, not my \nMerinda, \n\nFor mine stands for ever there under \nthe fir-tree \n\nGazing and swinging her hat by the \nribbons. \n\nThey tell me her children reach up to \nmy shoulder. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis false. I did see her down under \nthe fir-tree \n\n\n\n\nJlepentfje \n\n\n52 \n\nWhen the stars were all busy a-weav\xc2\xac \ning thin laces \n\nOut of their gold and the moon\xe2\x80\x99s \nyellow tresses, \n\nSwinging her hat as in days of the \nOlden. \n\nTrue, I didn\xe2\x80\x99t speak to or venture to \ntouch her\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTouch her! I sooner would pluck the \nsweet Mary, \n\nThe mother of Jesus, from arms of \nthe priesthood \n\nAs they kneel at the altar in holy \ndevotion. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nAnd was it for this that my heart was \nkept tender? \n\nFashioned for thine, O sacristan \nmaiden!\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat coarse men could pierce my \nwarm heart to the purple? \n\nThat vandals could enter and burn \nOut its freshness? \n\nThat rude man could trample it into \nthe ashes? \n\nO was it for this that my heart was \nkept open? \n\n\nI looked in a glass, not the heart of \nman-mortal. \n\nWhose was the white soul I seen there \nreflecting ? \n\nBut trample the grape that the wine \nmay flow freely! \n\nBeautiful priestess, mine, mine only, \nfor ever! \n\nYou still are secure. They know not \nyour temple. \n\nThey never can find it, or pierce it, or \ntouch it, \n\nBecause in their hearts they know no \nsuch a temple. \n\nI turn my back on them like Enos the \nTrojan. \n\nMuch indeed leaving in wild desola\xc2\xac \ntion, \n\nBut bearing one treasure alone that \nis dearer \n\nThan all they possess or have fiercely \ntorn from me; \n\nA maiden that stands looking far \nfar down the valley \n\nSwinging her hat by its long purple \nribbons. \n\n\nNEPENTHE \n\n\nI have a world, a world which is all \nmy own, \n\nWhich you, nor foe, nor friend, nor \nkith, nor kin, \n\nNor even my own fiery soul, when \nchurlish grown, \n\nHas entered, or shall ever pass \ntherein; \n\nBut when all of care and strife aside \nare thrown \n\n\nAnd I am free, then I am there, and \nam not alone. \n\n\nNo, not alone, for standing there in\xc2\xac \nviting me \n\nOn the threshold is God\'s image \nmade of pearl, \n\nAnd I relive the elden time with \nthat purity\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n\nJlepcntfie \n\n\n53 \n\n\nThere with a queenly shrined and \nsainted girl, \n\nI press the green beneath the ancient \ntree, \n\nAnd vow the vows and redream the \nmystery. \n\nWhat though the real did happen \nyears ago! \n\nWhat though our lives are wide, \nand still diverge? \n\nAnd both of us are wed? Admit it\xe2\x80\x99s \n\ni \n\nso. \n\nThen sitting here to-night, will \nyou, sir, urge \n\nWe dare not live that past in all its \nglorious glow? \n\nWell! you may be good, but there \nare things you do not know. \n\nTo-day I fight the manly pitted fight \nof life, \n\nI give back deftly hard dealt blow \nfor blow, \n\nTo-day is she the mother and the \npatient wife, \n\nTaking life a fact from fates that \nmade it so; \n\nBut lo! to-night I quit the struggling \nstrife, \n\nShe is young again, heart-full, and \nlips are rife. \n\nThe long tilled turf is rich again and \ngreen\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe long felled oak extends its \nhugest bough, \n\n\nAnd we are there as lang syne we have \nbeen, \n\nGiving troth for troth, and plighting \nvow for vow\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHoly vows for aye upon that belted \ngreen, \n\nWhere no gray ghosts dare thrust \nthemselves between. \n\nYet in the morn, amid the reckless \nrush of life, \n\nFirst in the duties and foremost in \nthe scene, \n\nShe, the fond mother and most loyal \nwife\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nShe the peerless of all that\xe2\x80\x99s goodly \nwill be seen; \n\nAnd girded, I shall marshal for the \nstrife \n\nWithout a thought of the glorious \n\xe2\x80\x98might have been.\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nAnd you do star-ward point and bid \nme twine \n\nThe hopes and promise round the \ncrumbling heart. \n\nWell, I have tried, wept and watched \nto read the sign, \n\nBut heaven, my friend,\xe2\x80\x94nay, now, \ndo not start\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut heaven\xe2\x80\x94my heaven at least, is in \nthat sweet lang syne\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThere in that world so solely and so \ncompletely mine. \n\n\n\n54 \n\n\nHuber tfje <Dak& \n\nUNDER THE OAKS \n\n\nOaks of the voiceless ages! \nPrecepts! Poems! Pages! \n\nLessons! Leaves and volumes! \nArches! Pillars! Columns \nIn the corridors of ages! \n\nGrand patriarchal sages! \n\nTheir Druid beards are drifting \nAnd shifting to and fro, \n\nDown to their waists in zephyrs, \nThat bat-like come and go; \n\nThe while the moon is sifting \nA sheen of shining snow \nOn all these blossoms lifting \nTheir blue eyes from below. \n\nThe night has cast his mantle \nDown on the day\xe2\x80\x99s remains; \n\nFor he lies dead before us. \n\nI seen his red blood stains \nAt twilight drifting o\xe2\x80\x99er us \nAnd these oaks chant above him \nIn stately, solemn strains, \n\n\nFor ah! these Druids love him, \n\nThat knightly day that\xe2\x80\x99s slain, \n\nAnd they will robe in sable \nTill he shall rise again. \n\nI have no tears or sighing, \n\nFor he was not kind to me\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis dead day here before us, \n\nO mossy Druid tree \n\nWith dark brow bending o\'er us! \n\nHe was not kind to me, \n\nI will not wail his dying. \n\nNo. It is not green leaves rustling \nThat you hear lisping there, \n\nBut bearded, mossy Druids \nCounting beads in prayer. \n\nNo. Not a night-bird singing, \n\nNor breeze a green bough swinging: \nBut that bough holds a censer \nAnd swings it to and fro; \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis Sunday eve, remember, \n\nThat\xe2\x80\x99s why they chant so low. \n\n\nDIRGE \n\n\n* The silver cord loosed, \n\nThe golden bowl broken,\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nThe sunbeam has fallen, \n\nThe Saviour has spoken. \n\nThe yew and the cypress, \n\nBy Lethe\xe2\x80\x99s dark tide, \n\nAre sweeping to-day\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA miner has died! \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 The white sands have crumbled \nAway from his tread,\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\nBy eternity\xe2\x80\x99s ocean\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA miner is dead! \n\nHis lamp has gone out; \n\nWhat else can be done \nThan lay him to sleep \nTill the light of the sun? \n\nPine slabs! what of it? \n\nMarble is dust, \n\nCold and as silent\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd iron is rust. \n\n\n\n\n^ale \n\n\n55 \n\n\nVALE \n\n\nTo those who have known my mad \nlife\'s troubles \n\nI leave these lines\xe2\x80\x94\'tis all I have to \nleave \n\nSave faults and follies; the dreams \nand bubbles \n\nOf my young life; and O I grieve \n\nIn tears of blood I could not \nworthier weave. \n\nTrue, \'tis a farewell piece but poorly \nspoken, \n\nIt is an adieu song but harshly \nsung; \n\nFor the heart beats dull and the \nharp is broken, \n\nAnd the hand that o\xe2\x80\x99er the keys is \nflung \n\nIs nerveless now, and the chords \nunstrung. \n\nThe round red sun is set for me for \never, \n\nAnd nebulous darkness is rolling \nfrom afar; \n\n\nAnd I stand adown by death\xe2\x80\x99s dark \nriver \n\nCalmly and alone, for the thoughts \nthat war \n\nHave died, or dimly burn, as yon \nsweet star. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis well I stand by the rushing river, \n\nUp to my knees in the blackened \ntide; \n\nThe sounding waters will drown for \never \n\nThe critic\xe2\x80\x99s jeers and paynim \npride,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd reviews are not ferried to the \nother side. \n\nSo life is but a day of weary fretting \n\nAs a sickly babe for its mother gone; \n\nAnd I fold my hands, only this \nregretting: \n\nThat I have writ no thought, or \nthing, not one, \n\nThat lives, or earns a cross or \ncryptic stone. \n\n\nULTIME \n\n\nThey tell me, ere the maple leaves \ngrow brown once more, \n\nAnd the wild deer don their great \novercoats of gray, \n\nThat I must cross the stony threshold \nof death\xe2\x80\x99s door, \n\nAnd leave this body like a pair of \noveralls worn a day \n\nOutside the hall, or hung on some \nnail out of the way. \n\nIt seems odd, and yet I think, yea do \nknow, I do feel \n\n\nAs little fear as any trodden dust, or \ndull cold clay, \n\nTo hear my Doc., Death\xe2\x80\x99s clerk, and \nattorney for my weal, \n\nSay I am convicted and that there \nis no appeal. \n\nYet, while I have no fear, I feel a \ntouch of deep regret\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nRegrets that burn like red-hot iron \nin the soul, \n\n\n\n\n56 \xc2\xaeUtme \n\n\nThat my day is but begun as my sun \nis set. \n\nBut there was that in my young \nlife I could not control, \n\nAnd now, to-night, as recollections \no\xe2\x80\x99er me roll, \n\nI know no time that I loitered by the \nway; \n\nBut with a proud eye fixed on a \nlofty goal, \n\nPressed on, nor stopped, or turned \naside a single day \n\nTo rest, or toy with aught that in my \nrough route lay. \n\nAnd yet one time, but one, I do \nremember well, \n\nMy life\xe2\x80\x99s way lay by oaks, and \ntalking streams, and flowers; \n\nAnd there were birds, and singing \nbees, and a holy spell \n\nOf dreamy wonder in the air and \nhallowed hours; \n\nAnd from afar fair maids did \nbeckon from their bowers. \n\nI looked and loved. But lo! the \nleprous stain \n\nOf penury, that so much of life\xe2\x80\x99s \nsweetness sours, \n\nWas mine, and I pushed on in peril \nand deep pain, \n\nSaying, Sweet scenes, when fame is \nmine we meet again. \n\nToiling for ever, chasing a phantom \nhope to earn \n\nA place with men of mind and a \nmoment\xe2\x80\x99s peace; \n\nWith the fevered soul on fire with \nthoughts that burn; \n\n\nAnd revelling in rainbow beauties \nthat I could not seize, \n\nOr subdue, or reduce to shape or \nwords; and these \n\nDid unfit me for the stormy struggle \nwith the real. \n\nVibrating like some insect pendent \nin the breeze \n\nBetween these varied visions and my \nworldly weal \n\nI have gained neither the real nor the \nsweet ideal. \n\nQuoting Seneca, who wrote on his \ndesk of gold: \n\nDear sir! what is the use of wealth? \nyou naively say. \n\nSir! in your life\xe2\x80\x99s craft with its well \nstocked hold, \n\nYour money is the white oak planks \nthat lay \n\nBetween you and the howling \nwaves; these away, \n\nAnd you are in the sea without \nfriends or a pretence, \n\nThen keep your head above the \nwater if you may. \n\nBesides, the days of Diogenes are \nover now, and hence \nPhilosophers in tubs are kept at \nthe State\xe2\x80\x99s expense. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nNone have known me, nor have I my\xc2\xac \nself the least part known \nUntil prisoned here by him of the \nsable shore \n\nTill he can transport me to quarters \nof his own. \n\nHere I have reflected and ran my \nfierce life o\xe2\x80\x99er. \n\n\n\nWttme \n\n\nAh! truly, much indeed have I to \ndeplore, \n\nYet not one single act of malicious ill. \n\nI meant well in all. Who could \nhave done more? \n\nAnd have I not tamed my hot and \nimperious will? \n\nHave I not made my impulsive heart \nbe still? so still! \n\nWhy have I been pursued in this \nsmall, low way; \n\nWhy have I been crossed in my \nevery honest aim; \n\nFrom my childhood on, even down to \nthis dark day? \n\nI claimed not much of men, and \nless, far less, of fame. \n\nWas it because I could not, or that \nI would not, tame \n\nAnd tone my cloud-born soul in sup- \npliance to bow \n\nMe down to dolts, and knaves, and \nclowns, that did proclaim \n\nThem wise, and great, and good? \nAh! even yet I trow \n\nMy spirit lives. I would not, could \nnot, I will not now. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Know thyself 1 \xe2\x80\x99 What had I to do \nwith strife and war? \n\nI smote, then held him to my heart \nand wept until he died. \n\nAnd did I fear? this deep facial \narrow\xe2\x80\x99s scar, \n\nAnd a list of lesser ones have aye \nthe thought belied, \n\nAnd yet I do remember me I have \nturned aside \n\nTo avoid the hart I had sought the \nwhole day long. \n\n\n57 \n\nAnd why in stormy courts have I \nso zealous plied, \n\nAnd plead, dark-browed, and hurled \ninvective strong, \n\nThen wept at night to think I might \nhave done some wrong? \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Know thyself!\xe2\x80\x99 Had I known less \nof strife and flint-like men\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHad I been content to live on the \nleafy borders of the scene \n\nCommuning with the neglected \ndwellers of the fern-grown glen, \nAnd glorious storm-stained peaks, \nwith cloud-knit sheen, \n\nAnd sullen iron brows, and belts of \nboundless green, \n\nA peaceful, flowery path, content, I \nmight have trod, \n\nAnd carolled melodies that per\xc2\xac \nchance might have been \n\nRead with love and a sweet delight. \nBut I kiss the rod. \n\nI have done as best I knew. The \nrest is with my God. \n\nCome forward here to me, ye who \nhave a fear of death, \n\nCome down, far down, even to the \ndark waves\xe2\x80\x99 rim, \n\nAnd take my hand, and feel my calm, \nlow breath \n\nHow peaceful all! How still and \nsweet! The sight is dim, \n\nAnd dreamy as a distant sea. And \nmelodies do swim \n\nAround us here as a far-off vesper\xe2\x80\x99s \nholy hymn. \n\nThis is death. With folded hands I \nwait and welcome him; \n\n\n\n5\xc2\xbb \n\n\n\n\nAnd yet a few, so few, were kind, I \nwould live and be known, \n\nThat their sweet deeds might be \nbread on the waters thrown. \n\nI go, I know not where, but know I \nwill not die, \n\nAnd know I will be gainer going to \nthat somewhere; \n\nFor in that hereafter, afar beyond \nthe bended sky, \n\nBread and butter will not figure in \nthe bill of fare, \n\nNor will the soul be judged by \nwhat the flesh may wear. \n\nBut with all my time my own, once \nin the dapple skies, \n\nI will collect my fancies now float\xc2\xac \ning in the air \n\nAnd arrange them, a jewel set, that \nin a show-case lies \n\nAnd when you come will show you \nthem in a sweet surprise. \n\nIt was my boy-ambition to be read \nbeyond the brine, \n\nBut this you know was when life \nlooked fair and tall, \n\nErewhile this occidental rim was my \ndream\xe2\x80\x99s confine, \n\nAnd now at last I make no claim \nto be read at all, \n\nAnd write with this wild hope, and \ne\xe2\x80\x99en that is small, \n\nThat when the last pick-axe lies rust\xc2\xac \ning in the ravine, \n\nAnd its green bent hill-sides echo \nthe shepherd\xe2\x80\x99s call, \n\nSome curious wight will thumb this \nthrough, saying, \xe2\x80\x98Well, I ween \n\n\nHe was not a poet, but yet, and yet, \nhe might have been.\' \n\nAbove all on this green earth a \ngrumbler I do despise, \n\nPouring o\xe2\x80\x99er all a sea of tears and \nuntimely groans, \n\nAs if he alone had stood upon the \nbridge of sighs; \n\nAnd yet I wail. But mind you my \nmurmurs and low moans, \n\n(Not heard till I am gone) are not \nof you, or Smith, or Jones, \n\nBut fate. Good folks. The world \nthe best I ever trod. \n\nYet lapidaries tell of flaws in the \nfairest stones, \n\nAnd maybe after all, my crosses, my \nlosses, and the rod, \n\nAre but rounds in a ladder leading me \nthus soon to God. \n\nBut to conclude. Do not stick me \ndown in the cold wet mud, \n\nAs if I wished to hide, or was \nashamed of what I had done, \n\nOr my friends wanted to plant me \nlike an Irish spud. \n\nNo, when this the first short \nquarter of my life is run, \n\nLet me ascend in clouds of smoke \nup to the sun. \n\nAnd as for these lines, they are a \nrough, wild-wood bouquet, \nPlucked from my mountains in the \ndusk of life, as one \n\nWithout taste or time to select, or \nput in good array \n\nGrasps at once rose, leaf, briar, on the \nbrink, and hastes away. \n\n\n\nSONGS OF THE SIERRAS, 1871 \n\n\n59 \n\n\n\nTO MAUD \n\n\nBecause the skies were blue, because \nThe sun in fringes of the sea \nWas tangled, and delightfully \nKept dancing on as in a waltz, \n\nAnd tropic trees bowed to the seas \nAnd bloomed and bore years through \nand through, \n\nAnd birds in blended gold and blue \nWere thick and sweet as swarming \nbees, \n\nAnd sang as if in Paradise \n\nAnd all that Paradise was spring\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDid I too sing with lifted eyes, \n\nBecause I could not choose but sing. \n\nWith garments full of sea winds blown \nFrom isles beyond of spice and balm, \nBeside the sea, beneath her palm, \n\nShe waits, as true as chiseled stone, \nMy childhood\xe2\x80\x99s child, my June in \nMay, \n\nWALKER IN \n\nCHANT I \nI \n\nThat man who lives for self alone \nLives for the meanest mortal known. \n\nI celebrate no man of strife, \n\nI eat no bread with blood upon. \n\n6 \n\n\nSo wiser than thy father is, \n\nThese lines, these leaves, and all of \nthis \n\nAre thine\xe2\x80\x94a loose,uncouth bouquet\xe2\x80\x94 \nSo, wait and watch for sail or sign, \n\nA ship shall mount the hollow seas \nBlown to thy place of blossomed trees, \nAnd birds, and song, and summer- \nshine. \n\nI throw a kiss across the sea, \n\nI drink the winds as drinking wine, \nAnd dream they are all blown from \nthee\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI catch the whispered kiss of thine. \nShall I return with lifted face, \n\nOr head held down as in disgrace \nTo hold thy two brown hands in \nmine? \n\nEngland, 1871 \n\nNICARAGUA \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twere braver far to live unknown, \nTo live alone and die alone \nThan owe sweet song, aye owe sweet \nlife, \n\nOr sweeter fame, to saber drawn. \n\nII \n\nWreathe ye who may the victor\xe2\x80\x99s \nbay, \n\n\n\n\n62 \n\n\nfflalfeer tti J&uaragua \n\n\nFill book on book with battles, then \nFill every public park you may \nWith iron-fashioned fighting men \nBegirt with blade and cannon ball, \nWith not one woman\xe2\x80\x99s plinth mid all. \n\nBut she who rocks the cradle, she \nWho croons and rocks all day, all \nnight, \n\nAnd knows no public place or name \nMakes far the better, braver fight, \nDeserves a nobler, fairer fame \nThan all bronze men of historic. \n\nThe foot that rocks the babe to \nrest \n\nKeeps step, keeps song with singing \ndawn. \n\nThe hand that holds the babe to \nbreast \n\nIs sceptered as King Solomon. \n\nAnd yet, for all she does, has done, \nHas not one monument, not one! \n\nIII \n\nAnd he who guides the good plow\xc2\xac \nshare, \n\nBinds golden sheaves, unnamed, \nunknown, \n\nWho harvests what his hand hath \nsown, \n\nDoes more for God, for man, his \nown\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDares more than all mad heroes dare. \n\nIV \n\nAnd like to him the man who \nkeeps \n\nCalm watch on Freedom\xe2\x80\x99s outer wall, \n\n\nWho sees the great moon rise and fall \nYet sleeps and rests and rests and \nsleeps\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe man who knows, the man who \n\nsees \n\nGod in the grass, God in the trees, \nSees good in all, sees God in all\xe2\x80\x94 \nGets more, gives more, does more \ntrue weal \n\nThan all your storied men of steel. \n\nS. \n\nV \n\nBut nobler still the man who leads \nFar out the deadly firing line \nTo hew the way, subdue, refine \nBy dauntless and unselfish deeds; \nWho lays aside his student\xe2\x80\x99s book \nAnd gathers up his knotted thews \nAnd, facing westward, hews and hews \nThe way for plowshare, pruning hook \nAnd scarce recks if he win or lose; \nWho sees white duty over all, \n\nFair duty, halo-topt and tall, \n\nFar pointing where his pathway lies, \nAnd dares not falter, rest, repine, \nBut forward, forward, wins and\xe2\x80\x94 \ndies. \n\nVI \n\nI sing this man who sought man\xe2\x80\x99s \ngood, \n\nWho fought for peace, unselfish \nfought, \n\nWho silent fell and murmured not, \nThis man whom no man understood, \nThis great man so well-nigh forgot, \nThis man who led, who faltered not, \nThis student, soldier, president, \n\n\n\nWalter in \n\nWho chose the weaker side and sent \nSuch spirit through his fearless few \nAs only Khartoum Gordon knew. \n\nVII \n\nI sing those children of the sun \nBecause I love them and because \nI would that you should love them, \ntoo, \n\nAs tenderly as he had done \nEre Fate laid her cold finger to \nHis bounding pulse and bade him \npause. \n\nVIII \n\nA man to love, a land to love; \n\nA land of gold, of sapphire seas, \n\nSuch blue below, such blue above, \nSuch fruits and ever-flowered trees\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe fairest Eden-land that is, \n\nAnd I am joyed that it is his; \n\nHe won it, holds, with dust-full \nhands\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis soldier born, born and not made, \nWho scorned to make rude war a \ntrade. \n\nIX \n\nA soldier born, let this be said \nAbove my brave, dishonored dead; \n\nI ask no more, this is not much, \n\nYet I disdain a colder touch \nTo memory as dear as his; \n\nFor he was true as steel, or star, \n\nAnd brave as Yuba\'s grizzlies are, \n\nYet gentle as a panther is \n\n\nJfticaragua 63 \n\nMouthing her young in her first \nfierce kiss. \n\nX \n\nA dash of sadness in his air, \n\nBorn, may be, of his over care, \n\nAnd may be, born of a despair \nIn early love\xe2\x80\x94I never knew; \n\nI question not, as many do, \n\nOf things as sacred as this is; \n\nI only know that he to me \nWas all a father, friend, could be; \n\nI sought to know no more than this \nOf history of him or his. \n\nA piercing eye, a princely air, \n\nA presence like a chevalier, \n\nHalf angel and half Lucifer; \nSombrero black, with plume of snow \nThat swept his careless locks below; \nA red serape with bars of gold, \n\nAll heedless falling, fold on fold, \n\nA sash of silk, where flashing swung \nA sword as swift as serpent\xe2\x80\x99s tongue, \nIn sheath of silver chased in gold; \nGreat Spanish spurs with bells of \nsteel \n\nThat dash\xe2\x80\x99d and dangled at the heel; \nA face of blended pride and pain, \n\nOf mingled pleading and disdain, \nWith shades of glory and of grief\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe famous filibuster chief \nStood front his men among the trees \nThat top the fierce Cordilleras, \n\nWith bent arm arched above his \nbrow;\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nStood still, he stands, a picture, \nnow\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLong gazing down his inland seas. \n\n\n\n\n6 4 \n\n\nWalfeer in Nicaragua \n\n\nXI \n\nWhat strange, strong, bearded \nmen were these \nHe led above his tropic seas! \n\nMen sometimes of uncommon birth, \nMen rich in stories all untold, \n\nWho boasted not, though more than \nbold, \n\nBlown from the four parts of the \nearth. \n\nMen mighty-thewed, as Sampson \nwas, \n\nThat had been kings in any cause, \n\nA remnant of the races past; \nDark-browed, as if in iron cast, \nBroad-breasted as twin gates of \nbrass,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMen strangely brave and fiercely \ntrue, \n\nWho dared the West when giants \nwere, \n\nWho erred, yet bravely dared to err\xe2\x80\x94 \nA remnant of that dauntless few \nWho held no crime or curse or vice \nAs dark as that of cowardice; \n\nWith blendings of the worst and best \nOf faults and virtues that have blest \nOr cursed or thrilled the human \nbreast. \n\nXII \n\nThey rode, a troop of bearded men, \nRode two and two out from the town, \nAnd some were blonde and some were \nbrown, \n\nAnd all as brave as Sioux; but when \nFrom warlike Leon south, the line \nThat bound them in the laws of man \n\n\nWas passed, and peace stood mute \nbehind \n\nAnd streamed a banner to the wind \nThe world knew not, there was a \nsign \n\nOf awe, of silence, rear and van. \n\nXIII \n\nMen thought who scarce had \nthought before; \n\nI heard the clang and clash of steel \nFrom sword at hand and spur at heel \nAnd iron feet, but nothing more. \n\nXIV \n\nSome thought of Texas, some of \nMaine, \n\nBut one of wood-set Tennessee. \n\nAnd one of Avon thought, and one \nThought of an isle beneath the sun, \nAnd one, a dusky son of Spain, \n\nSoft hummed his senorita\xe2\x80\x99s air, \n\nHalf laughed, shook back his heavy \nhair \n\nAnd then\xe2\x80\x94he would not think again, \nAnd one of Wabash thought, and he \nThought tenderly, thought tearfully; \nAnd one turned sadly to the Spree. \n\nXV \n\nDefeat meant something more than \ndeath; \n\nThe world was ready, keen to smite, \nAs stem and still beneath its ban \nWith iron will and bated breath, \nTheir hands against their fellow-man, \nThey rode\xe2\x80\x94each man an Ishmaelite. \n\n\n\n\n65 \n\n\nMalfeer in ifttcaragua \n\n\nXVI \n\nBut when we topped the hills of \npine, \n\nThese men dismounted, doffed their \ncares, \n\nTalk\xe2\x80\x99d loud and laugh\xe2\x80\x99d old love \naffairs, \n\nAnd on the grass took meat and wine, \nAnd never gave a thought again \nTo land or life that lay behind, \n\nOr love, or care of any kind \nBeyond the present cross or pain. \n\nXVII \n\nAnd I, a waif of stormy seas, \n\nA child among such men as these, \nWas blown along this savage surf \nAnd rested with them on the turf, \nAnd took delight below the trees. \n\nXVIII \n\nI did not question, did not care \nTo know the right or wrong. I saw \nThat savage freedom had a spell, \nAnd loved it more than word can tell. \nI snapped my fingers at the law, \n\nAnd dared to laugh, and laughed to \ndare. \n\nXIX \n\nI bear my burden of the shame,\xe2\x80\x94 \nI shun it not, and naught forget, \nHowever much I may regret; \n\nI claim some candor to my name, \nAnd courage cannot change or die,\xe2\x80\x94 \nDid they deserve to die? they died! \nLet justice then be satisfied, \n\nAnd as for me, why, what am I? \n\n\nXX \n\nThe standing side by side till death, \nThe dying for some wounded friend, \nThe faith that failed not to the end, \nThe strong endurance till the breath \nAnd body took their ways apart, \n\nI only know. I keep my trust. \n\nTheir vices! earth has them by heart: \nTheir virtues! they are with the dust. \n\nXXI \n\nHow we descended, troop on troop, \nAs wide-winged eagles downward \nswoop! \n\nHow wound we through the fragrant \nwood, \n\nWith all its broad boughs hung in \ngreen, \n\nWith sweeping mosses trailed be\xc2\xac \ntween ! \n\nHow waked the spotted beasts of \nprey, \n\nDeep sleeping from the face of day, \nAnd dashed them, like a dashing \nflood, \n\nDown deep defile and densest wood! \n\nXXII \n\nWhat snakes! long, lithe and beau\xc2\xac \ntiful \n\nAs green and graceful boughed \nbamboo. \n\nHow they did twine them through \nand through \n\nGreen boughs that hung red-fruited \nfull! \n\nOne, monster-sized, above me hung, \n\n\n5 \n\n\n\n66 \n\n\nWalter in J^ttatagua \n\n\nClose eyed me with his bright pink \neyes, \n\nThen raised his folds, and swayed \nand swung, \n\nAnd licked like lightning his red \ntongue, \n\nThen oped his wide mouth with \nsurprise; \n\nHe writhed and curved and raised \nand lowered \n\nHis folds, like liftings of the tide, \nThen sank so low I touched his side, \nAs I rode by, with my boy\xe2\x80\x99s sword. \nThe trees shook hands high overhead, \nAnd bowed and intertwined across \nThe narrow way, while leaves and \nmoss \n\nAnd luscious fruit, gold-hued and red, \nThrough all the canopy of green, \n\nLet not one sun-shaft shoot between. \n\nXXIII \n\nBirds hung and swung, green-robed \nand red, \n\nOr drooped in curved lines dreamily, \nRainbows reversed, from tree to tree, \nOr sang low hanging overhead\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSang low, as if they sang and slept, \nSang faint like some far waterfall, \nAnd took no note of us at all, \n\nThough nuts that in the way were \nspread \n\nDid crash and crackle where we stept. \n\nXXIV \n\nWild lilies, tall as maidens are, \n\nAs sweet of breath, as purely fair, \n\nAs fair as faith, as true as truth, \n\nFell thick before our iron tread, \n\n\nIn fragrant sacrifice of ruth. \n\nRich ripened fruit a fragrance shed \nAnd hung in hand-reach overhead, \n\nIn nest of blossoms on the shoot, \n\nThe very shoot that bore the fruit. \n\nXXV \n\nHow ran lithe monkeys through \nthe leaves! \n\nHow rush\xe2\x80\x99d they through, brown clad \nand blue, \n\nLike shuttles hurried through and \nthrough \n\nThe threads a hasty weaver weaves! \nHow quick they cast us fruits of gold, \nThen loosened hand and all foothold, \nAnd hung, limp, limber, as if dead, \nHung low and listless overhead; \n\nAnd all the time with half-oped eyes \nBent full on us in mute surprise\xe2\x80\x94 \nLooked wisely too, as wise hens do \nThat watch you with the head askew- \n\nXXVI \n\nThe long day through, from blos\xc2\xac \nsomed trees, \n\nThere came the sweet song of sweet \nbees, \n\nWith chorus tones of cockatoo \nThat slid his beak along the bough \nAnd walked and talked and hung and \nswung, \n\nIn crown of gold and coat of blue, \nThe wisest fool that ever sung, \n\nOr wore a crown or held a tongue. \n\nXXVII \n\nOh! when we broke the somber \nwood \n\n\n\n\n6 7 \n\n\nfflalfcer in \n\nAnd pierced at last a sunny plain, \nHow wild and still with wonder stood \nThe proud mustangs with bannered \nmane \n\nAnd necks that never knew a rein, \nAnd nostrils lifted high, and blown, \nFierce breathing as a hurricane: \n\nYet by their leader held the while \nIn solid column, square and file, \n\nAnd ranks more martial than our \nown! \n\nXXVIII \n\n\nSome one above the common kind, \nSome one to look to, lean upon, \n\nMay be, is much a woman\xe2\x80\x99s mind; \nBut it was mine, and I had drawn \nA rein beside the chief while we \nRode down the mesa leisurely. \n\nThen he grew kind and questioned me \nOf kindred, home, and home affair, \nOf how I came to wander there, \n\nA*nd had my father herds and land \nAnd men in hundreds at command? \n\nAt which I, silent, shook my head, \nThen, timid, met his eyes and said: \n\xe2\x80\x9cNot so. Where sunny foothills run \nDown to the North Pacific sea, \n\nAnd where Willamette meets the sun \nIn many angles, patiently \nMy father tends some flocks of snow, \nAnd turns alone the mellow sod \nAnd sows some fields not over broad, \nAnd mourns my long delay in vain, \nNor bids one serve man come or go; \nWhile mother from her wheel or \nchurn, \n\nAnd maybe from the milking shed, \n\n\niSitaragua \n\nOft lifts an humbled wearied head \nTo watch and wish her boy\xe2\x80\x99s return \nAcross the camas\xe2\x80\x99 blossomed plain.\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nXXIX \n\nHe held his bent head very low, \n\nA sudden sadness in his air; \n\nThen reached and touched my yellow \nhair \n\nAnd tossed the long locks in his hand, \nToyed with them, sudden let them go, \nThen thrummed about his saddle bow \nAs thought ran swift across his face; \nThen turning instant in his place, \n\nHe gave some short and quick com\xc2\xac \nmand. \n\nThey brought the best steed of the \nband, \n\nThey swung a carbine at my side, \n\nHe bade me mount and by him ride, \nAnd from that hour to the end \nI never felt the need of friend. \n\nXXX \n\n\nFar in a wildest quinine wood \nWe found a city old\xe2\x80\x94so old \nIts very walls were turned to mould \nAnd stately trees upon them stood. \nNo history has mentioned it, \n\nNo map has given it a place; \n\nThe last dim trace of tribe and race\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe world\xe2\x80\x99s forgetfulness is fit. \n\nXXXI \n\nIt held one structure grand and \nmoss\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nMighty as any castle sung, \n\n\n\n\n68 \n\n\nWalker in i^icaragua \n\n\nAnd old when oldest Ind was young, \nWith threshold Christian never \ncrossed; \n\nA temple builded to the sun, \n\nAlong whose somber altar-stone \nBrown, bleeding virgins had been \nstrown \n\nLike leaves, when leaves are crisp and \ndun, \n\nIn ages ere the Sphynx was born, \n\nOr Babylon knew night, or morn. \n\nXXXII \n\nMy chief swift up the marble stept\xe2\x80\x94 \nHe ever led, through that wild land\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \nWhen down the stones, with double \nhand \n\nTo his machete, a Sun priest leapt. \nHot bent to barter life for life, \n\nA Texan drave his Bowie knife \nFull through his thick and broad \nbreast bone, \n\nAnd broke the point against the \nstone, \n\nThe dark stone of the temple wall. \n\nI saw him loose all hold and fall \nFull length with head hung down the \nstone; \n\nI saw run down a ruddy flood \nOf smoking, pulsing human blood. \nThen from the dusk there crept a \ncrone \n\nAnd kissed the gory hands and face, \nAnd smote herself. Then one by one \nSome dusk priests crept and did the \nsame, \n\nThen bore the dead man from the \nplace. \n\nDown darkened aisles the brown \npriests came, \n\n\nSo picture-like, with sandaled feet \nAnd long, gray, dismal, grass-wove \ngowns, \n\nSo like the pictures of old time, \n\nAnd stood all still and dark of frowns, \nAt blood upon the stone and street. \nStern men laid ready hand to sword \nAnd boldly spake some bitter word; \nBut they were stubborn still and \nstood \n\nFierce frowning as a winter wood, \nAnd mutt\xe2\x80\x99ring something of the \ncrime \n\nOf blood upon their temple stone, \n\nAs if the first that it had known! \n\nXXXIII \n\nWe strode on through each massive \ndoor \n\nWith clash of steel at heel, and with \nSome swords all red and ready drawn. \nI traced the sharp edge of my sword \nAlong both marble wall and floor \nFor crack or crevice; there was none. \nFrom one vast mount of marble stone \nThe mighty temple had been cored \nBy nut-brown children of the sun, \nWhen stars were newly bright and \nblithe \n\nOf song along the rim of dawn, \n\nA mighty marble monolith! \n\nCHANT II \nI \n\nSo old, so new and yet how old \nThis forest\'s green , that mesa\'s gold! \n\nRank, wild oats, waving in wild \nstrength\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\n(Sfflalfeer in \n\nThe lion\xe2\x80\x99s tawny mane and length! \n\nRank Artemesia, odorous \n\nAnd gray with bald antiquity\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe rough arroyo swallowed us \nAs we rode down by two, by three, \nThe braying ass, the neighing stud\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd now the mesa, broad and free; \nTall cacti blooms, as tipt with blood: \nAnd here a burning bush, and there \nThe red night-blooming cereus \nKneeled low, as if saluting us\xe2\x80\x94 \nKneeled as some red-robed monk at \nprayer, \n\nHigh up the gleaming steeps of snow \nOf Zacatecas, Mexico. \n\nTo left such green wood, and such \ngreen! \n\nTo right brown mesa, bald and bare: \nBut where we rode, the two between\xe2\x80\x94 \nSuch crimson, crimson everywhere! \nAye, earth was gaily garmented; \n\nThe great, green robe spread far \naway, \n\nSo far no man would dare to say, \n\nAnd this great, green robe fringed \nwith red, \n\nLay trackless, lifeless as the dead. \n\nThe yellow lion\xe2\x80\x99s skin behind, \n\nThe wild oats waving in the wind; \nBut that dense, silent wold of death \nDrew not a breath, knew not a \nbreath! \n\nII \n\nFrom Oro Yare toward the sea \nSlow rounding down the river\xe2\x80\x99s \nsource, \n\nRed men, brown men, foot, cavalry, \nWe marched, a mottled, maniac \nforce\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\niHtcaragua 69 \n\nWe rode so close to this dense wood \nSo somber, silent, deep and lorn, \nThat when at last we slow drew rein \nThe heat was as a choking pain. \n\nThe chief stood in his stirrups; stood \nWith set lips lifted up in scorn \nTo thus be baffled by a wood \nAnd looked and looked that sultry \nmom: \n\nThe while our allies looked away \nAs if in dread to say or stay. \n\nFar, far afield from out the night \nOf silent blackness burst a cone \nOf comely fashion, marble white, \n\nAnd lone as God, as white and lone \nAs God upon the great white throne. \n\nHe beck\xe2\x80\x99d some brown men, bade \nthem say: \n\nThen slow, a sandaled, nude old man, \nAs if not daring to say nay \nBegan, fast pointing far away\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen two, then three, then all began. \n\nIll \n\nSuch stories as our allies said \nOf such strange people meshed and \nhid \n\nThat drear, deep wilderness amid\xe2\x80\x94 \nTheir very name they spoke with \ndread! \n\nThey were not white men, brown \nmen, red, \n\nNot Spanish blood, not native blood, \nNot Toltec, Aztec, but a race \nOf cruel men who claimed to trace \nTheir fathers back beyond the flood\xe2\x80\x94 \nBeyond the time when they alone \nTook refuge on their rock-ribb\xe2\x80\x99d cone. \n\n\n\n70 (Slalfeer in \n\nSuch stories as our allies told \nOf gold, of river-beds of gold \nFar in that lost land\xe2\x80\x99s wood-walled \nheart \n\nThat lay below the comely cone \nAs made our filibusters start \nAnd think of this and this alone: \n\nThe while the silent chief looked down \nUpon their zeal with sullen frown. \n\nSuch stories of red gold at mom \nWhen savage rivers, sudden born \nOf thunder, had swept on and on\xe2\x80\x94 \nSuch seams of gold that lay upon \nWhite beds of quartz, bright as the \nsun \n\nWhen night and sudden storm were \ndone: \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nFree gold for all who deemed it fit \nTo stoop, take up and husband it. \n\nvSuch stories as our allies told \nOf armlets, wristlets, wrought in gold \nSo massive that the arms grew long \nAnd sinewy and over strong \nFor battle from the very weight \nOf gold; of gold-wrought arrowheads, \nOf gold in shallow brooklet beds \nAs plentiful as yellow corn \nSown ere the blackbirds swoop at \nmorn \n\nTo storm the thrifty farmer\xe2\x80\x99s gate: \n\nIV \n\nSuch stories as our allies told \nOf how, in armored days of old, \n\nThe Spaniard here had dared and \ndied \n\nIn all his splendid strength and pride, \nIn maddened greed for this red gold: \n\n\niHitarasua \n\nHow, many times in after years, \nTroop after troop went forth again, \nThe Spanish Don, the dauntless son, \nTo dare the dread obsidian spears, \nThe gold-wrought arrowheads like \nrain\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut never one returned, not one! \n\nSuch stories as our allies said \nOf tall, dusk women, garmented \nLike unto fairest flowered trees; \n\nOf busy women, like to bees, \n\nWho chased the purple butterfly \nFar up the gray steeps of the sky \nAnd plucked his little silken nest \nTo spin and weave the gorgeous vest, \nThe yellow robe, raboso red: \n\nvSuch stories as our allies told \nOf temples builded to the sun, \n\nOf human sacrifice and how, \n\nLike stealthy panthers, even now, \nThese beauteous, sultry, moonlight \nnights, \n\nHard men steal down, just as of old, \nAnd seize fair maidens for their rites \nThat this was why the land lay bare: \nOf flock or field or maiden fair, \n\nAll up and down, for leagues away\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat even now, this very day, \n\nTheir yonder homeward trail was \nplain \n\nWith little footprints made in pain: \nTom feet that turn not back again. \n\nV \n\nYou ask me what my chieftain \nsaid? \n\nHe rarely said, he simply did. \nDismounting where the lame feet led, \n\n\n\n(fflalker in jBttcaragua \n\n\n7i \n\n\nShut in as shuts a coffin lid, \n\nHe chose his choicest at a sign \nAnd silent led right on and on; \n\nRight on all day, right on all night, \nAnd not one foot set left or right, \nAnd not one faltered yea or nay \nOr turned his head to see or say \nUntil, at sudden burst of dawn, \n\nA smell of water was and then \nThat ugly, growling bulldog drum! \n\nIt turned the very leaves one side \nThe while it howled, \xe2\x80\x9cThey come! \nThey come! \xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 \n\nVI \n\nAnd they, too, came, came as a \nblast \n\nOf twisting March winds, gust on \ngust, \n\nWhirl red leaves, dead leaves, ashes, \ndust\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA cyclone scarce could sweep so fast, \nScant time to choose a friendly tree, \nScarce time to drop a bended knee, \nTo catch quick carbine to its place \nAnd fall hard fighting, face to face. \n\nWas ever such hot place of death! \nScarce room was there to draw full \nbreath: \n\nRed vines climbed up, green boughs \nhung down, \n\nRed-pepsin, green-leaved rubber-tree, \nBlack banyan in black density! \n\nI dared a precious second\xe2\x80\x99s pause \nTo choose my tree: I chose because \nGreat ivy vines climbed high, climbed \nhigher \n\nAll crimson to its very crown\xe2\x80\x94 \nElijah\xe2\x80\x99s chariot of fire! \n\n\nVII \n\nSuch tangle, jungle, who could \nstand? \n\nSuch jungle, tangle, who could see? \nWhat need, indeed, to see when we \nFell instant fighting, hand to hand? \nLong bamboo lances searched us out, \nShort javelins, with points of glass, \nGreat arrowheads of gold, like hail! \nAh! it had been a sorry rout \nHad each not held his narrow pass\xe2\x80\x94 \nWith not one left to tell the tale. \n\nThey fought in herd, they fell in \nheap, \n\nRushed here, rushed there, like silly \nsheep, \n\nAnd met behind each blazing tree \nA double-barreled battery, \n\nA dozen deadly, leaden shot, \n\nTill suddenly the rush and din \nOf arrow, spear, lance, javelin, \n\nAnd all that frenzied host was not. \n\nVIII \n\nAnd yet, what scores could not \nretreat! \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas pitiful! Spare me the pain, \nThe hard, sad detail of the slain, \n\nThe brave dead clutching to the loam \nAs if to hold their ancient home \nForever back from stranger feet! \n\nIX \n\nHe dashed right on, but bade me \nstay; \n\nNo time for parley or delay; \n\nHe called his every man to come\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n\n72 \n\n\nWalker in JSuarasua \n\n\nAs ever, he was still the first\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis men were dying, dead of thirst: \nAnd then to drive the vantage home! \n\nX \n\nA little time, then such a shout! \n\nI knew the men then drank their fill, \nI felt their feasting, do not doubt, \n\nI smelled ripe plantains, rind of red \nAnd cored like unto yellow cream; \n\nI saw bananas bank the stream, \n\nRipe mangoes hanging overhead\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSo dead with hunger, thirst! I seem \nTo see them, breathe them, taste \nthem still: \n\nTo see men feasting to their fill, \n\nOne hand the gun, red fruit in one, \nThe swift, sweet water at their feet: \nAnd I shall see, shall feel them eat \nAnd drink and drink till life is done. \n\nI heard a cautious low-bird call. \n\nHe came, and with him came just one: \nCanteen, machete, ripe mangoes, gun, \nAnd I must eat, drink, share with all. \n\nXI \n\nJust then a child, her sweet face red \nWith blood, crept from a heap of \ndead. \n\nI leaned down, drew her to my knee, \nBathed her sweet face, then hurriedly \nTo where a dying comrade lay \nBeside his war-tom battle tree; \n\nAnd lo! the poor girl followed me \nAnd tried to help, to soothe, to say. \n\nThe chief had chased the frenzied \nthrong \n\n\nOn o\xe2\x80\x99er the stream a short half mile; \nHad watched it melt into the isle \nAnd then, as if ten thousand strong \nStood at his back in bold guard line, \nHad placed his every man, save one\xe2\x80\x94 \nThen up and dow r n, machete and gun, \nThey paced and passed the counter\xc2\xac \nsign, \n\nAnd laughed their city, Chantale, \nLaughed gold-strewn, gory Chantale \nDim seen through copse of banyan \ntree. \n\nAnd light of step, as jaunty, gay \nAs on some happy holiday \nThey stepped with head high in the \nair, \n\nAnd sang, sang loud and saucily. \n\nAnd now and then a shot rang out \nAt interval of song and shout \nTow\xe2\x80\x99rd gold-strewn, gory Chantale \nAnd tore through island vine and tree. \n\nXII \n\nGods! what a dauntless, daring \nsight! \n\nWhy, these strange men had fought \nall day! \n\nWhy, these strong men had marched \nall night; \n\nWhy, they had scarcely ate or slept, \nYet still with saucy pride they stept \nAnd still each step was spank and \ngay. \n\nXIII \n\nDusk came, such solemn, stately \ndusk! \n\nBlack clouds blocked up a sky of red, \n\n\n\nWalker in \n\nThe hot wood had a smell of musk\xe2\x80\x94 \nOf dying roses for the dead. \n\nThen lightning was, and thunder \nlow, \n\nLow rumbling lion-like and slow, \nThen that dread drum began to beat \nA bow-shot front us amid the isle! \nWhy, they had made a mad retreat\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \nWere they not marshaling mean\xc2\xac \nwhile? \n\nXIV \n\nThat bull-dog drum was like a chill; \nIt made night monstrous; men stood \nstill \n\nAnd looked their brave chief in the \nface. \n\nWhy, had God filled the fiery skies \nWith thunder, lightning, had He \nfilled \n\nThe earth with every fighting race \nThat knows the ugly trade of death \nAnd asked their lives in sacrifice \nThese men had scarcely cared a \nbreath, \n\nYet now they stood unnerved and \nchilled. \n\nWould it but miss a single note, \nPause but to take a single breath, \n\nAs any bull-dog\xe2\x80\x99s breath is drawn, \n\xe2\x80\x99Twere not so worse to bear than \ndeath! \n\nBut no, that belching bull-dog throat \nBelched on, belched on, right on and \non. \n\nXV \n\nHe saw their dread then slowly \nsaid \n\n\nJ&icaragua 73 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHow many? and when will they \ncome? \xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cPass me the guard line, chief,\xe2\x80\x9d I \nsaid, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cPass me the guard and you shall \nknow \n\nWhat says, what means that chilling \ndrum: \n\nNight gathers, and the ghostly dead \nAre not more noiseless where they go \nThan I shall go, go, come again; \n\nOr, silent, join the happier slain.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXVI \n\nHe wrote, wrote calmly; they must \nfeel \n\nHis confidence, his nerve of steel, \n\nHis sure possession to the last. \n\nI thrust the thin script down my boot, \nStept back, stood firm, made slow \nsalute, \n\nTurned on my heel and hastened past. \n\nXVII \n\nThe dappled sky now darkened till \nThe moon came out, and then was \ngone, \n\nAnd all was black and wild and wide, \nI should have lost my way and died \nHad not that drum beat on and on. \nThe warm wave swept above my \nwaist; \n\nI pushed right on in eager haste. \n\nI felt a light touch suddenly, \n\nLooked down in dread and lo! \xe2\x80\x99twas \nshe. \n\nAnd how could she have passed \nthe line? \n\n\n\n\n\n74 \n\n\nWalker in i^icaragua \n\n\nAnd why? I thought her surely crazed; \nOr, may be, sadly hurt and dazed, \nAnd took her little hand in mine. \n\nI led her up the shallow sand \nAgainst the somber, wooded land \nTo where the mango, tamarind \nAnd black, wide-rooted banyan tree \nReached out to warn and welcome \nme. \n\nI was so worn, so weak and worn, \nMy dripping hands hung down as \nlead. \n\nI could not lift my sinking head; \n\nI heard the widowed mothers mourn, \nStill heard that hoarse dog bark and \nbeat \n\nAnd knew they would not now \nretreat. \n\nXVIII \n\nAnd yet I could not lift a hand, \nBut drooped and sank upon the sand. \nI tried, I tried, I could not rise, \n\nI could not open my dull eyes. \n\nAnd all the time that dog kept on, \n\nA dog that never would be gone! \n\nIt made me sleep, it made me \ndream\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat drum seemed some deep \norchestra \n\nWhere I could see sweet players play, \nLow-voiced; then sudden all did \nseem \n\nA coarse and cruel tragedy. \n\nRed lightning lit the ample stage; \nBlack thunder thrust italics through \nThe bloody text, then in his rage, \n\nAs if not knowing what to do, \n\n\nTurned back and hewed with such \nmad stroke \n\nMy mighty trees that I awoke. \n\nHow I had slept! just clay and clod. \nFor all the living, all the dead, \n\nThe might, the majesty of God, \n\nThe hideous, haunting death, the \ndread\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\nI could but hear that monodin, \n\nThat monster alligator skin \nRight on, right on, dog-like and deep, \nAnd sleep right on, and sleep and \nsleep! \n\nI thrust, thrust hard out either \nhand: \n\nAnd still, all chill! I was alone! \n\nAnd she had sold me, my command! \nAt sun the sacrificial stone; \n\nAnd then no more that horrid drum\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhy had she gone? where had she \ngone? \n\nI tried to hope she yet might come\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe while that drum beat on and on! \n\nA finger to her lip, then sand \nShe plucked and let it sift and run \nAnd pointed sunward, ere the sun! \nvSo many? and they come so soon? \nThe sky was spotted, rain and moon, \nBut with the first cloud we were gone; \nThe while that bull-dog barked right \non! \n\nHe waiting, leaned and caught her \nhand, \n\nShe stooped, took up, let fall the sand, \nThen pointed sunward, ere the sun\xe2\x80\x94 \nA sign, and that brave, worn, guard \nline, \n\n\n\nWalker in iSttaragua \n\n\n75 \n\n\nSwift, single file, still as the dead, \nThey passed with mournful, martial \ntread, \n\nPaced back that midnight track \nagain, \n\nA pietous line of blood and pain: \n\nYet not one man there to repine, \n\nNot one impatient word, not one. \n\nXIX \n\nHe paused, the last man to retreat, \nWhen all had silent passed the dead, \nHe stood with bowed, uncovered \nhead, \n\nDevoutest hero of defeat. \n\nAnd then he turned, hat still in hand, \nAnd bowed before her, low, so low \nHe almost touched her sandaled feet, \nAnd gently beckoned she should go: \nShe stirred not and he spake com\xc2\xac \nmand. \n\nI had not known she was so tall, \nKnew not that she was nobly born \nUntil I saw her black eyes burn \nAnd instant take command of all \nIn that long, sudden, sad return, \n\nSo silent, drooping and forlorn. \n\nShe beckoned him and he obeyed, \nKneeled only as brave men can kneel, \nUp rose; and then the clank of steel, \nThe eager clutching of a blade\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd then the sullen tread and tread: \nThat baying dog behind\xe2\x80\x94the dead! \n\nXX \n\nShe stripped the gold hoops from \neach hand, \n\n\nFrom wrists, from arms and nothing \nsaid, \n\nBut laid them gently by the dead: \nThen beckoned quiet, quick com\xc2\xac \nmand. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cPass on, on, on, at any cost, \n\nNot one brief moment to be lost! \xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 \nThen on, on, on, fast and more fast, \nAnd she, alone, the very last, \n\nUntil, just at the break of day\xe2\x80\x94 \nWere ever bugle notes so clear? \n\nWas ever dinner-horn so dear? \n\nWe heard, we heard our horses neigh! \n\nCHANT III \n\nI \n\nMore marches through brown \nmesa, wood. \n\nMore marches through too much \nblood, \n\nAnd then at last sweet inland seas. \n\nA city there, white-walled, and brown \nWith age, in nest of orange trees; \nAnd this we won and many a town \nAnd rancho reaching up and dowm, \nThen rested long, sweet, sultry days \nBeneath the blossom\xe2\x80\x99d orange trees, \nMade drowsy with the hum of bees, \nAnd drank in peace the south-sea \nbreeze, \n\nMade sweet w 7 ith sweeping bough of \nbays. \n\nII \n\n\nAye, she was shy, so shy at first, \nAnd then, ere long, not over shy. \n\n\n\n\n76 \n\n\nWalker in Jlicaragua \n\n\nYet pure of soul and proudly chare. \nNo love on earth has such an eye! \nNo land there is, is bless\xe2\x80\x99d or curs\xe2\x80\x99d \nWith such a limb or grace of face, \n\nOr gracious form or genial air! \n\nIn all the bleak North-land not one \nHath been so warm of soul to me \nAs coldest soul by that warm sea, \nBeneath the bright, hot-centered sun. \n\nIII \n\nNo lands where northern ices are \nApproach, or even dare compare \nWith warm loves born beneath the \nsun\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe one so near, the one so far! \n\nThe one the cold, white, steady star, \nThe yellow, shifting sun the one. \n\nIV \n\nI grant you fond, I grant you fair, \n\nI grant you honor, trust and truth, \nAnd years as beautiful as youth, \n\nAnd many years beneath the sun, \nAnd faith as fixed as any star; \n\nBut all the North-land hath not one \nSo warm of soul as sun-maids are. \n\nV \n\nI was but in my boyhood then\xe2\x80\x94 \nNor knew the coarse, hard ways of \nmen. \n\nI count my fingers over so, \n\nAnd find it years and years ago; \n\nBut I was tall and lithe and fair, \nWith rippled tide of yellow hair, \n\nAnd prone to mellowness of heart, \nWhile she was tawny-red like wine, \n\n\nWith black hair boundless as the \nnight. \n\nAs for the rest, I learned my part, \n\nAt least was apt, and willing quite \nTo learn, to listen, and incline \nTo teacher warm and wise as mine. \n\nVI \n\n\nO bright, bronzed maidens of the \nSun! \n\nSo fairer far to look upon \nThan curtains of King Solomon, \n\nOr Kedar\xe2\x80\x99s tents, or any one, \n\nOr any thing beneath the Sun! \n\nWhat followed then? What has been \ndone, \n\nAnd said, and writ, and read, and \nsung? \n\nWhat will be writ and read again, \nWhile love is life and life remain, \nWhile maids will heed and men have \ntongue? \n\nVII \n\nWhat followed then? But let that \npass. \n\nI hold one picture in my heart, \n\nHung curtain\xe2\x80\x99d, and not any part \nOf all its blood tint ever has \nBeen looked upon by any one \nBeneath the broad, all-seeing sun. \n\nVIII \n\nLove well who will, love wise who \ncan, \n\nBut love, be loved, for God is love; \nLove pure, as cherubim above; \n\n\n\nWalker in iStcaragua \n\n\n77 \n\n\nLove maid, and hate not any man. \nSit as sat we by orange tree, \n\nBeneath the broad bough and grape\xc2\xac \nvine \n\nTop-tangled in the tropic shine, \n\nClose face to face, close to the sea, \nAnd full of the red-centered sun, \nWith sweet sea-songs upon the soul, \nRolled melody on melody, \n\nAs echoes of deep organ\xe2\x80\x99s roll, \n\nAnd love, nor question any one. \n\nIX \n\nIf God is love, is love not God? \n\nAs high priests say, let prophets sing, \nWithout reproach or reckoning; \n\nThis much I say, knees knit to sod, \nAnd low voice lifted, questioning. \n\nX \n\nLet hearts be pure, let love be true. \nLet lips be luscious, love be red, \n\nLet earth in gold be garmented \nAnd tented in her tent of blue; \n\nLet goodly rivers glide between \nTheir leaning willow walls of green, \nLet all things be filled of the sun, \n\nAnd full of warm winds of the sea, \nAnd I beneath my vine and tree \nTake rest, nor war with any one; \nThen I will thank God with full \ncause, \n\nSay this is well, is as it was. \n\nXI \n\nLet lips be red, for God has said \nLove is as one gold-garmented, \n\nAnd made them so for such a time, \n\n\nTherefore let lips be red, therefore \nLet love be ripe in ruddy prime, \n\nLet hope beat high, let hearts be true, \nAnd you be wise thereat, and you \nDrink deep and ask not any more. \n\nXII \n\nLet red lips lift, proud curl\xe2\x80\x99d to \nkiss, \n\nAnd round limbs lean and lift and \nreach \n\nIn love too passionate for speech, \nToo full of blessedness and bliss \nFor anything but this and this; \n\nLet pure lips lean warm, kind to kiss; \nSwoon in sweet love, while all the air \nIs redolent with balm of trees, \n\nAnd mellow with the song of bees, \nWhile birds sit singing everywhere\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd you will have not any more \nThan I in boyhood, by that shore \nOf olives, had in years of yore. \n\nXIII \n\nLet men unclean think things \nunclean; \n\nI swear tip-toed, with lifted hand, \nThat we were pure as sea-wash\xe2\x80\x99d \nsand, \n\nThat not one coarse thought came \nbetween; \n\nBelieve or disbelieve who will, \n\nUnto the pure all things are pure, \n\nAs for the rest, love can endure \nAlike your good will or your ill. \n\nXIV \n\nAye, she was rich in blood and \ngold\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n78 \n\n\n(UalUer in J?ttaragua \n\n\nMore rich in love, grown over-bold \nFrom its own consciousness of \nstrength. \n\nHow warm! Oh, not for any cause \nCould I declare how warm she was, \nIn her brown beauty and hair\xe2\x80\x99s \nlength. \n\nXV \n\nWe loved in the sufficient sun, \n\nWe lived in elements of fire, \n\nFor love is fire, not fierce desire; \n\nYet lived as pure as priest and nun. \n\nXVI \n\nWe lay slow rocking by the bay \nIn slim canoe beneath the crags \nThick-topp\xe2\x80\x99d with palms, like sweep\xc2\xac \ning flags \n\nBetween us and the burning day. \n\nThe alligator\xe2\x80\x99s head lay low \nOr lifted from his rich rank fern, \n\nAnd watch\xe2\x80\x99d us and the tide by turn, \nAs we slow cradled to and fro. \n\nXVII \n\nAnd slow we cradled on till night, \nAnd told the old tale, overtold, \n\nAs misers in recounting gold \nEach time to take a new delight. \n\nXVIII \n\nWith her pure passion-given grace \nShe drew her warm self close to me; \nAnd her two brown hands on my \nknee, \n\nAnd her two black eyes in my face, \n\n\nShe then grew sad and guessed at ill, \nAnd in the future seemed to see \nWith woman\xe2\x80\x99s ken and prophecy, \nYet proffer\xe2\x80\x99d her devotion still. \n\nXIX \n\nAnd plaintive so she gave a sign, \n\nA token cut of virgin gold, \n\nThat all her tribe should ever hold \nIts wearer as some one divine, \n\nNor touch him with unkindly hand. \nAnd I in turn gave her a blade, \n\nA dagger, worn as well by maid \nAs man, in that hot-temper\xe2\x80\x99d land. \n\nXX \n\nIt had a massive silver hilt, \n\nIt had a keen and cunning blade, \n\nA gift of chief and comrades made \nFor blood at Rivas reckless spilt. \n\nXXI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShow this,\xe2\x80\x9d said I, \xe2\x80\x9ctoo well \xe2\x80\x99tis \nknown, \n\nAnd worth a hundred lifted spears, \nShould ill beset your sunny years; \nThere is not one in Walker\xe2\x80\x99s band, \nBut at the sight of this alone, \n\nWill reach a brave and ready hand \nAnd make your right, or wrong, his \nown.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXXII \n\nLove while \xe2\x80\x99tis day; night cometh \nsoon, \n\nWherein no man or maiden may; \n\nLove in the strong young prime of \nday; \n\n\n\n\nalker in J^tcaragua \n\n\n79 \n\n\nDrink drunk with love in ripe red \nnoon, \n\nRed noon of love and life and sun; \nWalk in love\xe2\x80\x99s light as in sunshine, \nDrink in that sun as drinking wine, \nDrink swift, nor question any one; \nFor fortunes change, like man, or \nmoon, \n\nAnd wane like warm full day of June. \n\nXXIII \n\nOh Love, so fair of promises, \n\nBend here thy bow, blow here thy \nkiss, \n\nBend here thy bow above the storm \nBut once, if only this once more! \nComes there no patient Christ to \nsave, \n\nTouch and reanimate thy form \nLong three days dead and in the \ngrave? \n\nYea, spread ye now thy silken net; \nvSince fortunes change, turn and for\xc2\xac \nget, \n\nSince man must fall for some sharp \nsin, \n\nBe thou the pit that I fall in; \n\nI seek no safer fall than this. \n\nXXIV \n\nYou lift your face to ask of her, \nThis wine-hued woman, warm sun- \nmaid, \n\nThis wine-hued woman warm as \nwine, \n\nvSo purely and so surely mine, \n\nWho loved, who dared, was not \nafraid\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nOr Princess? Priestess? Prisoner? \n\nI never knew or sought to know; \n\nI cared not what she might have been; \nI only knew she was such queen \nAs only death could overthrow. \n\nXXV \n\nAye, lover, would you love with \nzest, \n\nWin, hold, and hold her fast and \nwell? \n\nBelieve, believe the best the best \nThough she have singed her skirts in \nhell! \n\nHold not one doubt, house just this \nthought\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat she is all in all you sought. \n\nI loved, loved purely, loved pro\xc2\xac \nfound, \n\nI raised love\xe2\x80\x99s temple, round by \nround. \n\nI built my temple heavens high, \n\nThen shut the door, and she and I \nForgot all things, all things save one, \nBeneath the hot path of the sun. \n\nXXVI \n\nI would I could forget, and yet \nI would not to my death forget. \n\nI reared my temple to the sky, \n\nThat glad full moon, and laughed \nthat I \n\nCould toy with lightning, till I found, \nLike some poor fool who toys with \nfire, \n\nAnd counts him stronger than desire, \nMy temple burning to the ground. \n\n\n\n\n8o \n\n\nWalker in J^ttcaragua \n\n\nXXVII \n\nAye, I had knelt, as priest might \nkneel \n\nBefore his saint\xe2\x80\x99s shrine, all that day; \nHad dared to count me strong as steel \nTo stand for aye, clean, tall and \nwhite. \n\nYet I broke in that very night, \n\nAnd stole shewbread and wine away. \n\nXXVIII \n\nI would forget that scene, that \nplace, \n\nI would forget that pleading face, \nYet hide it deepest in my heart, \n\nAs coffin in the heart of earth\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAlas! a heart so little worth\xe2\x80\x94 \nLocked iron doors and somber lid! \nYea, I would have my shrine so hid, \nSo sacred and so set apart, \n\nThat only I might enter in, \n\nEach sleepless, penitential night, \n\nAnd, kneeling, burn my lorn love \nlight \n\nTo burn away my bitter sin. \n\nXXIX \n\nLove lifts on white wings to the \ngates \n\nOf Paradise and enters in: \n\nLust has for wings two leaden weights \nThat sink into the lake of sin. \n\nLust squats, toad-like, his loathsome \ncell, \n\nLove seeks the light, on, on, above; \nLove is as God, as God is love, \n\nBut lust is Lucifer in hell. \n\n\nXXX \n\n\nIlls come not singly, birds of prey \nFlock not more closely on than they; \nIll comes disguised in many forms; \nFair winds are but a prophecy*. \n\nOf foulest winds full soon to be\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe brighter these, the blacker they; \nThe brightest night has darkest day \nAnd brightest days bring blackest \nstorms. \n\nXXXI \n\n\nA land-lost sea with sable bredes, \nSave where some bastions still are \nseen, \n\nA river stealing through the reeds, \nDark, silent, sinuous, serpentine, \n\nIn sullen haste toward the sun\xe2\x80\x94 \nSuch lonesome land, such lonesome \nsea, \n\nSuch wine-hued women at the oar, \n\nIn silent pairs along the shore! \n\nBut not one man in sight, not one \nTo draw machete or bear a gun. \n\nXXXII \n\nA shaft of flame, a lifted torch, \nLeaps sudden from this midland sea, \nAs if to light the very porch \nOf God\xe2\x80\x99s high house eternally. \n\nIt drops its ashen embers slow \nAnd slantwise, like belated snow, \n\nOn granite columns, gods of stone \nHewn ere the gods of Baal were \nknown. \n\n\n\nMalftet in Jltcaragua \n\n\n81 \n\n\n4 \n\n\nXXXIII \n\nSome sweet brown hills, like \nGalilee, \n\nGroup here or there this dark, still \n\xe2\x80\xa2 sea, \n\nSome costly woods, mahogany, \n\nRed cedar, like to Lebanon, \n\nBroad olives, like Gethsemane; \n\nBut silence sits all things upon, \n\nAs in some dark, hushed house of \ndeath. \n\nYou look behind, you would turn \nback, \n\nYou-question if you yet take breath. \nThe* blackness of this silent sea \nIs oiled and burnished ebony\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe very silence turns to black. \n\nXXXIV \n\nThe silence is as when your dead \nLies waiting, candles foot and head, \nWhen mourners turn them slowly \nback \n\nWith all their sad, sweet prayers \nsaid. \n\nThe sea is black, the shore is black \nBelow Granada\xe2\x80\x99s storied steep, \n\nSave where red trumpet blossoms \nblow \n\nAnd trumpet, trumpet night and day, \nFor brave brown soldiers far away \nIn battle for this dreamful deep \nWhere silent women come and go. \n\nXXXV \n\nSuch wine-hued women! such soft \neyes! \n\nWhat need one single word be said? \n\n\nA fool might talk and talk all day, \nTalk, talk and talk until he dies, \n\nAnd yet, for all his hard, loud lies, \nWill never make one inch advance, \nWill never say, year and a day, \n\nSo much as she in one warm glance. \n\nXXXVI \n\nI see sad mothers here and there \nSit by and braid their heavy hair, \nThe while they watch their babes at \nplay. \n\nI note no fear, I hear no sigh, \n\nNot even hear a baby cry; \n\nBut Oh! Madonna, mother, bride, \nDark mourning with your ebon tide, \nMy heart is with you here today, \n\nAs yours is with him far away. \n\nXXXVII \n\nYet is this sea not always so: \n\nI\xe2\x80\x99ve seen him laughing in the sun, \nSeen soft brown wavelets leap and \nflow, \n\nSeen opal dimples come and go, \n\nSeen argent billows rise and run, \n\nSeen fleets of gay boats lifting, borne \nAlong his leaping, laughing tide \nIn all their semi-savage pride. \n\nBut list! the sea, the shore, is black \nFor those who passed and came not \nback\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe mourns because his daughters \nmourn. \n\nXXXVIII \n\nYon solitary cone of flame \nThat lifts mid-sea to light the skies? \n\n\n6 \n\n\n\n82 \n\n\nWalker m i^icaragua \n\n\nI nothing know, scarce know the \nname, \n\nOf yon lost, buried town that lies \nBeneath its ashes, yet I know \nThe story is, a pretty town, \n\nWith people passing up and down, \nLies just beyond, and deep, so deep \nThat never plummet breaks its sleep. \n\nXXXIX \n\nI \n\nAnd, too, the tale is we are dead \nAnd cast forth unto burning hell, \nWhile they, down there, live, laugh \ninstead; \n\nThat with them, down there, all is \nwell, \n\nThe while they dance all night, all \nday\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhile we are dead and cast in hell. \nXL \n\nAye, idle talk, and yet the town \nIs there, and perfect, to this day. \nRow out, far out, and peer you down, \nA half mile down, some sultry noon, \nAnd see shapes passing up and down, \nAs dancers dancing to a tune \nOn some fair, happy day in May. \n\nXLI \n\nAye, idle talk, and maybe these, \nThe dancers, be but kelp adrift \nWith undertow of under-seas\xe2\x80\x94 \nStrange under-seas that fall or lift \nAnd voiceless ever ebb and flow \nBeneath the burning crater\xe2\x80\x99s plain \nThrough unknown channels to the \nmain; \n\n\nI only note the things I know \nAnd loved and lived long years ago. \n\nXLII \n\n\nThen came reverses to our arms; \n\nI saw the signal light\xe2\x80\x99s alarms \nAll night red-crescenting the bay. \nThe foe poured down a flood next \nday \n\nAs strong as tides when tides are high, \nAnd drove us to the open sea, \n\nIn such wild haste of flight that we \nHad hardly time to arm and fly. \n\nXLIII \n\nFar tossed upon the broadest sea, \n\nI lifted my two hands on high, \n\nWith wild soul plashing to the sky, \nAnd cried, \xe2\x80\x9cO more than crowns to \nme, \n\nFarewell at last to love and thee! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nI walked the deck, I kissed my \nhand \n\nBack to the far and fading shore, \nAnd bent a knee as to implore, \n\nUntil the last dark head of land \nSlid down behind the dimpled sea. \n\nAt last I sank in troubled sleep, \n\nA very child, rocked by the deep, \nSad questioning the fate of her \nBefore the cruel conqueror. \n\nXLIV \n\nThe loss of comrades, power, place, \nA city walled, cool, shaded ways, \nCost me no care at all, somehow, \n\n\n\n\nWalker in \n\nI only saw her sad, sweet face, \n\nAnd\xe2\x80\x94I was younger then than now. \n\nXLV \n\nRed flashed the sun across the \ndeck, \n\nSlow flapped the idle sail, and slow \nThe black ship cradled to and fro. \nAfar my city lay, a speck \nOf white against a line of blue; \n\nHard by, half-lounging on the deck, \nSome comrades chatted, two by two. \n\nI held a new-filled glass of wine, \n\nAnd with the mate talked as in play \nOf fierce events of yesterday, \n\nTo coax his light life into mine. \n\nXLVI \n\nHe jerked the wheel, as slow he \nsaid, \n\nLow laughing with averted head, \n\nAnd so half sad: \xe2\x80\x9cYou bet, they\xe2\x80\x99ll \nfight; \n\nThey followed in canim, canoe, \n\nA perfect fleet, that on the blue \nLay dancing till the mid of night. \nWould you believe! one little cuss\xe2\x80\x94 \n(He turned his hard head slow side- \nwise \n\nAnd \xe2\x80\x99neath his hat-rim took the \nskies)\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIn petticoats did follow us \n\nThe livelong night, and at the dawn \n\nHer boat lay rocking in the lee, \n\nScarce one short pistol-shot from me. \xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 \nThis said the mate, half mournfully, \nThen pecked at us; for he had drawn, \nBy bright light heart and homely wit, \nA knot of men around the wheel, \n\n\nJ&ttatagua 83 \n\nWhich he stood whirling like a reel, \nFor the still ship reck\xe2\x80\x99d not of it. \n\nXLVII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd where\xe2\x80\x99s she now? \xe2\x80\x9d one care\xc2\xac \nless said, \n\nWith eyes slow lifting to the brine, \nSwift swept the instant far by mine, \nThe bronze mate listed, shook his \nhead, \n\nSpirted a stream of ambier wide \nAcross and over the ship side, \n\nJerked at the wheel and slow replied: \n\xe2\x80\x9cShe had a dagger in her hand, \n\nShe rose, she raised it, tried to \nstand, \n\nBut fell, and so upset herself; \n\nYet still the poor brown, pretty elf, \nEach time the long, light wave would \ntoss \n\nAnd lift her form from out the sea, \nWould shake a sharp, bright blade at \nme, \n\nWith rich hilt chased a cunning cross. \nAt last she sank, but still the same \nShe shook her dagger in the air, \n\nAs if to still defy or dare, \n\nAnd sinking seemed to call your \nname.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXLVIII \n\nI let the wine glass crashing fall, \n\nI rushed across the deck, and all \nThe sea I swept and swept again, \nWith lifted hand, with eye and glass, \nBut all was idle and in vain. \n\nI saw a red-billed sea bird pass, \n\nA petrel sweeping \xe2\x80\x99round and \xe2\x80\x99round, \nI heard the far, white sea-surf sound, \n\n\n\n\n8 4 \n\n\nWalker tit JJicaragua \n\n\nBut no sign could I hear or see \nOf one so more than all to me. \n\nXLIX \n\nI cursed the ship, the shore, the sea, \nThe brave brown mate, the bearded \nmen; \n\nI had a fever then, and then \nShip, shore and sea were one to me: \nAnd weeks we on the dead waves lay, \nAnd I more truly dead than they. \n\nL \n\nAt last some rested on an isle; \n\nThe few strong-breasted, with a smile, \nReturning to the hostile shore, \n\nScarce counting of the pain or cost, \nScarce recking if they won or lost; \nThey sought but action, asked no \nmore; \n\nThey counted life but as a game, \nWith full per cent against them, and \nStaked all upon a single hand, \n\nAnd lost or won, content the same. \n\nLI \n\nI never saw my chief again, \n\nI never sought again the shore, \n\nOr saw the wood-walled city more. \n\nI could not bear the more than pain \nAt sight of blossom\xe2\x80\x99d orange trees, \n\nOr blended song of birds and bees, \nThe sweeping shadows of the palm \nOr spicy breath of bay and balm. \n\nLII \n\nAnd, striving to forget the while, \n\nI wandered through a dreary isle, \n\n\nHere black with juniper, and there \nMade white with goats in shaggy \ncoats, \n\nThe only things that anywhere \nWe found with life in all the land, \nSave birds that ran, long-bill\xe2\x80\x99d and \nbrown, \n\nLong-legg\xe2\x80\x99d and still as shadows \nare, \n\nLike dancing shadows, up and down \nThe sea-rim on the swelt\xe2\x80\x99ring sand. \n\nLIII \n\nThe warm sea laid his dimpled face, \nWith all his white locks smoothed in \nplace, \n\nAs if asleep against the land; \n\nGreat turtles slept upon his breast, \n\nAs thick as eggs in any nest; \n\nI could have touched them with my \nhand. \n\nLIV \n\nI would some things were dead and \nhid, \n\nWell dead and buried deep as hell, \nWith recollection dead as well, \n\nAnd resurrection God-forbid. \n\nThey irk me with their weary spell \nOf fascination, eye to eye, \n\nAnd hot, mesmeric, serpent-hiss, \nThrough all the dull, eternal days. \n\nLet them turn by, go on their ways, \nLet them depart or let me die; \n\nFor life is but a beggar\xe2\x80\x99s lie, \n\nAnd as for death, I grin at it; \n\nI do not care one whiff or whit \nWhether it be or that or this. \n\n\n\n\nWalker tn Nicaragua \n\n\nLV \n\nI give my hand; the world is wide; \nThen farewell, memories of yore! \nBetween us let strife be no more; \nTurn as you choose to either side; \nSay Fare-you-well, shake hands and \nsay\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSpeak fair, and say with stately grace, \nHand clutching hand, face bent to \nface\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFarewell, forever and a day! \n\nLVI \n\nO passion-toss\xe2\x80\x99d and piteous past, \nPart now, part well, part wide apart, \nAs ever ships on ocean slid \nDown, down the sea, hull, sail and \nmast; \n\nAnd in the album of your heart \nLet hide the pictures of your face, \nWith other pictures in their place, \nSlid over, like a coffin\xe2\x80\x99s lid. \n\nLVII \n\nThe days and grass grow long to\xc2\xac \ngether; \n\nThey now fell short and crisp again, \nAnd all the fair face of the main \nGrew dark and wrinkled as the \nweather. \n\nThrough all the summer sun\xe2\x80\x99s decline \nFell news of triumphs and defeats, \n\nOf hard advances, hot retreats\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen days and days and not a line. \n\nLVIII \n\nAt last one night they came. I \nknew, \n\n\n85 \n\nEre yet the boat had touched the \nland, \n\nThat all was lost; they were so few \nI near could count them on one hand; \nBut he, the leader, led no more. \n\nThe proud chief still disdained to fly, \nBut like one wrecked, clung to the \nshore, \n\nAnd struggled on, and struggling fell \nFrom power to a prison cell, \n\nAnd only left that cell to die. \n\nLIX \n\nAly recollection, like a ghost, \n\nGoes from this sea to that sea-side, \nGoes and returns, as turns the tide, \nThen turns again unto the coast. \n\nI know not which I mourn the most, \nMy chief or my unwedded wife. \n\nThe one was as the lordly sun, \n\nTo joy in, bask in and admire; \n\nThe twilight star was as the one \nTo love, to look to and desire, \n\nAnd both a part of my young life. \n\nLX \n\n4# * 1 -* . f. \n\n^ \n\nYears after, sheltered from the sun \nBeneath a Sacramento bay, \n\nA black Muchacho by me lay \nAlong the long grass crisp and dun, \nHis brown mule browsing by his side, \nAnd told with all a peon\xe2\x80\x99s pride \nHow he once fought; how long and \nwell, \n\nBrave breast to breast, red hand to \nhand, \n\nAgainst a foe for his fair land, \n\nAnd how the fierce invader fell; \n\n\n\n\n\n86 \n\n\nWalker in Nicaragua \n\n\nAnd, artless, told me how he died; \nHow walked he from the prison-wall, \nSerene, prince-like, as for parade, \nAnd made no note of man or maid, \nBut gazed out calmly over all\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHow looked he far, half paused, and \nthen \n\nAbove the mottled sea of men \nSlow kissed his thin hand to the sun; \nThen smiled so proudly none had \nknown \n\nBut he was stepping to a throne. \n\nLXI \n\nA nude brown beggar Peon child, \nEncouraged as the captive smiled, \nLooked up, half scared, half pitying; \nHe stopped, he caught it from the \nsand, \n\nPut bright coins in its two brown \nhands, \n\nThen strode on like another king. \nLXII \n\nTwo deep, a musket\xe2\x80\x99s length they \nstood \n\nAfront, in sandals, grim and dun \nAs death and darkness wove in one, \nTheir thick lips thirsting for his blood. \nHe took each black hand, one by one, \nAnd, bowing with a patient grace, \nForgave them all and took his place. \n\nLXIII \n\nHe bared his broad brow \npleasantly, \n\nGave one long, last look to the sky, \n\n\nThe white-winged clouds that hurried \n\nby, \n\nThe olive hills in orange hue; \n\nA last list to the cockatoo \nThat hung by beak from mango- \nbough \n\nHard by and hung and cried as \nthough \n\nHe never was to call again, \n\nHung all red-crowned and robed in \ngreen, \n\nWith belts of gold and blue be\xc2\xac \ntween.\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0I\' ^ *1\xc2\xbb H* ^ \n\nv*> a |\' \xe2\x96\xa0! III \n\n^ ^ ^ \n\nA bow, a touch of heart, a pall \nOf purple smoke, a crash, a thud, \n\nA warrior\xe2\x80\x99s raiment rolled in blood, \n\nA face in dust and\xe2\x80\x94that was all. \n\n\\ \n\nSuccess had made him more than \nking; \n\nDefeat made him the vilest thing \nIn name, contempt or hate can bring; \nSo much the leaden dice of war \nDo make or mar of character. \n\nLXIV \n\nSpeak ill who will of him, he died \nIn all disgrace, say of the dead \nHis heart was black, his hands were \nred\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSay this much and be satisfied; \n\nGloat over it all undenied. \n\nI simply say he was my friend \nWhen strong of hand and fair of \nfame: \n\nDead and disgraced, I stand the same \nTo him, and so shall to the end. \n\n\n\n\nWalker in \n\nLXV \n\nI lay this crude wreath on his dust, \nInwove with sad, sweet memories \nRecall\xe2\x80\x99d here by these colder seas. \n\nI leave the wild bird with his trust, \n\nTo sing and say him nothing wrong; \n\nI wake no rivalry of song. \n\nLXVI \n\nHe lies low in the level\xe2\x80\x99d sand, \nUnshelter\xe2\x80\x99d from the tropic sun, \n\nAnd now, of all he knew, not one \nWill speak him fair in that far land. \nPerhaps \'twas this that made me \nseek, \n\nDisguised, his grave one winter-tide, \n\nA weakness for the weaker side, \n\nA siding with the helpless weak. \n\nLXVI I \n\nHis warm Hondurian seas are \nwarm, \n\nWarm to the heart, warm all the time; \nHuge sea-beasts wallow in their slime \nAnd slide, claw foot and serpent form, \nSlow down the bank, and bellow deep \nAnd pitiful, as if it were \nA very pain to even stir, \n\nSo close akin to death they keep. \n\nLXVIII \n\nThe low sea bank is worn and torn, \nAll things seem old, so very old; \n\nAll things are gray with moss and \nmould, \n\nThe very seas seem old and worn. \n\n\nJticaragua 87 \n\nLife scarce bides here in any form, \nThe very winds wake not nor say, \nBut sleep all night and sleep all day \nNor even dream of stress or storm. \n\nLXIX \n\nThe Carib sea comes in so slow! \n\nIt stays and stays, as loath to go, \n\nA sense of death is in the air, \n\nA sense of listless, dull despair, \n\nAs if Truxillo, land and tide, \n\nAnd all things, died when Walker \ndied. \n\nLXX \n\nA palm not far held out a hand, \nHard by a long green bamboo swung, \nAnd bent like some great bow un\xc2\xac \nstrung, \n\nAnd quiver\xe2\x80\x99d like a willow wand; \nPerched on its fruit that crooked \nhang, \n\nBeneath a broad banana\xe2\x80\x99s leaf, \n\nA bird in rainbow splendor sang \nA low, sad song of temper\xe2\x80\x99d grief. \n\nLXXI \n\nNo sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, \nBut at his side a cactus green \nUpheld its lances long and keen; \n\nIt stood in sacred sands alone, \nFlat-palmed and fierce with lifted \nspears; \n\nOne bloom of crimson crowned its \nhead, \n\nA drop of blood, so bright, so red, \nYet redolent as roses\xe2\x80\x99 tears. \n\n\n\n88 \n\n\n\xc2\xaeale of tfje \xc2\xaeall alcalde \n\n\nLXXII \n\nIn my left hand I held a shell, \n\nAll rosy-lipp\xe2\x80\x99d and pearly red; \n\nI laid it by his lowly bed, \n\nFor he did love so passing well \nThe grand songs of his solemn sea. \n\nO shell! sing well, wild, with a will, \nWhen storms blow loud and birds be \nstill, \n\nThe wildest sea-song known to thee! \n\n\nLXXIII \n\nI said some things with folded \nhands, \n\nSoft whisper\xe2\x80\x99d in the dim sea-sound, \nAnd eyes held humbly to the ground, \nAnd frail knees sunken in the sands. \nHe had done more than this for me, \nAnd yet I could not well do more; \n\nI turned me down the olive shore, \nAnd set a sad face to the sea. \n\n\nTHE TALE OF THE TALL ALCALDE \n\n\nShadows that shroud the tomorrow, \nClists from the life that\'s within, \nTraces of pain and of sorrow, \n\nA nd maybe a trace of sin, \nReachings for God in the darkness, \n\nA nd for\xe2\x80\x94what should have been. \n\nStains from the gall and the worm\xc2\xac \nwood, \n\nMemories bitter like myrrh, \n\nA sad brown face in a fir wood, \nBlotches of heart\'s blood here, \n\nBut never the sound of a wailing, \nNever the sign of a tear. \n\nWhere mountains repose in their blue\xc2\xac \nness, \n\nWhere the sun first lands in his \nnewness, \n\nAnd marshals his beams and his \nlances, \n\nEre down to the vale he advances \n\nWith visor erect, and rides swiftly \n\nOn the terrible night in his way, \n\nAnd slays him, and, dauntless and \ndeftly, \n\n\nHews out the beautiful day \nWith his flashing sword of silver,\xe2\x80\x94 \nLay nestled the town of Renalda, \n\nFar famed for its stately Alcalde, \n\nThe iron judge of the mountain \nmine, \n\nWith heart like the heart of woman, \nHumanity more than human;\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFar famed for its gold and silver, \nFair maids and its mountain wine. \n\n****** \n\nThe feast was full and the guests \nafire, \n\nThe shaven priest and the portly \nsquire, \n\nThe solemn judge and the smiling \ndandy, \n\nThe duke and the don and the \ncommandante, \n\nAll, save one, shouted or sang divine, \nSailing in one great sea of wine; \n\nTill roused, red-crested knight \nChanticleer \n\nAnswer\xe2\x80\x99d and echo\xe2\x80\x99d their song and \ncheer. \n\n\n\n\n&!)e \xc2\xaeale of tfjc \xc2\xaeall jUlcalbe \n\n\n89 \n\n\nSeme boasted of broil, encounter \nin battle, \n\nSome boasted of maidens most clever\xc2\xac \nly won, \n\nBoasted of duels most valiantly \ndone, \n\nOf leagues of land and of herds of \ncattle, \n\nThese men at the feast up in fair \nRenalda. \n\nAll boasted but one, the calm Al\xc2\xac \ncalde : \n\nThough hard they press\xe2\x80\x99d from first \nof the feast, \n\nPress\xe2\x80\x99d commandante, press\xe2\x80\x99d poet \nand priest, \n\nAnd steadily still an attorney press\xe2\x80\x99d, \nWith lifted glass and his face aglow, \nHeedless of host and careless of \nguest\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cA tale! the tale of your life, so \nho! \n\nFor not one man in all Mexico \nCan trace your history two decade. \xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 \nA hand on the rude one\xe2\x80\x99s lip was \nlaid: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSacred, my son,\xe2\x80\x9d the priest went \non, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSacred the secrets of every one, \nInviolate as an altar-stone. \n\nYet what in the life of one who must \nHave lived a life that is half divine\xe2\x80\x94 \nHave been so pure to be so just, \nWhat can there be, O advocate, \n\nIn the life of one so desolate \nOf luck with matron, or love with \nmaid, \n\nMidnight revel or escapade, \n\nTo stir the wonder of men at wine? \nBut should the Alcalde choose, you \nknow,\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n(And here his voice fell soft and low, \nAs he set his wine-horn in its place. \nAnd look\xe2\x80\x99d in the judge\xe2\x80\x99s care-worn \nface)\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTo weave us a tale that points a \nmoral \n\nOut of his vivid imagination, \n\nOf lass or of love, or lover\xe2\x80\x99s quarrel, \nNaught of his fame or name or \nstation \n\nShall lose in luster by its relation.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nSoftly the judge set down his \nhorn, \n\nKindly look\xe2\x80\x99d on the priest all \nshorn, \n\nAnd gazed in the eyes of the advocate \nWith a touch of pity, but none of \nhate; \n\nThen look\xe2\x80\x99d he down in the brimming \nhorn, \n\nHalf defiant and half forlorn. \n\nWas it a tear? Was it a sigh? \n\nWas it a glance of the priest\xe2\x80\x99s black \neye? \n\nOr was it the drunken revel-cry \nThat smote the rock of his frozen \nheart \n\nAnd forced his pallid lips apart? \n\nOr was it the weakness like to \nwoman \n\nYearning for sympathy \nThrough the dark years, \n\nSpurning the secrecy, \n\nBurning for tears, \n\nProving him human,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs he said to the men of the silver \nmine, \n\nWith their eyes held up as to one \ndivine, \n\n\n\n\n90 \n\n\n^i)e Calc of tfic trail aicalbc \n\n\nWith his eyes held down to his un\xc2\xac \ntouch\xe2\x80\x99d wine: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIt might have been where moon\xc2\xac \nbeams kneel \n\nAt night beside some rugged steep; \n\nIt might have been where breakers \nreel, \n\nOr mild waves cradle men to sleep; \n\nIt might have been in peaceful life, \nOr mad tumult and storm and \nstrife, \n\nI drew my breath; it matters not. \n\nA silvered head, a sweetest cot, \n\nA sea of tamarack and pine, \n\nA peaceful stream, a balmy clime, \n\nA cloudless sky, a sister\xe2\x80\x99s smile, \n\nA mother\xe2\x80\x99s love that sturdy Time \nHas strengthen\xe2\x80\x99d as he strengthens \nwine, \n\nAre mine, are with me all the while, \nAre hung in memory\xe2\x80\x99s sounding \nhalls, \n\nAre graven on her glowing walls. \n\nBut rage, nor rack, nor wrath of \nman, \n\nNor prayer of priest, nor price, nor \nban \n\nCan wring from me their place or \nname, \n\nOr why, or when, or whence I came; \nOr why I left that childhood home, \n\nA child of form yet old of soul, \n\nAnd sought the wilds where tempests \nroll \n\nO\xe2\x80\x99er snow peaks white as driven \nfoam. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMistaken and misunderstood, \n\nI sought a deeper wild and wood. \n\nA girlish form, a childish face, \n\n\nA w r ild waif drifting from place to \nplace. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOh for the skies of rolling blue, \nThe balmy hours when lovers woo, \nWhen the moon is doubled as in \ndesire, \n\nAnd the lone bird cries in his crest of \nfire, \n\nLike vespers calling the soul to bliss \nIn the blessed love of the life above, \nEre it has taken the stains of this! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c The world afar, yet at my feet, \nWent steadily and sternly on; \n\nI almost fancied I could meet \nThe crush and bustle of the street, \nWhen from my mountain I look\xe2\x80\x99d \ndown. \n\nAnd deep down in the canon\xe2\x80\x99s \nmouth \n\nThe long-tom ran and pick-ax rang, \nAnd pack-trains coming from the \nsouth \n\nWent stringing round the mountain \nhigh \n\nIn long gray lines, as wild geese fly, \nWhile mul\xe2\x80\x99teers shouted hoarse and \nhigh, \n\nAnd dusty, dusky, mul\xe2\x80\x99teers sang\xe2\x80\x94 \n\xe2\x80\x98Senora with the liquid eye! \n\nNo floods can ever quench the flame, \nOr frozen snows my passion tame, \n\nO Juanna with the coalblack eye! \n\nO senorita, b\xe2\x80\x99.de a bye!\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cEnvironed by a mountain wall, \nThat caped in snowy turrets stood; \n\nSo fierce, so terrible, so tall, \n\nIt never yet had been defiled \nBy track or trail, save by the wild \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xae!je \xc2\xaeale of tfje \xc2\xaeall gllcaltie \n\n\n9 i \n\n\nFree children of the wildest wood; \n\nAn unkiss\xe2\x80\x99d virgin at my feet, \n\nLay my pure, hallow\xe2\x80\x99d, dreamy vale, \nWhere breathed the essence of my \ntale; \n\nLone dimple in the mountain\xe2\x80\x99s face, \nLone Eden in a boundless waste\xe2\x80\x94 \nft lay so beautiful! so sweet! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThere in the sun\xe2\x80\x99s decline I \nstood \n\nBy God\xe2\x80\x99s form wrought in pink and \npearl, \n\nMy peerless, dark-eyed Indian girl; \nAnd gazed out from a fringe of \nwood, \n\nWith full-fed soul and feasting \neyes, \n\nUpon an earthly paradise. \n\nInclining to the south it lay, \n\nAnd long league\xe2\x80\x99s southward roll\xe2\x80\x99d \naway, \n\nUntil the sable-feather\xe2\x80\x99d pines \nAnd tangled boughs and amorous \nvines \n\nClosed like besiegers on the scene, \nThe while the stream that inter\xc2\xac \ntwined \n\nHad barely room to flow between. \n\nIt was unlike all other streams, \n\nSave those seen in sweet summer \ndreams ; \n\nFor sleeping in its bed of snow, \n\nNor rock or stone was ever known, \nBut only shining, shifting sands, \nForever sifted by unseen hands. \n\nIt curved, it bent like Indian bow, \nAnd like an arrow darted through, \nYet uttered not a sound nor breath, \nNor broke a ripple from the start; \n\nIt was as swift, as still as death, \n\n\nYet was so clear, so pure, so sweet, \n\nIt wound its way into your heart \nAs through the grasses at your feet. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOnce through the tall untangled \ngrass, \n\nI saw two black bears careless pass, \nAnd in the twilight turn to play; \n\nI caught my rifle to my face, \n\nShe raised her hand with quiet \ngrace \n\nAnd said: \xe2\x80\x98Not so, for us the day, \nThe night belongs to such as they. \xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd then from out the shadow\xe2\x80\x99d \nwood \n\nThe antler\xe2\x80\x99d deer came stalking \ndown \n\nIn half a shot of where I stood; \n\nThen stopp\xe2\x80\x99d and stamp\xe2\x80\x99d im\xc2\xac \npatiently, \n\nThen shook his head and antlers \nhigh, \n\nAnd then his keen horns backward \nthrew \n\nUpon his shoulders broad and \nbrown, \n\nAnd thrust his muzzle in the air, \nSnuff\xe2\x80\x99d proudly; then a blast he \nblew \n\nAs if to say: \xe2\x80\x98No danger there,\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nAnd then from out the sable wood \nHis mate and two sweet dappled \nfawns \n\nStole forth, and by the monarch \nstood, \n\nSuch bronzes, as on kingly lawns; \n\nOr seen in picture, read in tale. \n\nThen he, as if to reassure \n\nThe timid, trembling and demure, \n\nAgain his antlers backward threw, \n\n\n\n\n\n92 \n\n\nWje \xc2\xaeale of tfje trail alcalde \n\n\nAgain a blast defiant blew, \n\nThen led them proudly down the \nvale. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI watch\xe2\x80\x99d the forms of darkness \ncome \n\nSlow stealing from their sylvan \nhome, \n\nAnd pierce the sunlight drooping \nlow \n\nAnd weary, as if loth to go. \n\nNight stain\xe2\x80\x99d the lances as he bled, \nAnd, bleeding and pursued, he fled \nAcross the vale into the wood. \n\nI saw the tall grass bend its head \nBeneath the stately martial tread \nOf Shades, pursuer and pursued. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c\xe2\x80\x98 Behold the clouds,\xe2\x80\x99 Winnema \nsaid, \n\n\xe2\x80\x98All purple with the blood of day; \nThe night has conquer\xe2\x80\x99d in the fray, \nThe shadows live, and light is dead.\' \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShe turn\xe2\x80\x99d to Shasta gracefully, \nAround whose hoar and mighty head \nStill roll\xe2\x80\x99d a sunset sea of red, \n\nWhile troops of clouds a space \nbelow \n\nWere drifting wearily and slow, \n\nAs seeking shelter for the night \nLike weary sea-birds in their flight; \nThen curved her right arm gracefully \nAbove her brow, and bow\xe2\x80\x99d her \nknee, \n\nAnd chanted in an unknown tongue \nWords sweeter than were ever sung. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x98And what means this?\xe2\x80\x99 I gently \nsaid. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98I prayed to God, the Yopitone, \n\n\nWho dwells on yonder snowy throne,\' \nShe softly said with drooping head; \n\n\xe2\x80\x98I bow\xe2\x80\x99d to God. He heard my \nprayer, \n\nI felt his warm breath in my hair, \n\nHe heard me all my wishes tell, \n\nFor God is good, and all is well.\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe dappled and the dimpled \nskies, \n\nThe timid stars, the spotted moon, \nAll smiled as sweet as sun at noon. \nHer eyes were like the rabbit\xe2\x80\x99s eyes, \nHer mien, her manner, just as mild, \nAnd though a savage war-chief\xe2\x80\x99s \nchild, \n\nvShe would not harm the lowliest \nworm. \n\nAnd, though her beaded foot was \nfirm, \n\nAnd though her airy step was true, \nShe would not crush a drop of dew. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHer love was deeper than the \nsea, \n\nAnd stronger than the tidal rise, \n\nAnd clung in all its strength to me. \n\nA face like hers is never seen \nThis side the gates of paradise, \nvSave in some Indian Summer scene, \nAnd then none ever sees it twice\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIs seen but once, and seen no more, \nSeen but to tempt the skeptic soul, \nAnd show a sample of the whole \nThat Heaven has in store. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou might have plucked beams \nfrom the moon, \n\nOr torn the shadow from the pine \nWhen on its dial track at noon, \n\nBut not have parted us one hour, \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaelje \xc2\xa9ale of tfje \xc2\xa9all <aicall>c \n\n\n93 \n\n\nShe was so wholly, truly mine. \n\nAnd life was one unbroken dream \nOf purest bliss and calm delight, \n\nA flow\xe2\x80\x99ry-shored, untroubled stream \nOf sun and song, of shade and bower \nA full-moon\xe2\x80\x99d serenading night. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSweet melodies were in the air, \nAnd tame birds caroll\xe2\x80\x99d everywhere. \n\nI listened to the lisping grove \nAnd cooing pink-eyed turtle dove, \n\nI loved her with the holiest love; \nBelieving with a brave belief \nThat everything beneath the skies \nWas beautiful and born to love, \n\nThat man had but to love, believe, \nAnd earth would be a paradise \nAs beautiful as that above. \n\nMy goddess, Beauty, I adored, \nDevoutly, fervid, her alone; \n\nMy Priestess, Love, unceasing \npour\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nPure incense on her altar-stone. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI carved my name in coarse \ndesign \n\nOnce on a birch down by the way, \n\nAt which she gazed, as she would \nsay, \n\n\'What does this say? What is this \nsign?\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nAnd when I gaily said, \xe2\x80\x98Some day \nSome one will come and read my \nname, \n\nAnd I will live in song and fame, \nEntwined with many a mountain \ntale, \n\nAs he who first found this sweet \nvale, \n\nAnd they will give the place my \nname,\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\nShe was most sad, and troubled \nmuch, \n\nAnd looked in silence far away; \n\nThen started trembling from my \ntouch, \n\nAnd when she turn\xe2\x80\x99d her face again, \n\nI read unutterable pain. \n\n\' \xe2\x80\x98 At last she answered through her \ntears, \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Ah! yes; this, too, foretells my \nfears: \n\nYes, they will come\xe2\x80\x94my race must \ngo \n\nAs fades a vernal fall of snow; \n\nAnd you be known, and I forgot \nLike these brown leaves that rust and \nrot \n\nBeneath my feet; and it is well: \n\nI do not seek to thrust my name \nOn those who here, hereafter, dwell, \nBecause I have before them dwelt; \nThey too will have their tales to tell, \nThey too will have their time and \nfame. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x98Yes, they will come, come even \nnow; \n\nThe dim ghosts on yon mountain\xe2\x80\x99s \nbrow, \n\nGray Fathers of my tribe and race, \nDo beckon to us from their place, \nAnd hurl red arrows through the air \nAt night, to bid our braves beware. \n\nA footprint by the clear McCloud, \nUnlike aught ever seen before, \n\nIs seen. The crash of rifles loud, \n\nIs heard along its farther shore.\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat tall and tawny men were \nthese. \n\n\n\n94 \n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e \xc2\xaeale of tfjc \xc2\xaeall Slcalbc \n\n\nAs somber, silent, as the trees \nThey moved among! and sad some \nway \n\nWith temper\xe2\x80\x99d sadness, ever they,\xe2\x80\x94 \nYet not with sorrow born of fear. \nThe shadow of their destinies \nThey saw approaching year by year, \nAnd murmur\xe2\x80\x99d not. They saw the \nsun \n\nGo down; they saw the peaceful \nmoon \n\nMove on in silence to her rest, \n\nSaw white streams winding to the \nwest; \n\nAnd thus they knew that oversoon, \nSomehow, somewhere, for every one \nWas rest beyond the setting sun. \nThey knew not, never dream\xe2\x80\x99d of \ndoubt, \n\nBut turn\xe2\x80\x99d to death as to a sleep, \n\nAnd died with eager hands held out \nTo reaching hands beyond the \ndeep,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd died with choicest bow at hand, \nAnd quiver full, and arrow drawn \nFor use, when sweet tomorrow\xe2\x80\x99s \ndawn \n\nShould waken in the Spirit Land. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat wonder that I linger\xe2\x80\x99d \nthere \n\nWith Nature\xe2\x80\x99s children! Could I \npart \n\nWith those that met me heart to \nheart, \n\nAnd made me welcome, spoke me \nfair, \n\nWere first of all that understood \nMy waywardness from others\xe2\x80\x99 ways, \nMy worship of the true and good, \nAnd earnest love of Nature\xe2\x80\x99s God? \n\n\nGo court the mountains in the \nclouds, \n\nAnd clashing thunder, and the \nshrouds \n\nOf tempests, and eternal shocks, \n\nAnd fast and pray as one of old \nIn earnestness, and ye shall hold \nThe mysteries; shall hold the rod \nThat passes seas, that smites the \nrocks \n\nWhere streams of melody and song \nShall run as white streams rush and \nflow \n\nDown from the mountains\xe2\x80\x99 crests of \nsnow, \n\nForever, to a thirsting throng. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBetween the white man and the \nred \n\nThere lies no neutral, halfway \nground. \n\nI heard afar the thunder sound \nThat soon should burst above my \nhead, \n\nAnd made my choice; I laid my \nplan, \n\nAnd childlike chose the weaker side; \nAnd ever have, and ever will, \n\nWhile -might is wrong and wrongs \nremain, \n\nAs careless of the world as I \nAm careless of a cloudless sky. \n\nWith wayward and romantic joy \nI gave my pledge like any boy, \n\nBut kept my promise like a man, \n\nAnd lost; yet with the lesson still \nWould gladly do the same again. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x98They come! they come! the pale- \n\nface come!\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e \xc2\xaeale of ttje fCall iUltalbe \n\n\n95 \n\n\nThe chieftain shouted where he \nstood, \n\nSharp watching at the margin wood, \nAnd gave the war-whoop\xe2\x80\x99s treble \n\nyell, \n\nThat like a knell on fond hearts \nfell \n\nFar watching from my rocky home. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNo nodding plumes or banners \nfair \n\nUnfurl\xe2\x80\x99d or fretted through the air; \nNo screaming fife or rolling drum \nDid challenge brave of soul to come; \nBut, silent, sinew-bows were strung, \nAnd, sudden, heavy quivers hung \nAnd, swiftly, to the battle sprung \nTall painted braves with tufted hair, \nLike death-black banners in the air. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd long they fought, and firm \nand well \n\nAnd silent fought, and silent fell, \nSave when they gave the fearful \nyell \n\nOf death, defiance, or of hate. \n\nBut what were feathered flints to \nfate? \n\nAnd what were yells to seething \nlead? \n\nAnd what the few and untrained \nfeet \n\nTo troops that came with martial \ntread, \n\nAnd moved by wood and hill and \nstream \n\nAs thick as people in a street, \n\nAs strange as spirits in a dream? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cFrom pine and poplar, here and \nthere, \n\n\nA cloud, a flash, a crash, a thud, \n\nA warrior\xe2\x80\x99s garments roll\xe2\x80\x99d in blood, \nA yell that rent the mountain air \nOf fierce defiance and despair, \n\nTold all who fell, and when and \nwhere. \n\nThen tighter drew the coils around, \nAnd closer grew the battle-ground, \nAnd fewer feather\xe2\x80\x99d arrows fell, \n\nAnd fainter grew the battle yell, \nUntil upon that hill was heard \nThe short, sharp whistle of the bird: \nUntil that blood-soaked battle hill \nWas still as death, so more than still. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe calm, that cometh after all, \nLook\xe2\x80\x99d sweetly down at shut of \nday, \n\nWhere friend and foe commingled lay \nLike leaves of forest as they fall. \n\nAfar the somber mountains frown\xe2\x80\x99d, \nHere tall pines wheel\xe2\x80\x99d their shadows \nround, \n\nLike long, slim fingers of a hand \nThat sadly pointed out the dead. \nLike some broad shield high over\xc2\xac \nhead \n\nThe great white moon led on and on, \nAs leading to the better land. \n\nAll night I heard black cricket\xe2\x80\x99s \ntrill, \n\nA night-bird calling from the hill\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe place was so profoundly still. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe mighty chief at last was \ndown, \n\nA broken gate of brass and pride! \n\nHis hair all dust, and this his crown! \nHis firm lips were compress\xe2\x80\x99d in \nhate \n\nTo foes, yet all content with fate; \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje \xc2\xaealc of tfjc Call Sltalfce \n\n\n96 \n\nWhile, circled round him thick, the \nfoe \n\nHad folded hands in dust, and \ndied. \n\nHis tomahawk lay at his side, \n\nAll blood, beside his broken bow. \n\nOne arm stretch\xe2\x80\x99d out, still over\xc2\xac \nbold, \n\nOne hand half doubled hid in dust, \nAnd clutch\xe2\x80\x99d the earth, as if to hold \nHis hunting grounds still in his \ntrust. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHere tall grass bow\xe2\x80\x99d its tassel\xe2\x80\x99d \nhead \n\nIn dewy tears above the dead, \n\nAnd there they lay in crook\xe2\x80\x99d fern, \nThat waved and wept above by \nturn: \n\nAnd further on, by somber trees, \nThey lay, wild heroes of wild deeds, \nIn shrouds alone of weeping weeds, \nBound in a never-to-be-broken peace. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNo trust that day had been \nbetrayed; \n\nNot one had falter\xe2\x80\x99d, not one brave \nSurvived the fearful struggle, save \nOne\xe2\x80\x94save I the renegade, \n\nThe red man\xe2\x80\x99s friend, and\xe2\x80\x94they \nheld me so \n\nFor this alone\xe2\x80\x94the white man\xe2\x80\x99s foe. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThey bore me bound for many a \nday \n\nThrough fen and wild, by foamy \nflood, \n\nFrom my dear mountains far away, \nWhere an adobe prison stood \nBeside a sultry, sullen town, \n\nWith iron eyes and stony frown; \n\n\nAnd in a dark and narrow cell, \n\nSo hot it almost took my breath, \nAnd seem\xe2\x80\x99d but some outpost of \nhell, \n\nThey thrust me\xe2\x80\x94as if I had been \nA monster, in a monster\xe2\x80\x99s den. \n\nI cried aloud, I courted death, \n\nI call\xe2\x80\x99d unto a strip of sky, \n\nThe only thing beyond my cell \nThat I could see, but no reply \nCame but the echo of my breath. \n\nI paced\xe2\x80\x94how long I cannot tell\xe2\x80\x94 \nMy reason fail\xe2\x80\x99d, I knew no more, \nAnd swooning, fell upon the floor. \nThen months went on, till deep one \nnight, \n\nWhen long thin bars of cool moon\xc2\xac \nlight \n\nLay shimmering along the floor, \n\nMy senses came to me once more. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMy eyes look\xe2\x80\x99d full into her \neyes\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nInto her soul so true and tried, \n\nI thought myself in paradise, \n\nAnd wonder\xe2\x80\x99d when she too had \ndied. \n\nAnd then I saw the striped light \nThat struggled past the prison bar, \nAnd in an instant, at the sight, \n\nMy sinking soul fell just as far \nAs could a star loosed by a jar \nFrom out the setting in a ring, \n\nThe purpled semi-circled ring \nThat seems to circle us at night. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShe saw my senses had return\xe2\x80\x99d, \nThen swift to press my pallid face\xe2\x80\x94 \nThen, as if spurn\xe2\x80\x99d, she sudden \nturn\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nHer sweet face to the prison wall; \n\n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje \xc2\xaeale of tfjc \xc2\xaeall gllcaltie \n\n\n97 \n\n\nHer bosom rose, her hot tears fell \nFast as drip moss-stones in a well, \nAnd then, as if subduing all \nIn one strong struggle of the soul \nBe what they were of vows or fears, \nWith kisses and hot tender tears, \nThere in the deadly, loathsome place, \nShe bathed my pale and piteous \nface. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI was so weak I could not speak \nOr press my pale lips to her cheek; \n\nI only looked my wish to share \nThe secret of her presence there. \nThen looking through her falling \nhair, \n\nShe press\xe2\x80\x99d her finger to her lips, \nMore sweet than sweets the brown \nbee sips. \n\nMore sad than any grief untold, \nMore silent than the milk-white \nmoon, \n\nShe turned away. I heard unfold \nAn iron door, and she was gone. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAt last, one midnight, I was free; \nAgain I felt the liquid air \nAround my hot brow like a sea, \nSweet as my dear Madonna\xe2\x80\x99s prayer, \nOr benedictions on the soul; \n\nPure air, which God gives free to \nall, \n\nAgain I breathed without control\xe2\x80\x94 \nPure air that man would fain en\xc2\xac \nthrall ; \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s air, which man hath seized and \nsold \n\nUnto his fellow-man for gold. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI bow\xe2\x80\x99d down to the bended sky, \nI toss\xe2\x80\x99d my two thin hands on high, \n\n\nI call\xe2\x80\x99d unto the crooked moon, \n\nI shouted to the shining stars, \n\nWith breath and rapture uncon- \ntroll\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nLike some wild school-boy loosed at \nnoon, \n\nOr comrade coming from the wars, \nHailing his companiers of old. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShort time for shouting or \ndelay,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe cock is shrill, the east is gray, \nPursuit is made, we must away. \n\nThey cast me on a sinewy steed, \n\nAnd bid me look to girth and \nguide\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA caution of but little need. \n\nI dash the iron in his side, \n\nSwift as the shooting stars I ride; \n\nI turn, I see, to my dismay, \n\nA silent rider red as they; \n\nI glance again\xe2\x80\x94it is my bride, \n\nMy love, my life, rides at my side. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c By gulch and gorge and brake and \nall, \n\nSwift as the shining meteors fall, \n\nWe fly, and never sound nor word \nBut ringing mustang hoof is heard, \nAnd limbs of steel and lungs of \nsteam \n\nCould not be stronger than theirs \nseem. \n\nGrandly as in some joyous dream, \nLeague on league, and hour on hour, \nFar, far from keen pursuit, or power \nOf sheriff or bailiff, high or low, \n\nInto the bristling hills we go. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Into the tumbled, clear McCloud, \nWhite as the foldings of a shroud; \n\n\n7 \n\n\n\n9 8 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje \xc2\xaeale of tfjc Call Slcal&e \n\n\nWe dash into the dashing stream, \n\nWe breast the tide, we drop the rein, \nWe clutch the streaming, tangled \nmane\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd yet the rider at my side \nHas never look nor word replied. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOut in its foam, its rush, its roar, \nBreasting away to the farther shore; \nSteadily, bravely, gain\xe2\x80\x99d at last, \nGain\xe2\x80\x99d where never a dastard foe \nHas dared to come, or friend to go. \nPursuit is baffled and danger pass\xe2\x80\x99d. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cUnder an oak whose wide arms \nwere \n\nLifting aloft, as if in prayer, \n\nUnder an oak where the shining \nmoon \n\nLike feather\xe2\x80\x99d snow in a winter \nnoon \n\nQuiver\xe2\x80\x99d, sifted, and drifted down \nIn spars and bars on her shoulders \nbrown: \n\nAnd yet she was as silent still \nAs block stones toppled from the \nHill\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGreat basalt blocks that near us lay, \nDeep nestled in the grass untrod \nBy aught save wild beasts of the \nwood\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGreat, massive, squared, and chisel\xe2\x80\x99d \nstone, \n\nLike columns that had toppled down \nFrom temple dome or tower crown, \nAlong some drifted, silent way \nOf desolate and desert town \nBuilt by the children of the sun. \n\nAnd I in silence sat on one, \n\nAnd she stood gazing far away \n\n\nTo where her childhood forests lay, \nStill as the stone I sat upon. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI sought to catch her to my \nbreast \n\nAnd charm her from her silent \nmood; \n\nShe shrank as if a beam, a breath, \nThen silently before me stood, \n\nStill, coldly, as the kiss of death, \n\nHer face was darker than a pall, \n\nHer presence was so proudly tall, \n\nI would have started from the stone \nWhere I sat gazing up at her, \n\nAs from a form to earth unknown, \nHad I possess\xe2\x80\x99d the power to stir. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c\xe2\x80\x98O touch me not, no more, no \nmore; \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis past, and my sweet dream is \no\xe2\x80\x99er. \n\nImpure! Impure! Impure!\xe2\x80\x99 she \ncried, \n\nIn words as sweetly, weirdly wild \nAs mingling of a rippled tide, \n\nAnd music on the waters spill\xe2\x80\x99d. . . . \n\xe2\x80\x98But you are free. Fly! Fly alone. \nYes, you will win another bride \nIn some far clime where nought is \nknown \n\nOf all that you have won or lost, \n\nOr what your liberty has cost; \n\nWill win you name, and place, and \npower, \n\nAnd ne\xe2\x80\x99er recall this face, this hour, \nSave in some secret, deep regret, \nWhich I forgive and you\xe2\x80\x99ll forget. \nYour destiny will lead you on \nWhere, open\xe2\x80\x99d wide to welcome you, \nRich, ardent hearts and bosoms are, \nAnd snowy arms, more purely fair. \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje \xc2\xaeale of tfje \xc2\xa9all iUltalbc \n\n\n99 \n\n\nAnd breasts\xe2\x80\x94who dare say breasts \nmore true? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x98They said you had deserted me, \nHad rued you of your wood and \n\nwild. \n\nI knew, I knew it could not be, \n\nI trusted as a trusting child. \n\nI cross\xe2\x80\x99d yon mountains bleak and \nhigh \n\nThat curve their rough backs to the \nsky, \n\nI rode the white-maned mountain \nflood, \n\nAnd track\xe2\x80\x99d for weeks the trackless \nwood. \n\nThe good God led me, as before, \n\nAnd brought me to your prison-door. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x98 That madden\xe2\x80\x99d call! that fever\xe2\x80\x99d \nmoan! \n\nI heard you in the midnight call \nMy own name through the massive \nwall, \n\nIn my sweet mountain-tongue and \ntone\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd yet you call\xe2\x80\x99d so feebly wild, \n\nI near mistook you for a child. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c\xe2\x80\x98The keeper with his clinking \nkeys \n\nI sought, implored upon my knees \nThat I might see you, feel your \nbreath, \n\nYour brow, or breathe you low \nreplies \n\nOf comfort in your lonely death. \n\nHis red face shone, his redder eyes \nWere like a fiend\xe2\x80\x99s that feeds on lies. \nAgain I heard your feeble moan, \n\nI cried\xe2\x80\x94unto a heart of stone. \n\n\nAh! why the hateful horrors tell? \nEnough! I crept into your cell. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x98I nursed you, lured you back to \nlife, \n\nAnd when you knew, and called me \nwife \n\nAnd love, with pale lips rife \nWith love and feeble loveliness, \n\nI turn\xe2\x80\x99d away, I hid my face, \n\nIn mad reproach and such distress, \n\nIn dust down in that loathsome \nplace. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x98And then I vow\xe2\x80\x99d a solemn vow \nThat you should live, live and be \nfree. \n\nAnd you have lived\xe2\x80\x94are free; and \nnow \n\nToo slow yon red sun comes to see \nMy life or death, or me again. \n\nOh, death! the peril and the pain \nI have endured! the dark, dark \nstain \n\nThat I did take on my fair soul, \n\nAll, all to save you, make you free, \nAre more than mortal can endure; \nBut flame can make the foulest \npure. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c\xe2\x80\x98Behold this finished funeral \npyre, \n\nAll ready for the form and fire, \nWhich these, my own hands, did \nprepare \n\nFor this last night; then lay me \nthere. \n\nI would not hide me from my God \nBeneath the cold and sullen sod, \n\nBut, wrapped in fiery shining shroud, \nAscend to Him, a wreathing cloud.\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\n\n\n\n100 \n\n\nW\\)t Walt of tfte Wall glcalbe \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShe paused, she turn\xe2\x80\x99d, she lean\'d \napace \n\nHer glance and half-regretting face, \nAs if to yield herself to me; \n\nAnd then she cried, \xe2\x80\x98It cannot be, \nFor I have vow\xe2\x80\x99d a solemn vow, \nAnd, God help me to keep it now!\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI stood with arms extended \nwide \n\nTo catch her to my burning breast; \nShe caught a dagger from her side \nAnd, ere I knew to stir or start, \n\nShe plunged it in her bursting heart, \nAnd fell into my arms and died\xe2\x80\x94 \nDied as my soul to hers was press\xe2\x80\x99d. \nDied as I held her to my breast, \n\nDied without one word or moan, \n\nAnd left me with my dead\xe2\x80\x94alone. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI laid her warm upon the pile, \nAnd underneath the lisping oak \nI watch\xe2\x80\x99d the columns of dark \nsmoke \n\nEmbrace her sweet lips, with a \nsmile \n\nOf frenzied fierceness, while there \ncame \n\nA gleaming column of red flame, \nThat grew a grander monument \nAbove her nameless noble mould \nThan ever bronze or marble lent \nTo king or conqueror of old. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIt seized her in its hot embrace. \nAnd leapt as if to reach the stars. \nThen looking up I saw a face \nSo saintly and so sweetly fair, \n\nSo sad, so pitying, and so pure, \n\nI nigh forgot the prison bars, \n\n\nAnd for one instant, one alone, \n\nI felt I could forgive, endure. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI laid a circlet of white stone, \nAnd left her ashes there alone. \n\nYears after, years of storm and pain, \nI sought that sacred ground again. \n\nI saw the circle of white stone \nWith tall, wild grasses overgrown. \n\nI did expect, I know not why, \n\nFrom out her sacred dust to find \nWild pinks and daisies blooming \nfair; \n\nAnd when I did not find them there \nI almost deem\xe2\x80\x99d her God unkind, \nLess careful of her dust than I. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBut why the dreary tale pro\xc2\xac \nlong? \n\nAnd deem you I confess\xe2\x80\x99d me wrong, \nThat I did bend a patient knee \nTo all the deep wrongs done to me? \nThat I, because the prison mould \nWas on my brow, and all its chill \nWas in my heart as chill as night, \nTill soul and body both were cold, \nDid curb my free-born mountain will \nAnd sacrifice my sense of right? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNo! no! and had they come that \nday \n\nWhile I with hands and garments \nred \n\nStood by her pleading, patient clay, \nThe one lone watcher by my dead, \nWith cross-hilt dagger in my hand, \nAnd offer\xe2\x80\x99d me my life and all \nOf titles, power, or of place, \n\nI should have spat them in the face, \nAnd spurn\xe2\x80\x99d them every one. \n\nI live as God gave me to live, \n\n\n\n\xc2\xael)c \xc2\xaealc of tfjc Call aicalbe \n\n\nIOI \n\n\nI see as God gave me to see. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis not my nature to forgive, \n\nOr cringe and plead and bend my \nknee \n\nTo God or man in woe or weal, \n\nIn penitence I cannot feel. \n\n"I do not question school nor \ncreed \n\nOf Christian, Protestant, or Priest; \n\nI only know that creeds to me \nAre but new names for mystery, \n\nThat good is good from east to east, \nAnd more I do not know nor need \nTo know, to love my neighbor well. \n\nI take their dogmas, as they tell, \nTheir pictures of their Godly good, \n\nIn garments thick with heathen blood \nTheir heaven with his harp of gold, \nTheir horrid pictures of their hell\xe2\x80\x94 \nTake hell and heaven undenied, \n\nYet were the two placed side by \nside, \n\nPlaced full before me for my choice, \nAs they are pictured, best and worst, \nAs they are peopled, tame and bold, \nThe canonized, and the accursed \nWho dared to think, and thinking \nspeak, \n\nAnd speaking act, bold cheek to \ncheek, \n\nI would in transports choose the first, \nAnd enter hell with lifted voice. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGo read the annals of the North \nAnd records there of many a wail, \n\nOf marshaling and going forth \nFor missing sheriffs, and for men \nWho fell and none knew how or \nwhen,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nWho disappear\xe2\x80\x99d on mountain trail, \nOr in some dense and narrow vale. \nGo, traverse Trinity and Scott, \n\nThat curve their dark backs to the \nsun: \n\nGo, prowl them all. Lo! have they \nnot \n\nThe chronicles of my wild life? \n\nMy secret on their lips of stone, \n\nMy archives built of human bone? \nGo, range their wilds as I have done, \nFrom snowy crest to sleeping vales, \nAnd you will find on every one \nEnough to swell a thousand tales. \n\n* * * * * \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe soul cannot survive alone, \nAnd hate will die, like other things; \n\nI felt an ebbing in my rage; \n\nI hunger\xe2\x80\x99d for the sound of one, \n\nJust one familiar word,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYearn\xe2\x80\x99d but to hear my fellow \nspeak, \n\nOr sound of woman\xe2\x80\x99s mellow tone, \n\nAs beats the wild, imprisoned bird, \nThat long nor kind nor mate has \nheard, \n\nWith bleeding wings and panting \nbeak \n\nAgainst its iron cage. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI saw a low-roof\xe2\x80\x99d rancho lie, \n\nFar, far below, at set of sun, \n\nAlong the foot-hills crisp and dun\xe2\x80\x94 \nA lone sweet star in lower sky; \n\nSaw children passing to and fro, \n\nThe busy housewife come and go, \nAnd white cows come at her com\xc2\xac \nmand, \n\nAnd none look\xe2\x80\x99d larger than my \nhand. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n102 \n\n\n\xc2\xae{je Stale of tlje Stall Slcalfce \n\n\nThen worn and torn, and tann\xe2\x80\x99d and \nbrown, \n\nAnd heedless all, I hasten\xe2\x80\x99d down; \n\nA wanderer, wandering lorn and late, \n\nI stood before the rustic gate. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTwo little girls, with brown feet \nbare, \n\nAnd tangled, tossing, yellow hair, \nPlay\xe2\x80\x99d on the green, fantastic \ndress\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAround a great Newfoundland \nbrute \n\nThat lay half-resting on his breast, \nAnd with his red mouth open\xe2\x80\x99d \nwide \n\nWould make believe that he would \nbite, \n\nAs they assail\xe2\x80\x99d him left and right, \nAnd then sprang to the other side, \nAnd fill\xe2\x80\x99d with shouts the willing \nair. \n\nOh, sweeter far than lyre or lute \nTo my then hot and thirsty heart, \nAnd better self so wholly mute, \n\nWere those sweet voices calling there. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThough some sweet scenes my \neyes have seen, \n\nSome melody my soul has heard, \n\nNo song of any maid, or bird, \n\nOr splendid wealth of tropic scene, \n\nOr scene or song of anywhere, \n\nHas my impulsive soul so stirr\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAs those young angels sporting \nthere. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c The dog at sight of me arose, \n\nAnd nobly stood with lifted nose, \nAfront the children, now so still, \n\nAnd staring at me with a will. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x98Come in, come in,\xe2\x80\x99 the rancher \n\ncried, \n\nAs here and there the housewife \nhied; \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Sit down, sit down, you travel late. \nWhat news of politics or war? \n\nAnd are you tired? Go you far? \n\nAnd where you from? Be quick, my \nKate, \n\nThis boy is sure in need of food.\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nThe little children close by stood, \nAnd watch\xe2\x80\x99d and gazed inquiringly, \nThen came and climbed upon my \nknee. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x98That there\xe2\x80\x99s my Ma,\xe2\x80\x99 the eldest \nsaid, \n\nAnd laugh\xe2\x80\x99d and toss\xe2\x80\x99d her pretty \nhead; \n\nAnd then, half bating of her joy, \n\xe2\x80\x98Have you a Ma, you stranger boy? \nAnd there hangs Carlo on the wall \nAs large as life; that mother drew \nWith berry stains upon a shred \nOf tattered tent; but hardly you \nWould know the picture his at all, \nFor Carlo\xe2\x80\x99s black, and this is red.\xe2\x80\x99 \nAgain she laugh\xe2\x80\x99d and shook her \nhead, \n\nAnd shower\xe2\x80\x99d curls all out of place; \nThen sudden sad, she raised her face \nTo mine, and tenderly she said, \n\xe2\x80\x98Have you, like us, a pretty home? \nHave you, like me, a dog and toy? \nWhere do you live, and whither \nroam? \n\nAnd where\xe2\x80\x99s your Pa, poor stranger \nboy?\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIt seem\xe2\x80\x99d so sweetly out of \nplace \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaebe Calc of tfje Call Slcalbe \n\n\n103 \n\n\nAgain to meet my fellow-man, \n\nI gazed and gazed upon his face \nAs something I had never seen. \n\nThe melody of woman\xe2\x80\x99s voice \nFell on my ear as falls the rain \nUpon the weary, waiting plain. \n\nI heard, and drank and drank again, \nAs earth with crack\xe2\x80\x99d lips drinks the \nrain, \n\nIn green to revel and rejoice. \n\nI ate with thanks my frugal food, \nThe first return\xe2\x80\x99d for many a day. \n\nI had met kindness by the way! \n\nI had at last encounter\xe2\x80\x99d good! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI sought my couch, but not to \nsleep; \n\nNew thoughts were coursing strong \nand deep \n\nMy wild, impulsive passion-heart; \n\nI could not rest, my heart was \nmoved, \n\nMy iron will forgot its part, \n\nAnd I wept like a child reproved. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I lay and pictured me a life \nAfar from peril, hate, or pain; \nEnough of battle, blood, and strife, \n\nI would take up life\xe2\x80\x99s load again; \nAnd ere the breaking of the morn \nI swung my rifle from the horn, \n\nAnd turned to other scenes and lands \nWith lighten\xe2\x80\x99d heart and whiten\xe2\x80\x99d \nhands. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Where orange blossoms never die, \nWhere red fruits ripen all the year \nBeneath a sweet and balmy sky, \n\nFar from my language or my land, \nReproach, regret, or shame or fear, \n\nI came in hope, I wander\xe2\x80\x99d here\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nYes, here; and this red, bony hand \nThat holds this glass of ruddy \ncheer\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c\xe2\x80\x99Tis he!\xe2\x80\x9d hiss\xe2\x80\x99d the crafty \nadvocate. \n\nHe sprang to his feet, and hot with \nhate \n\nHe reach\xe2\x80\x99d his hands, and he call\xe2\x80\x99d \naloud, \n\nu \xe2\x80\x99Tis the renegade of the red \nMcCloud! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nSlowly the Alcalde rose from his \nchair; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHand me, touch me, him who \ndare!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAnd his heavy glass on the board of \noak \n\nHe smote with such savage and \nmighty stroke \n\nIt ground to dust in his bony hand, \nAnd heavy bottles did clink and \ntip \n\nAs if an earthquake were in the \nland. \n\nHe tower\xe2\x80\x99d up, and in his ire \nSeem\xe2\x80\x99d taller than a church\xe2\x80\x99s spire. \nHe gazed a moment\xe2\x80\x94and then, the \nwhile \n\nAn icy cold and defiant smile \nDid curve his thin and livid lip, \n\nHe turn\xe2\x80\x99d on his heel, he strode \nthrough the hall \nGrand as a god, so grandly tall, \n\nYet white and cold as a chisel\xe2\x80\x99d \nstone; \n\nHe passed him out the adobe door \nInto the night, and he passed alone, \nAnd never was known or heard of \nmore. \n\n\n\n\n104 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefjc Srijoman \n\nTHE ARIZONIAN \n\n\nCome to my sunlandl Come with me \n\nTo the land I love; where the sun and \nsea \n\nA re wed for ever; where the palm and \npine \n\nAre fill\'d with singers; where tree \nand vine \n\nAre voiced with prophets! 0 come, \nand you \n\nShall sing a song with the seas that \nswirl \n\nAnd kiss their hands to that cold \nwhite girl, \n\nTo the maiden moon in her mantle of \nblue. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd I have said, and I say it \never, \n\nAs the years go on and the world goes \nover, \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twere better to be content and \nclever, \n\nIn the tending of cattle and tossing of \nclover, \n\nIn the grazing of cattle and growing \nof grain, \n\nThan a strong man striving for fame \nor gain; \n\nBe even as kine in the red-tipped \nclover: \n\nFor they lie down and their rests are \nrests, \n\nAnd the days are theirs, come sun, \ncome rain, \n\nTo rest, rise up, and repose again; \n\nWhile we wish, yearn, and do pray in \nvain, \n\nAnd hope to ride on the billows of \nbosoms, \n\n\nAnd hope to rest in the haven of \n\nbreasts, \n\nTill the heart is sicken\'d and the fair \nhope dead\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBe even as clover with its crown of \nblossoms, \n\nEven as blossoms ere the bloom is shed, \n\nKiss\xe2\x80\x99d by the kine and the brown \nsweet bee\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor these have the sun, and moon, \nand air, \n\nAnd never a bit of the burthen of care: \n\nYet with all of our caring what more \nhave we? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I would court content like a lover \nlonely, \n\nI would woo her, win her, and wear \nher only. \n\nI would never go over the white sea \nwall \n\nFor gold or glory or for aught at all.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHe said these things as he stood \nwith the Squire \n\nBy the river\xe2\x80\x99s rim in the field of \nclover, \n\nWhile the stream flow\xe2\x80\x99d on and the \nclouds flew over, \n\nWith the sun tangled in and the \nfringes afire. \n\nSo the Squire lean\xe2\x80\x99d with a kindly \nglory \n\nTo humor his guest, and to hear his \nstory; \n\nFor his guest had gold, and he yet \nwas clever, \n\nAnd mild of manner; and, what was \nmore, he, \n\n\n\n\xc2\xae1)e Siri^oniatt \n\n\nIn the morning\xe2\x80\x99s ramble had praised \nthe kine, \n\nThe clover\'s reach and the meadows \nfine, \n\nAnd so made the Squire his friend \nforever. \n\nHis brow was brown\xe2\x80\x99d by the sun \nand weather, \n\nAnd touch\xe2\x80\x99d by the terrible hand of \ntime; \n\nHis rich black beard had a fringe of \nrime, \n\nAs silk and silver inwove together. \n\nThere were hoops of gold all over his \nhands, \n\nAnd across his breast in chains and \nbands, \n\nBroad and massive as belts of leather. \n\nAnd the belts of gold were bright in \nthe sun, \n\nBut brighter than gold his black eyes \nshone \n\nFrom their sad face-setting so swarth \nand dun\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBrighter than beautiful Santan stone, \n\nBrighter even than balls of fire, \n\nAs he said, hot-faced, in the face of \nthe Squire:\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n" The pines bow\xe2\x80\x99d over, the stream \nbent under, \n\nThe cabin was cover\xe2\x80\x99d with thatches \nof palm \n\nDown in a canon so deep, the wonder \n\nWas what it could know in its clime \nbut calm: \n\nDown in a canon so cleft asunder \n\nBy sabre-stroke in the young world\xe2\x80\x99s \nprime, \n\n\n105 \n\nIt look\xe2\x80\x99d as if broken by bolts of \nthunder, \n\nAnd burst asunder and rent and \nriven \n\nBy earthquakes driven that turbulent \ntime \n\nThe red cross lifted red hands of \nheaven. \n\n"And this in that land where the \nsun goes down, \n\nAnd gold is gather\xe2\x80\x99d by tide and by \nstream, \n\nAnd the maidens are brown as the \ncocoa brown, \n\nAnd life is a love and a love is a \ndream; \n\nWhere the winds come in from the far \nCathay \n\nWith odor of spices and balm and \nbay, \n\nAnd summer abideth with man \nalway, \n\nNor comes in a tour with the stately \nJune, \n\nAnd comes too late and returns too \nsoon. \n\n"She stood in the shadows as the \nsun went down, \n\nFretting her hair with her fingers \nbrown, \n\nAs tall as the silk-tipp\xe2\x80\x99d tassel\xe2\x80\x99d \ncorn\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nStood watching, dark brow\xe2\x80\x99d, as I \nweighed the gold \n\nWe had wash\xe2\x80\x99d that day where the \nriver roll\xe2\x80\x99d; \n\nAnd her proud lip curl\xe2\x80\x99d with a sun- \nclime scorn, \n\n\n\n\nio6 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefic Snjoman \n\n\nAs she ask\xe2\x80\x99d, \xe2\x80\x98Is she better, or fairer \nthan I?\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nShe, that blonde in the land \nbeyond, \n\nWhere the sun is hid and the seas are \nhigh\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat you gather in gold as the years \ngo by, \n\nAnd hoard and hide it away for her \n\nAs the squirrel burrows the black \npine-burr?\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNow the gold weigh\xe2\x80\x99d well, but \nwas lighter of weight \n\nThan we two had taken for days of \nlate, \n\nSo I was fretted, and brow a-frown, \n\nI said, half-angered, with head held \ndown\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Well, yes she is fairer; and I loved her \nfirst: \n\nAnd shall love her last, come worst to \nthe worst.\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHer lips grew livid, and her eyes \nafire \n\nAs I said this thing; and higher and \nhigher \n\nThe hot words ran, when the booming \nthunder \n\nPeal\xe2\x80\x99d in the crags and the pine-tops \nunder, \n\nWhile up by the cliff in the murky \nskies \n\nIt look\xe2\x80\x99d as the clouds had caught the \nfire\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe flash and fire of her wonderful \neyes! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShe turn\xe2\x80\x99d from the door and \ndown to the river, \n\n\nAnd mirror\xe2\x80\x99d her face in the whimsi\xc2\xac \ncal tide, \n\nThen threw back her hair as one \nthrowing a quiver, \n\nAs an Indian throws it back far from \nhis side \n\nAnd free from his hands, swinging \nfast to the shoulder \n\nWhen rushing to battle; and, turning, \nshe sigh\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nAnd shook, and shiver\xe2\x80\x99d as aspens \nshiver. \n\nThen a great green snake slid into \nthe river, \n\nGlistening green, and with eyes of fire; \n\nQuick, double-handed she seized a \nboulder, \n\nAnd cast it with all the fury of \npassion, \n\nAs with lifted head it went curving \nacross, \n\nSwift darting its tongue like a fierce \ndesire, \n\nCurving and curving, lifting higher \nand higher, \n\nBent and beautiful as a river moss; \n\nThen, smitten, it turn\xe2\x80\x99d, bent, broken \nand doubled \n\nAnd lick\xe2\x80\x99d, red-tongued, like a forked \nfire, \n\nThen sank and the troubled waters \nbubbled \n\nAnd so swept on in the old swift \nfashion. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I lay in my hammock: the air was \nheavy \n\nAnd hot and threat\xe2\x80\x99ning; the very \nheaven \n\nWas holding its breath; and bees in a \nbevy \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e &ri?ontan \n\n\n107 \n\n\nHid under my thatch; and birds were \ndriven \n\nIn clouds to the rocks in a hurried \nwhirr \n\nAs I peer\xe2\x80\x99d down by the path for her. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShe stood like a bronze bent over \nthe river, \n\nThe proud eyes fix\xe2\x80\x99d, the passion \nunspoken. \n\nThen the heavens broke like a great \ndyke broken; \n\nAnd ere I fairly had time to give \nher \n\nA shout of warning, a rushing of \nwind \n\nAnd the rolling of clouds and a deaf\xc2\xac \nening din \n\nAnd a darkness that had been black \nto the blind \n\nCame down, as I shouted \xe2\x80\x98Come in! \nCome in! \n\nCome under the roof, come up from \nthe river, \n\nAs up from a grave\xe2\x80\x94come now, or \ncome never! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe tassel\xe2\x80\x99d tops of the pines were as \nweeds, \n\nThe red-woods rock\xe2\x80\x99d like to lake\xc2\xac \nside reeds, \n\nAnd the world seemed darken\xe2\x80\x99d and \ndrown\xe2\x80\x99d forever, \n\nWhile I crouched low; as a beast that \nbleeds. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c One time in the night as the black \nwind shifted, \n\nAnd a flash of lightning stretch\xe2\x80\x99d \nover the stream, \n\nI seemed to see her with her brown \nhands lifted\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nOnly seem\xe2\x80\x99d to see as one sees in a \ndream\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWith her eyes wide wild and her pale \nlips press\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAnd the blood from her brow, and the \nflood to her breast; \n\nWhen the flood caught her hair as \nflax in a wheel, \n\nAnd wheeling and whirling her round \nlike a reel; \n\nLaugh\xe2\x80\x99d loud her despair, then leapt \nlike a steed, \n\nHolding tight to her hair, folding \nfast to her heel, \n\nLaughing fierce, leaping far as if \nspurr\xe2\x80\x99d to its speed! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNow mind, I tell you all this did \nbut seem\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWas seen as you see fearful scenes in a \ndream; \n\nFor what the devil could the lightning \nshow \n\nIn a night like that, I should like to \nknow? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd then I slept, and sleeping I \ndream\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nOf great green serpents with tongues \nof fire, \n\nAnd of death by drowning, and of \nafter death\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf the day of judgment, wherein it \nseem\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nThat she, the heathen, was bidden \nhigher, \n\nHigher than I; that I clung to her \nside, \n\nAnd clinging struggled, and strug\xc2\xac \ngling cried, \n\n\n\n\nio8 \n\n\n\xc2\xaeJ)e iHrijonian \n\n\nAnd crying, wakened all weak of my \nbreath. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLong leaves of the sun lay over \nthe floor, \n\nAnd a chipmunk chirp\xe2\x80\x99d in the open \ndoor, \n\nWhile above on his crag the eagle \nscream\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nScream\xe2\x80\x99d as he never had scream\xe2\x80\x99d \nbefore. \n\nI rush\xe2\x80\x99d to the river: the flood had \ngone \n\nLike a thief, with only his tracks \nupon \n\nThe weeds and grasses and warm wet \nsand, \n\nAnd I ran after with reaching hand, \n\nAnd call\xe2\x80\x99d as I reach\xe2\x80\x99d, and reach\xe2\x80\x99d as \nI ran, \n\nAnd ran till I came to the canon\xe2\x80\x99s \nvan, \n\nWhere the waters lay in a bent \nlagoon, \n\nHook\xe2\x80\x99d and crook\xe2\x80\x99d like the horned \nmoon. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd there in the surge where the \nwaters met, \n\nAnd the warm wave lifted, and the \nwinds did fret \n\nThe wave till it foam\xe2\x80\x99d with rage on \nthe land, \n\nShe lay with the wave on the warm \nwhite sand; \n\nHer rich hair trailed with the trailing \nweeds, \n\nWhile her small brown hands lay \nprone or lifted \n\nAs the waves sang strophes in the \nbroken reeds, \n\n\nOr paused in pity, and in silence \nsifted \n\nSands of gold, as upon her grave. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd as sure as you see yon brows\xc2\xac \ning kine, \n\nAnd breathe the breath of your \nmeadows fine, \n\nWhen I went to my waist in the warm \nwhite wave \n\nAnd stood all pale in the wave to my \nbreast, \n\nAnd reach\xe2\x80\x99d my hands in her rest and \nunrest, \n\nHer hands were lifted and reach\xe2\x80\x99d \nto mine. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNow mind, I tell you, I cried, \n\xe2\x80\x98Come in! \n\nCome into the house, come out from \nthe hollow, \n\nCome out of the storm, come up from \nthe river!\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nAye, cried, and call\xe2\x80\x99d in that desolate \ndin, \n\nThough I did not rush out, and in \nplain words give her \n\nA wordy warning of the flood to \nfollow, \n\nWord by word, and letter by letter; \n\nBut she knew it as well as I, and \nbetter; \n\nFor once in the desert of New Mexico \n\nWhen we two sought frantically far \nand wide \n\nFor the famous spot where Apaches \nshot \n\nWith bullets of gold their buffalo, \n\nAnd she stood faithful to death at my \nside, \n\nI threw me down in the hard hot sand \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaebe 3rt?oman \n\n\n109 \n\n\nUtterly famish\xe2\x80\x99d and ready to die; \n\nThen a speck arose in the red-hot \nsky\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA speck no larger than a lady\xe2\x80\x99s \nhand\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhile she at my side bent tenderly \nover, \n\nShielding my face from the sun as a \ncover, \n\nAnd wetting my face, as she watch\xe2\x80\x99d \nby my side, \n\nFrom a skin she had borne till the \nhigh noontide, \n\n(I had emptied mine in the heat of the \nmorning) \n\nWhen the thunder mutter\xe2\x80\x99d far over \nthe plain \n\nLike a monster bound or a beast in \npain: \n\nShe sprang the instant, and gave the \nwarning, \n\nWith her brown hand pointed to the \nburning skies, \n\nFor I was too weak unto death to \nrise. \n\nBut she knew the peril, and her iron \nwill, \n\nWith a heart as true as the great \nNorth Star, \n\nDid bear me up to the palm-tipp\xe2\x80\x99d \nhill, \n\nWhere the fiercest beasts in a brother\xc2\xac \nhood, \n\nBeasts that had fled from the plain \nand far, \n\nIn perfectest peace expectant stood, \n\nWith their heads held high, and their \nlimbs a-quiver. \n\nThen ere she barely had time to \nbreathe \n\nThe boiling waters began to seethe \n\n\nFrom hill to hill in a booming river, \nBeating and breaking from hill to \nhill\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nEven while yet the sun shot fire, \nWithout the shield of a cloud above\xe2\x80\x94 \nFilling the canon as you would fill \nA wine-cup, drinking in swift desire, \nWith the brim new-kiss\xe2\x80\x99d by the lips \nyou love! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSo you see she knew\xe2\x80\x94knew per\xc2\xac \nfectly well, \n\nAs well as I could shout and tell, \nThat the mountain would send a flood \nto the plain, \n\nSweeping the gorge like a hurricane \nWhen the fire flashed and the thunder \nfell. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTherefore it is wrong, and I say \ntherefore \n\nUnfair, that a mystical, brown\xc2\xac \nwing\xe2\x80\x99d moth \n\nOr midnight bat should forevermore \nFan past my face with its wings of \nair, \n\nAnd follow me up, down, every\xc2\xac \nwhere, \n\nFlit past, pursue me, or fly before, \nDimly limning in each fair place \nThe full fixed eyes and the sad, brown \nface, \n\nSo forty times worse than if it were \nwroth! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI gather\xe2\x80\x99d the gold I had hid in \nthe earth, \n\nHid over the door and hid under the \nhearth: \n\nHoarded and hid, as the world went \nover, \n\n\n\n\nno \n\n\n\xc2\xaef)t Stijotrian \n\n\nFor the love of a blonde by a sun- \nbrown\'d lover, \n\nAnd I said to myself, as I set my \nface \n\nTo the East and afar from the deso\xc2\xac \nlate place, \n\n\xe2\x80\x98She has braided her tresses, and \nthrough her tears \n\nLook\xe2\x80\x99d away to the West for years, \nthe years \n\nThat I have wrought where the sun \ntans brown; \n\nShe has waked by night, she has \nwatch\xe2\x80\x99d by day, \n\nShe has wept and wonder\xe2\x80\x99d at my \ndelay, \n\nAlone and in tears, with her head held \ndown, \n\nWhere the ships sail out and the seas \nwhirl in, \n\nForgetting to knit and refusing to \nspin. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98She shall lift her head, she shall \nsee her lover, \n\nShe shall hear his voice like a sea that \nrushes, \n\nShe shall hold his gold in her hands of \nsnow, \n\nAnd down on his breast she shall hide \nher blushes, \n\nAnd never a care shall her true heart \nknow, \n\nWhile the clods are below, or the \nclouds are above her.\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOn the fringe of the night she \nstood with her pitcher \n\nAt the old town fountain: and oh! \npassing fair. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98I am riper now,\xe2\x80\x99 I said, \xe2\x80\x98but am \nricher,\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\nAnd I lifted my hand to my beard \nand hair; \n\n\xe2\x80\x98I am burnt by the sun, I am brown\xe2\x80\x99d \nby the sea; \n\nI am white of my beard, and am bald, \nmay be; \n\nYet for all such things what can her \nheart care?\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nThen she moved; and I said, \xe2\x80\x98How \nmarvelous fair!\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nShe look\xe2\x80\x99d to the West, with her arm \narch\xe2\x80\x99d over; \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Looking for me, her sun-brown\xe2\x80\x99d \nlover,\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nI said to myself, and my heart grew \nbold, \n\nAnd I stepp\xe2\x80\x99d me nearer to her \npresence there, \n\nAs approaching a friend; for \xe2\x80\x99twas \nhere of old \n\nOur troths were plighted and the tale \nwas told. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHow young she was and how fair \nshe was! \n\nHow tall as a palm, and how pearly \nfair, \n\nAs the night came down on her glori\xc2\xac \nous hair! \n\nThen the night grew deep and my \neyes grew dim, \n\nAnd a sad-faced figure began to swim \n\nAnd float by my face, flit past, then \npause, \n\nWith her hands held up and her head \nheld down, \n\nYet face to my face; and that face \nwas brown! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Now w r hy did she come and con\xc2\xac \nfront me there, \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje Srijoman \n\n\nhi \n\n\nWith the flood to her face and the \nmoist in her hair, \n\nAnd a mystical stare in her marvelous \neyes? \n\nI had call\xe2\x80\x99d to her twice, \xe2\x80\x98Come in! \ncome in! \n\nCome out of the storm to the calm \nwithin!\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nNow, that is the reason I do make \ncomplaint, \n\nThat for ever and ever her face should \nrise, \n\nFacing face to face with her great sad \neyes. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I said then to myself, and I say it \nagain, \n\nGainsay it you, gainsay it who will, \n\nI shall say it over and over still, \n\nAnd will say it ever; for I know it \ntrue, \n\nThat I did all that a man could do \n(Some men\xe2\x80\x99s good doings are done in \nvain) \n\nTo save that passionate child of the \nsun, \n\nWith her love as deep as the doubled \nmain, \n\nAnd as strong and fierce as a troubled \nsea\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat beautiful bronze with its soul of \nfire, \n\nIts tropical love and its kingly ire- \nThat child as fix\xe2\x80\x99d as a pyramid, \n\nAs tall as a tule and pure as a nun\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd all there is of it, the all I did, \n\nAs often happens was done in vain. \nSo there is no bit of her blood on me. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x98She is marvelous young and won\xc2\xac \nderful fair,\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\nI said again, and my heart grew \nbold, \n\nAnd beat and beat a charge for my \nfeet. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Time that defaces us, places, and \nreplaces us, \n\nAnd trenches our faces in furrows for \ntears, \n\nHas traced here nothing in all these \nyears. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis the hair of gold that I vex\xe2\x80\x99d of \nold, \n\nThe marvelous flowing, gold-flower of \nhair, \n\nAnd the peaceful eyes in their sweet \nsurprise \n\nThat I have kiss\xe2\x80\x99d till the head swam \nround. \n\nAnd the delicate curve of the dimpled \nchin, \n\nAnd the pouting lips and the pearls \nwithin \n\nAre the same, the same, but so young, \nso fair!\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nMy heart leapt out and back at a \nbound, \n\nAs a child that starts, then stops, \nthen lingers. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98How wonderful young!\xe2\x80\x99 I lifted my \nfingers \n\nAnd fell to counting the round years \ndown \n\nThat I had dwelt where the sun tans \nbrown. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cFour full hands, and a finger \nover! \n\n\xe2\x80\x98She does not know me, her truant \nlover,\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nI said to myself, for her brow was \na-frown \n\n\n\n\n112 \n\n\n)t Hrijonian \n\n\nAs I stepp\xe2\x80\x99d still nearer, with my \nhead held down, \n\nAll abash\xe2\x80\x99d and in blushes my brown \nface over; \n\n\xe2\x80\x98She does not know me, her long lost \nlover, \n\nFor my beard\xe2\x80\x99s so long and my skin \nso brown \n\nThat I well might pass myself for \nanother.\' \n\nSo I lifted my voice and I spake \naloud : \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Annette, my darling! Annette Mac- \nleod!\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nvShe started, she stopped, she turn\xe2\x80\x99d \namazed, \n\nShe stood all wonder, her eyes wild\xc2\xac \nwide, \n\nThen turn\xe2\x80\x99d in terror down the dusk \nwayside, \n\nAnd cried as she fled, \xe2\x80\x98The man he is \ncrazed, \n\nAnd he calls the maiden name of my \nmother!\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Let the world turn over, and over, \nand over, \n\nAnd toss and tumble like beasts in \npain, \n\nCrack, quake, and tremble, and turn \nfull over \n\nAnd die, and never rise up again; \n\nLet her dash her peaks through the \npurple cover, \n\nLet her plash her seas in the face of \nthe sun\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI have no one to love me now, not \none, \n\nIn a world as full as a world can \nhold; \n\nSo I will get gold as I erst have done, \n\n\nI will gather a coffin top-full of \ngold; \n\nTo take to the door of Death, to \nbuy\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBuy what, when I double my hands \nand die? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGo down, go down to your fields \nof clover, \n\nGo dow r n with your kine to the pas\xc2\xac \ntures fine, \n\nAnd give no thought, or care, or \nlabor \n\nFor maid or man, good name or \nneighbor; \n\nFor I gave all as the years went \nover\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGave all my youth, my years and \nlabor, \n\nAnd a heart as warm as the world is \ncold, \n\nFor a beautiful, bright, and delusive \nlie: \n\nGave youth, gave years, gave love for \ngold; \n\nGiving and getting, yet what have I? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe red ripe stars hang low over\xc2\xac \nhead, \n\nLet the good and the light of soul \nreach up, \n\nPluck gold as plucking a butter-cup: \n\nBut I am as lead, and my hands are \nred. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c So the sun climbs up, and on, and \nover, \n\nAnd the days go out and the tides \ncome in, \n\nAnd the pale moon rubs on her purple \ncover \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje Hast tEasdjastas \n\n\nTill worn as thin and as bright as \ntin; \n\nBut the ways are dark and the days \nare dreary, \n\nAnd the dreams of youth are but dust \nin age, \n\nAnd the heart grows harden\xe2\x80\x99d and the \nhands grow weary, \n\nHolding them up for their heritage. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cFor we promise so great and we \ngain so little; \n\nFor we promise so great of glory and \ngold, \n\nAnd we gain so little that the hands \ngrow cold, \n\nAnd the strained^^art-strings wear \nbare and bnttle, \n\nAnd for gold and glory we but gain \ninstead \n\nA fond heart sicken\xe2\x80\x99d and a fair hope \ndead. \n\n\n1 13 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSo I have said, and I say it \nover, \n\nAnd can prove it over and over \nagain, \n\nThat the four-footed beasts in the \nred-crown\xe2\x80\x99d clover, \n\nThe pied and horned beasts on the \nplain \n\nThat lie down, rise up, and repose \nagain, \n\nAnd do never take care or toil or \nspin, \n\nNor buy, nor build, nor gather in \ngold, \n\nAs the days go out and the tides \ncome in, \n\nAre better than we by a thousand\xc2\xac \nfold; \n\nFor what is it all, in the words of \nfire, \n\nBut a vexing of soul and a vain \ndesire? \xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nTHE LAST TASCHASTAS \n\n\nThe hills were hr own, the heavens were \nblue, \n\nA zvoodpecker pounded a pine-top shell, \n\nWhile a partridge whistled the whole \nday through \n\nFor a rabbit to dance in the chaparral, \nAnd a grey grouse drumm\xe2\x80\x99d, \xe2\x80\x9c All\'s \nwell, all\xe2\x80\x99s well.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nI \n\nWrinkled and brown as a bag of \nleather, \n\nA squaw sits moaning long and low. \n\nYesterday she was a wife and mother, \n\n\nToday she is rocking her to and fro, \n\nA childless widow, in weeds and woe. \n\nAn Indian sits in a rocky cavern \n\nChipping a flint in an arrow head; \n\nHis children are moving as still as \nshadows, \n\nHis squaw is moulding some balls of \nlead, \n\nWith round face painted a battle-red. \n\nAn Indian sits in a black-jack jungle, \n\nWhere a grizzly bear has rear\xe2\x80\x99d her \nyoung, \n\n\n8 \n\n\n\n\n114 TOjc Hasrt \n\nWhetting a flint on a granite \nboulder. \n\nHis quiver is over his brown back \nhung\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis face is streak\xe2\x80\x99d and his bow is \nstrung. \n\nAn Indian hangs from a cliff of \ngranite, \n\nLike an eagle\xe2\x80\x99s nest built in the air, \n\nLooking away to the east, and \nwatching \n\nThe smoke of the cabins curling \nthere, \n\nAnd eagle\xe2\x80\x99s feathers are in his hair. \n\nIn belt of wampum, in battle fashion \n\nAn Indian watches with wild desire. \n\nHe is red with paint, he is black with \npassion; \n\nAnd grand as a god in his savage \nire, \n\nHe leans and listens till stars are \na-fire. \n\nAll somber and sullen and sad, a \nchieftain \n\nNow looks from the mountain far \ninto the sea. \n\nJust before him beat in the white \nbillows, \n\nJust behind him the toppled tall \ntree \n\nAnd woodmen chopping, knee \nbuckled to knee. \n\nII \n\nAll together, all in council, \n\nIn a canon wall\xe2\x80\x99d so high \n\nThat, nothing could ever reach them \n\n\ntKasdjafitasi \n\nSave some stars dropp\xe2\x80\x99d from the \n\nsky. \n\nAnd the brown bats sweeping by: \n\nTawny chieftains thin and wiry, \n\nWise as brief, and brief as bold; \nChieftains young and fierce and \nfiery, \n\nChieftains stately, stern and old, \nBronzed and battered\xe2\x80\x94battered \ngold. \n\nFlamed the council-fire brighter, \nFlash\xe2\x80\x99d black eyes like diamond \nbeads, \n\nWhen a woman told her sorrows, \nWhile a warrior told his deeds, \n\nAnd a widow tore her weeds. \n\nThen was lit the pipe of council \nThat their fathers smoked of old, \nWith its stem of manzanita, \n\nAnd its bowl of quartz and gold, \n\nAnd traditions manifold. \n\nHow from lip to lip in silence \nBurn\xe2\x80\x99d it round the circle red, \n\nLike an evil star slow passing \n(Sign of battles and bloodshed) \nRound the heavens overhead. \n\nThen the silence deep was broken \nBy the thunder rolling far, \n\nAs gods muttering in anger, \n\nOr the bloody battle-car \nOf some Christian king at war. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x99Tis the spirits of my Fathers \nMutt\xe2\x80\x99ring vengeance in the skies; \nAnd the flashing of the lightning \n\n\n\nje Hast Cascfjafitatf \n\n\nIs the anger of their eyes, \n\nBidding us in battle rise,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nCried the war-chief, now uprising, \nNaked all above the waist, \n\nWhile a belt of shells and silver \nHeld his tamoos to its place, \n\nAnd the war-paint streaked his face. \n\nWomen melted from the council, \nBoys crept backward out of sight, \nTill alone a wall of warriors \nIn their paint and battle-plight \nSat reflecting back the light. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cO my Fathers in the storm- \ncloud!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n(Red arms tossing to the skies, \n\nWhile the massive walls of granite \nSeem\'d to shrink to half their size, \nAnd to mutter strange replies)\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSoon we come, O angry Fathers, \nDown the darkness you have cross\xe2\x80\x99d: \nSpeak for hunting-grounds there for \nus; \n\nThose you left us we have lost\xe2\x80\x94 \nGone like blossoms in a frost. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWarriors! \xe2\x80\x9d (and his arms fell folded \nOn his tawny, swelling breast, \n\nWhile his voice, now low and plain\xc2\xac \ntive \n\nAs the waves in their unrest, \nTouching tenderness confess\xe2\x80\x99d). \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhere is Wrotto, wise of counsel, \nYesterday here in his place? \n\nA brave lies dead down in the \nvalley, \n\n\n1 15 \n\nLast brave of his line and race, \n\nAnd a Ghost sits on his face. \n\n11 Where his boy the tender-hearted. \nWith his mother yestermom? \n\nLo! a wigwam door is darken\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAnd a mother mourns forlorn, \n\nWith her long locks toss\xe2\x80\x99d and torn. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLo! our daughters have been \ngather\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nFrom among us by the foe, \n\nLike the lilies they once gather\xe2\x80\x99d \nIn the spring-time all aglow \nFrom the banks of living snow. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThrough the land where we for \nages \n\nLaid the bravest, dearest dead, \nGrinds the savage white man\xe2\x80\x99s plow\xc2\xac \nshare \n\nGrinding sire\xe2\x80\x99s bones for bread\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWe shall give them blood instead. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI saw white skulls in a furrow, \n\nAnd around the cursed plowshare \nClung the flesh of my own children, \nAnd my mother\xe2\x80\x99s tangled hair \nTrailed along the furrow there. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWarriors! braves! I cry for ven\xc2\xac \ngeance 1 \n\nAnd the dim ghosts of the dead \nUnavenged do wail and shiver \nIn the storm cloud overhead, \n\nAnd shoot arrows battle-red.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThen he ceased and sat among \nthem, \n\nWith his long locks backward strown; \nThey as mute as men of marble, \n\n\n\n\n116 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefjc Hast Cascfjastas \n\n\nHe a king upon the throne, \n\nAnd as still as any stone. \n\nThen uprose the war chief\xe2\x80\x99s daughter, \nTaller than the tassell\xe2\x80\x99d com, \nSweeter than the kiss of morning, \nSad as some sweet star of morn, \n\nHalf defiant, half forlorn. \n\nRobed in skins of striped panther \nLifting loosely to the air \nWith a face a shade of sorrow \nAnd black eyes that said, Beware! \nNestled in a storm of hair; \n\nWith her striped robes around her, \nFasten\xe2\x80\x99d by an eagle\xe2\x80\x99s beak, \n\nStood she by the stately chieftain, \nProud and pure as Shasta\xe2\x80\x99s peak, \n\nAs she ventured thus to speak: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMust the tomahawk of battle \nBe unburied where it lies, \n\nO, last war chief of Taschastas? \n\nMust the smoke of battle rise \nLike a storm cloud in the skies? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTrue, some wretch has laid a \nbrother \n\nWith his swift feet to the sun, \n\nBut because one bough is broken, \nMust the broad oak be undone? \n\nAll the fir trees fell\xe2\x80\x99d as one? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTrue, the braves have faded, \nwasted \n\nLike ripe blossoms in the rain, \n\nBut when we have spent the arrows, \nDo we twang the string in vain, \n\nAnd then snap the bow in twain? \xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\nLike a vessel in the tempest \nShook the warrior, wild and grim, \n\nAs he gazed out in the midnight, \n\nAs to things that beckon\xe2\x80\x99d him, \n\nAnd his eyes were moist and dim. \n\nThen he turn\xe2\x80\x99d, and to his bosom \nBattle-scarr\xe2\x80\x99d, and strong as brass, \nTenderly the warrior press\'d her \nAs if she were made of glass, \nMurmuring, \xe2\x80\x9cAlas! alas! \n\n1 \xe2\x80\x98 Loua Ellah! Spotted Lily! \n\nStreaks of blood shall be the sign, \n\nOn their cursed and mystic pages, \nRepresenting me and mine! \n\nBy Tonatiu\xe2\x80\x99s fiery shrine! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhen the grass shall grow un\xc2\xac \ntrodden \n\nIn my warpath, and the plow \nShall be grinding through this canon \nWhere my braves are gather\xe2\x80\x99d now, \nStill shall they record this vow: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWar and vegeance! rise, my war\xc2\xac \nriors, \n\nRise and shout the battle sign, \n\nYe who love revenge and glory! \n\nYe for peace, in silence pine, \n\nAnd no more be braves of mine.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThen the war yell roll\xe2\x80\x99d and echoed \nAs they started from the ground, \n\nTill an eagle from his cedar \nStarting, answer\xe2\x80\x99d back the sound, \nAnd flew circling round and round. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cEnough, enough, my kingly \nfather,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAnd the glory of her eyes \n\n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje Hasrt \n\nFlash\xe2\x80\x99d the valor and the passion \nThat may sleep but never dies, \n\nAs she proudly thus replies: \n\n"Can the cedar be a willow, \n\nPliant and as little worth? \n\nIt shall stand the king of forests, \n\nOr its fall shall shake the earth, \nDesolating heart and hearth!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nIII \n\n\nFrom cold east shore to warm west \nsea \n\nThe red men followed the red sun, \nAnd faint and failing fast as he, \n\nThey knew too well their race was \nrun. \n\nThis ancient tribe, press\xe2\x80\x99d to the \nwave, \n\nThere fain had slept a patient \nslave, \n\nAnd died out as red embers die \nFrom flames that once leapt hot and \nhigh; \n\nBut, roused to anger, half arose \nAround that chief, a sudden flood, \n\nA hot and hungry cry for blood; \n\nHalf drowsy shook a feeble hand, \nThen sank back in a tame repose, \nAnd left him to his fate and foes, \n\nA stately wreck upon the strand. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 o a o \xc2\xab \n\n,His eye was like the lightning\xe2\x80\x99s \nwing, \n\nHis voice was like a rushing flood; \nAnd when a captive bound he stood \n\n\n{Eatfcfjasrta# 117 \n\nHis presence look\xe2\x80\x99d the perfect \nking. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas held at first that he should \ndie: \n\nI never knew the reason why \nA milder counsel did prevail, \n\nSave that we shrank from blood, and \nsave \n\nThat brave men do respect the \nbrave. \n\nDown sea sometimes there was a \nsail, \n\nAnd far at sea, they said, an isle, \n\nAnd he was sentenced to exile; \n\nIn open boat upon the sea \nTo go the instant on the main, \n\nAnd never under penalty \nOf death to touch the shore again. \n\nA troop of bearded buckskinn\xe2\x80\x99d \nmen \n\nBore him hard-hurried to the wave, \nPlaced him swift in the boat; and \nthen \n\nvSwift pushing to the gristling sea, \n\nPlis daughter rush\xe2\x80\x99d down suddenly, \nThrew him his bow, leapt from the \nshore \n\nInto the boat beside the brave, \n\nAnd sat her down and seized the \noar, \n\nAnd never question\xe2\x80\x99d, made replies, \nOr moved her lips, or raised her \neyes. \n\nHis breast was like a gate of \nbrass, \n\nHis brow was like a gather\xe2\x80\x99d storm; \nThere is no chisell\xe2\x80\x99d stone that \nhas \n\nSo stately and complete a form, \n\n\n\n\n118 \xc2\xaef)e Hast \xc2\xaeaficf)a\xc2\xa3tas \n\n\nIn sinew, arm, and every part, \n\nIn all the galleries of art. \n\nGray, bronzed, and naked to the \nwaist, \n\nHe stood half halting in the prow, \nWith quiver bare and idle bow, \n\nThe warm sea fondled with the \nshore, \n\nAnd laid his white face to the sands, \nHis daughter sat with her sad face \nBent on the wave, with her two \nhands \n\nHeld tightly to the dripping oar; \n\nAnd as she sat, her dimpled knee \nBent lithe as wand or willow tree, \n\nSo round and full, so rich and free, \nThat no one would have ever \nknown \n\nThat it had either joint or bone. \n\nHer eyes were black, her face was \nbrown, \n\nHer breasts were bare and there fell \ndown \n\nSuch wealth of hair, it almost hid \nThe two, in its rich jetty fold\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhich I had sometime fain forbid, \nThey were so richer, fuller far \nThan any polish\xe2\x80\x99d bronzes are, \n\nAnd richer hued than any gold. \n\nOn her brown arms and her brown \nhands \n\nWere bars of gold and golden bands, \nRough hammer\xe2\x80\x99d from the virgin \nore, \n\nSo heavy, they could hold no more. \n\nI wonder now, I wonder\xe2\x80\x99d then, \nThat men who fear\xe2\x80\x99d not gods nor \nmen \n\n\nLaid no rude hands at all on her,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI think she had a dagger slid \nDown in her silver\xe2\x80\x99d wampum belt; \nIt might have been, instead of hilt, \n\nA flashing diamond hurry-hid \nThat I beheld\xe2\x80\x94 I could not know \nFor certain, we did hasten so; \n\nAnd I know now less sure than \nthen; \n\nAnd years drown memories of men. \nSome things have happened since\xe2\x80\x94 \nand then \n\nThis happen\xe2\x80\x99d years and years ago. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGo, go!" the captain cried, and \nsmote \n\nWith sword and boot the swaying \nboat, \n\nUntil it quiver\xe2\x80\x99d as at sea \nAnd brought the old chief to his \nknee. \n\nHe turn\xe2\x80\x99d his face, and turning rose \nWith hand raised fiercely to his \nfoes: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYes, I will go, last of my race, \nPush\xe2\x80\x99d by you robbers ruthlessly \nInto the hollows of the sea, \n\nFrom this my last, last resting \nplace. \n\nTraditions of my fathers say \nA feeble few reach\xe2\x80\x99d for this land, \nAnd we reach\xe2\x80\x99d them a welcome \nhand \n\nOf old, upon another shore; \n\nNow they are strong, we weak as \nthey, \n\nAnd they have driven us before \nTheir faces, from that sea to this: \nThen marvel not if we have sped \nSometime an arrow as we fled, \n\nSo keener than a serpent\xe2\x80\x99s kiss." \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje Hasrt \n\nHe turn\xe2\x80\x99d a time unto the sun \nThat lay half hidden in the sea, \n\nAs in his hollows rock\xe2\x80\x99d asleep, \n\nAll trembled and breathed heavily; \nThen arch\xe2\x80\x99d his arm, as you have \ndone, \n\nFor sharp masts piercing through the \ndeep. \n\nNo shore or kind ship met his eye, \n\nOr isle, or sail, or anything, \n\nSave white sea gulls on dipping wing, \nAnd mobile sea and molten sky. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cFarewell!\xe2\x80\x94push seaward, child!\xe2\x80\x9d \nhe cried, \n\nAnd quick the paddle-strokes replied. \nLike lightning from the panther-skin, \nThat bound his loins round about \nHe snatch\xe2\x80\x99d a poison\xe2\x80\x99d arrow out, \nThat like a snake lay hid within, \n\nAnd twang\xe2\x80\x99d his bow. The captain \nfell \n\nProne on his face, and such a yell \nOf triumph from that savage rose \nAs man may never hear again. \n\nHe stood as standing on the main, \nThe topmost main, in proud repose, \nAnd shook his clench\xe2\x80\x99d fist at his \nfoes, \n\nAnd call\xe2\x80\x99d, and cursed them every \none. \n\nHe heeded not the shouts and shot \nThat follow\xe2\x80\x99d him, but grand and \ngrim \n\nStood up against the level sun; \n\nAnd, standing so, seem\xe2\x80\x99d in his ire \nSo grander than some ship on fire. \n\n\nCascfjastas 119 \n\nAnd when the sun had left the \nsea, \n\nThat laves Abrup, and Blanco laves, \nAnd left the land to death and me, \nThe only thing that I could see \nWas, ever as the light boat lay \nHigh lifted on the white-back\xe2\x80\x99d \nwaves, \n\nA head as gray and toss\xe2\x80\x99d as they. \n\nWe raised the dead and from his \nhands \n\nPick\xe2\x80\x99d out some shells, clutched as he \nlay, \n\nAnd two by two bore him away, \n\nAnd wiped his lips of blood and \nsands. \n\nWe bent and scooped a shallow home, \nAnd laid him warm-wet in his \nblood, \n\nJust as the lifted tide a-fiood \nCame charging in with mouth a- \nfoam: \n\nAnd as we turn\xe2\x80\x99d, the sensate thing \nReached up, lick\xe2\x80\x99d out its foamy \ntongue, \n\nLick\xe2\x80\x99d out its tongue and tasted \nblood; \n\nThe white lips to the red earth \nclung \n\nAn instant, and then loosening \nAll hold just like a living thing, \n\nDrew back sad-voiced and shuddering, \nAll stained with blood, a striped \nflood. \n\n\n\n120 \n\n\nSoaqutn JHurietta \n\n\n- JOAQUIN \n\nGlintings of day in the darkness , \nFlashings of flint and steel , \n\nBlended in gossamer texture \nThe ideal and the real, \n\nLimn\'d like the phantom ship shadow \nCrowding up under the keel. \n\nI stand beside the mobile sea, \n\nAnd sails are spread, and sails are \nfurl\xe2\x80\x99d; \n\nFrom farthest corners of the world, \nAnd fold like white wings wearily. \nSome ships go up, and some go \ndown \n\nIn haste, like traders in a town. \n\nAfar at sea some white .ships flee, \nWith arms stretch\xe2\x80\x99d like a ghost\xe2\x80\x99s to \nme, \n\nAnd cloud-like sails are blown and \ncurl\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nThen glide down to the under world. \nAs if blown bare in winter blasts \nOf leaf and limb, tall naked masts \nAre rising from the restless sea. \n\nI seem to see them gleam and shine \nWith clinging drops of dripping \nbrine. \n\nBroad still brown wings flit here and \nthere, \n\nThin sea-blue wings wheel every\xc2\xac \nwhere, \n\nAnd white wings whistle through the \nair; \n\nI hear a thousand sea gulls call. \n\nAnd San Francisco Bay is white \nAnd blue with sail and sea and light. \n\n\nMURIETTA \n\nBehold the ocean on the beach \nKneel lowly down as if in prayer, \n\nI hear a moan as of despair, \n\nWhile far at sea do toss and reach \nSome things so like white pleading \nhands : \n\nThe ocean\xe2\x80\x99s thin and hoary hair \nIs trail\xe2\x80\x99d along the silver\xe2\x80\x99d sands, \n\nAt every sigh and sounding moan. \nThe very birds shriek in distress \nAnd sound the ocean\xe2\x80\x99s monotone. \n\'Tis not a place for mirthfulness, \n\nBut meditation deep, and prayer, \nAnd kneelings on the salted sod, \nWhere man must own his littleness, \nAnd know the mightiness of God. \n\nDared I but say a prophecy, \n\nAs sang the holy men of old, \n\nOf rock-built cities yet to be \nAlong these shining shores of gold, \nCrowding athirst into the sea, \n\nWhat wondrous marvels might be \ntold! \n\nEnough, to know that empire here \nShall burn her loftiest, brightest \nstar; \n\nHere art and eloquence shall reign, \n\nAs o\xe2\x80\x99er the wolf-rear\xe2\x80\x99d realm of old; \nHere learn\xe2\x80\x99d and famous from afar, \nTo pay their noble court, shall come, \nAnd shall not seek or see in vain, \n\nBut look and look with wonder \ndumb. \n\nAfar the bright Sierras lie \nA swaying line of snowy white, \n\nA fringe of heaven hung in sight \nAgainst the blue base of the sky. \n\n\n\n\n\nJoaquin JWurietta \n\n\n121 \n\n\nI look along each gaping gorge, \n\nI hear a thousand sounding strokes \nLike giants rending giant oaks, \n\nOr brawny Vulcan at his forge; \n\nI see pickaxes flash and shine; \n\nHear great wheels whirling in a \nmine. \n\nHere winds a thick and yellow \nthread, \n\nA moss\xe2\x80\x99d and silver stream instead; \nAnd trout that leap\xe2\x80\x99d its rippled \ntide \n\nHave turn\'d upon their sides and \ndied. \n\nLo! when the last pick in the mine \nLies rusting red with idleness, \n\nAnd rot yon cabins in the mold, \n\nAnd wheels no more croak in distress, \nAnd tall pines reassert command, \nSweet bards along this sunset shore \nTheir mellow melodies will pour; \n\nWill charm as charmers very wise, \nWill strike the harp with master \nhand, \n\nWill sound unto the vaulted skies, \nThe valor of these men of old\xe2\x80\x94 \nThese mighty men of \xe2\x80\x99Forty-nine; \nWill sweetly sing and proudly say, \nLong, long agone there was a day \nWhen there were giants in the land. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 O o \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nNow who rides rushing on the sight \nHard down yon rocky long defile, \nSwift as an eagle in his flight, \n\nFierce as winter\xe2\x80\x99s storm at night \nBlown from the bleak Sierra\xe2\x80\x99s \nheight? \n\nSuch reckless rider!\xe2\x80\x94I do ween \nNo mortal man his like has seen. \n\n\nAnd yet, but for his long serape \nAll flowing loose, and black as crape, \nAnd long silk locks of blackest hair \nAll streaming wildly in the breeze, \nYou might believe him in a chair, \n\nOr chatting at some country fair, \n\nHe rides so grandly at his ease. \n\nBut now he grasps a tighter rein, \n\nA red rein wrought in golden chain, \nAnd in his tapidaros stands, \n\nTurns, shouts defiance at his foe. \nAnd now he calmly bares his brow \nAs if to challenge fate, and now \nHis hand drops to his saddle-bow \nAnd clutches something gleaming \nthere \n\nAs if to something more than dare. \n\nThe stray winds lift the raven curls, \nSoft as a fair Castilian girl\xe2\x80\x99s, \n\nAnd bare a brow so manly, high, \n\nIts every feature does belie \nThe thought he is compell\xe2\x80\x99d to fly; \n\nA brow as open as the sky \nOn which you gaze and gaze again \nAs on a picture you have seen \nAnd often sought to see in vain; \n\nA brow of blended pride and pain, \nThat seems to hold a tale of woe \nOr wonder, that you fain would \nknow \n\nA boy\xe2\x80\x99s brow, cut as with a knife, \nWith many a dubious deed in life. \n\nAgain he grasps his glitt\xe2\x80\x99ring rein, \nAnd, wheeling like a hurricane, \nDefying wood, or stone, or flood, \n\nIs dashing down the gorge again. \n\nOh, never yet has prouder steed \nBorne master nobler in his need! \n\n\n\n\n122 \n\n\nSFoaquin jfflurietta \n\n\nThere is a glory in his eye \nThat seems to dare and to defy \nPursuit, or time, or space, or race. \nHis body is the type of speed, \n\nWhile from his nostril to his heel \nAre muscles as if made of steel. \n\nWhat crimes have made that red \nhand red? \n\nWhat wrongs have written that \nyoung face \n\nWith lines of thought so out of \nplace? \n\nWhere flies he? And from whence \nhas fled? \n\nAnd what his lineage and race? \n\nWhat glitters in his heavy belt, \n\nAnd from his furr\xe2\x80\x99d cantenas \ngleam? \n\nWhat on his bosom that doth seem \nA diamond bright or dagger\xe2\x80\x99s hilt? \nThe iron hoofs that still resound \nLike thunder from the yielding \nground \n\nAlone reply; and now the plain, \nQuick as you breathe and gaze \nagain, \n\nIs won, and all pursuit is vain. \n\nI stand upon a mountain rim, \nStone-paved and pattern\xe2\x80\x99d as a \nstreet; \n\nA rock-lipped canon plunging south, \nAs if it were earth\xe2\x80\x99s open\'d mouth, \nYawns deep and darkling at my \nfeet; \n\nSo deep, so distant, and so dim \nIts waters wind, a yellow thread, \n\nAnd call so faintly and so far, \n\nI turn aside my swooning head. \n\n\nI feel a fierce impulse to leap \nAdown the beetling precipice, \n\nLike some lone, lost, uncertain star; \nTo plunge into a place unknown, \nAnd win a world, all, all my own; \n\nOr if I might not meet such bliss, \n\nAt least escape the curse of this. \n\nI gaze again. A gleaming star \nShines back as from some mossy well \nReflected from blue fields afar. \nBrown hawks are wheeling here and \nthere, \n\nAnd up and down the broken wall \nCling clumps of dark green chaparral, \nWhile from the rent rocks, grey and \nbare, \n\nBlue junipers hang in the air. \n\nHere, cedars sweep the stream and \nhere, \n\nAmong the boulders moss\xe2\x80\x99d and \nbrown \n\nThat time and storms have toppled \ndown \n\nFrom towers undefiled by man, \n\nLow cabins nestle as in fear, \n\nAnd look no taller than a span. \n\nFrom low and shapeless chimneys rise \nSome tall straight columns of blue \nsmoke, \n\nAnd weld them to the bluer skies; \nWhile sounding dow r n the somber \ngorge \n\nI hear the steady pickax stroke, \n\nAs if upon a flashing forge. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nAnother scene, another sound!\xe2\x80\x94 \nSharp shots are fretting through the \nair, \n\n\n\n3 Joaqutn fflurietta \n\n\n123 \n\n\nRed knives are flashing everywhere, \nAnd here and there the yellow flood \nIs purpled with warm smoking blood. \nThe brown hawk swoops low to the \nground, \n\nAnd nimble chipmunks, small and \nstill, \n\nDart striped lines across the sill \nThat manly feet shall press no more. \nThe flume lies w\'arping in the sun, \nThe pan sits empty by the door, \n\nThe pickax on its bedrock floor \nLies rusting in the silent mine. \n\nThere comes no single sound nor \nsign \n\nOf life, beside yon monks in brown \nThat dart their dim shapes up and \ndown \n\nThe rocks that swelter in the sun; \nBut dashing down yon rocky spur, \nWhere scarce a hawk would dare to \nwhirr, \n\nA horseman holds his reckless flight. \nHe wears a flowing black capote, \nWhile over all do flow and float \nLong locks of hair as dark as night, \nAnd hands are red that erst were \nwhite. \n\nAll up and down the land today \nBlack desolation and despair \nIt seems have set and settled there, \nWith none to frighten them away. \nLike sentries watching by the w r ay \nBlack chimneys topple in the air, \n\nAnd seem to say, Go back, beware! \nWhile up around the mountain\xe2\x80\x99s \nrim \n\nAre clouds of smoke, so still and \ngrim \n\nThey look as they are fasten\xe2\x80\x99d there. \n\n\nA lonely stillness, so like death, \n\nSo touches, terrifies all things, \n\nThat even rooks that fly o\xe2\x80\x99erhead \nAre hush\xe2\x80\x99d, and seem to hold their \nbreath, \n\nTo fly with sullen, muffled wings, \nAnd heavy as if made of lead. \n\nSome skulls that crumble to the \ntouch, \n\nSome joints of thin and chalk-like \nbone, \n\nA tall black chimney, all alone, \n\nThat leans as if upon a crutch, \n\nAlone are left to mark or tell, \n\nInstead of cross or cryptic stone, \nWhere Joaquin stood and brave men \nfell. \n\n\nThe sun is red and flush\xe2\x80\x99d and dry. \nAnd fretted from his weary beat \nAcross the hot and desert sky, \n\nAnd swollen as from overheat, \n\nAnd failing too; for see, he sinks \nSwift as a ball of burnish\xe2\x80\x99d ore: \n\nIt may be fancy, but methinks \nHe never fell so fast before. \n\nI hear the neighing of hot steeds, \n\nI see the marshaling of men \nThat silent move among the trees \nAs busily as swarming bees \nWith step and stealthiness profound, \nOn carpetings of spindled weeds, \nWithout a syllable or sound \nSave clashing of their burnish\xe2\x80\x99d arms, \nClinking dull, deathlike alarms\xe2\x80\x94 \nGrim bearded men and brawny men \nThat grope among the ghostly trees. \nWere ever silent men as these? \n\nWas ever somber forest deep \n\n\n\n124 Joaquin \n\nAnd dark as this? Here one might \nsleep \n\nWhile all the weary years went \nround, \n\nNor wake nor weep for sun or sound. \n\nA stone\xe2\x80\x99s throw to the right, a \nrock \n\nHas rear\xe2\x80\x99d his head among the \nstars\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAn island in the upper deep\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd on his front a thousand scars \nOf thunder\xe2\x80\x99s crash and earthquake\xe2\x80\x99s \nshock \n\nAre seam\xe2\x80\x99d as if by sabre\xe2\x80\x99s sweep \nOf gods, enraged that he should rear \nHis front amid their realms of air. \n\nWhat moves along his beetling \nbrow, \n\nSo small, so indistinct and far, \n\nThis side yon blazing evening star, \nSeen through that redwood\xe2\x80\x99s shifting \nbough? \n\nA lookout on the world below? \n\nA watcher for the friend\xe2\x80\x94or foe? \n\nThis still troop\xe2\x80\x99s sentry it must be, \nYet seems no taller than my knee. \n\nBut for the grandeur of this gloom, \nAnd for the chafing steeds\xe2\x80\x99 alarms, \nAnd brown men\xe2\x80\x99s sullen clash of \narms, \n\nThis were but as a living tomb. \n\nThese weeds are spindled, pale and \nwhite, \n\nAs if nor sunshine, life, nor light \nHad ever reach\xe2\x80\x99d this forest\xe2\x80\x99s heart. \nAbove, the redwood boughs entwine \nAs dense as copse of tangled vine\xe2\x80\x94 \nAbove, so fearfully afar, \n\n\njfflurietfa \n\nIt seems as \xe2\x80\x99twere a lesser sky, \n\nA sky without a moon or star, \n\nThe moss\xe2\x80\x99d boughs are so thick and \nhigh. \n\nAt every lisp of leaf I start! \n\nWould I could hear a cricket trill, \n\nOr hear yon sentry from his hill, \n\nThe place does seem so deathly still. \nBut see a sudden lifted hand \nFrom one who still and sullen \nstands, \n\nWith black serape and bloody hands, \nAnd coldly gives his brief command. \n\nThey mount\xe2\x80\x94away! Quick on his \nheel \n\nHe turns and grasps his gleaming \nsteel\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen sadly smiles, and stoops to kiss \nAn upturn\xe2\x80\x99d face so sweetly fair, \n\nSo sadly, saintly, purely rare, \n\nSo rich in blessedness and bliss! \n\nI know she is not flesh and blood, \n\nBut some sweet spirit of this wood; \n\nI know it by her wealth of hair, \n\nAnd step on the unyielding air; \n\nHer seamless robe of shining white, \nHer soul-deep eyes of darkest night; \nBut over all and more than all \nThat can be said or can befall, \n\nThat tongue can tell or pen can \ntrace, \n\nThat wondrous witchery of face. \n\nBetween the trees I see him stride \nTo where a red steed fretting stands \nImpatient for his lord\xe2\x80\x99s commands; \nAnd she glides noiseless at his side. \n\nOne hand toys with her waving \nhair, \n\n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cJoaquin jMurietta \n\n\n125 \n\n\nSoft lifting from her shoulders bare; \nThe other holds the loosen\xe2\x80\x99d rein, \nAnd rests upon the swelling mane \nThat curls the curved neck o\xe2\x80\x99er and \no\xe2\x80\x99er, \n\nLike waves that swirl along the \nshore. \n\nHe hears the last retreating sound \nOf iron on volcanic stone, \n\nThat echoes far from peak to plain, \nAnd \xe2\x80\x99neath the dense wood\xe2\x80\x99s sable \nzone, \n\nHe peers the dark Sierras down. \n\nHis hand forsakes her raven hair, \nHis eyes have an unearthly glare; \n\nShe shrinks and shudders at his side, \nThen lifts to his her moisten\xe2\x80\x99d eyes, \nAnd only looks her sad replies. \n\nA sullenness his soul enthralls, \n\nA silence bom of hate and pride: \n\nHis fierce volcanic heart so deep \nIs stirr\xe2\x80\x99d, his teeth, despite his will, \nDo chatter as if in a chill; \n\nHis very dagger at his side \nDoes shake and rattle in its sheath, \nAs blades of brown grass in a gale \nDo rustle on the frosted heath: \n\nAnd yet he does not bend or weep, \nBut sudden mounts, then leans him \no\xe2\x80\x99er \n\nTo breathe her hot breath but once \nmore. \n\nI do not mark the prison\xe2\x80\x99d sighs, \n\nI do not meet the moisten\xe2\x80\x99d eyes, \nThe while he leans him from his \nplace \n\nDown to her sweet uplifted face. \n\nA low sweet melody is heard \nLike cooing of some Balize bird, \n\n\nSo fine it does not touch the air, \n\nSo faint it stirs not anywhere; \n\nFaint as the falling of the dew, \n\nLow as a pure unutter\xe2\x80\x99d prayer, \n\nThe meeting, mingling, as it were, \n\nIn that one long, last, silent kiss \nOf souls in paradisal bliss. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou must not, shall not, shall not \ngo! \n\nTo die and leave me here to die! \nEnough of vengeance, Love and I? \n\nI die for home and\xe2\x80\x94Mexico.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHe leans, he plucks her to his \nbreast, \n\nAs plucking Mariposa\xe2\x80\x99s flower, \n\nAnd now she crouches in her rest \nAs resting in some rosy bower. \n\nErect, again he grasps the rein! \n\nI see his black steed plunge and poise \nAnd beat the air with iron feet, \n\nAnd curve his noble glossy neck, \n\nAnd toss on high his swelling mane, \nAnd leap\xe2\x80\x94away! he spurns the rein! \nHe flies so fearfully and fleet, \n\nBut for the hot hoofs\xe2\x80\x99 ringing noise \n\xe2\x80\x99Twould seem as if he were on wings. \n\nAnd they are gone! Gone like a \nbreath, \n\nGone like a white sail seen at night \nA moment, and then lost to sight; \nGone like a star you look upon, \n\nThat glimmers to a bead, a speck, \nThen softly melts into the dawn, \n\nAnd all is still and dark as death, \nAnd who shall sing, for who may \nknow \n\nThat mad, glad ride to Mexico? \n\n\n\n126 \n\n\nUtitts from Iftra, !3 30 tama \n\n\nBITS FROM INA, A DRAMA \n\n\nSad song of the wind in the \nmountains \n\nA nd the sea wave of grass on the plain, \n\nThat breaks in bloom foam by the \nfountains, \n\nAnd forests, that breaketh again \n\nOn the mountains, as breaketh a main. \n\nBold thoughts that were strong as the \ngrizzlies, \n\nNow weak in their prison of words; \n\nBright fancies that flash\'d like the \nglaciers, \n\nNow dimm\'d like the luster of birds, \n\nAnd butterflies huddled as herds. \n\nSad symphony,wild and unmeasured, \n\nWeed warp, and woof woven in \nstrouds, \n\nStrange truths that a stray soul had \ntreasured, \n\nTruths seen as through folding of \nshrouds \n\nOr as stars though the rolling of clouds. \n\nScene I. \n\nA Hacienda near Tezcuco, Mexico. \nYoung Don Carlos alone look\xc2\xac \ning out on the moonlit mountain. \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nPopocatapetl looms lone like an \nisland, \n\nAbove white cloud-waves that break \nup against him; \n\nAround h\xe2\x80\x98m white buttes in the \nmoonlight are flashing \n\n\nLike silver tents pitch\xe2\x80\x99d in the fair \nfields of heaven; \n\nWhile standing in line, in their snows \neverlasting, \n\nFlash peaks, as my eyes into heaven \nare lifted, \n\nLike mile-stones that lead to the city \nEternal. \n\nOfttime when the sun and the sea \nlay together, \n\nRed-welded as one, in their red bed of \nlovers, \n\nEmbracing and blushing like loves \nnewly wedded, \n\nI have trod on the trailing crape \nfringes of twilight, \n\nAnd stood there and listen\xe2\x80\x99d, and \nlean\xe2\x80\x99d with lips parted, \n\nTill lordly peaks wrapp\xe2\x80\x99d them, as \nchill night blew over, \n\nIn great cloaks of sable, like proud \nsomber Spaniards, \n\nAnd stalk\xe2\x80\x99d from my presence down \nnight\xe2\x80\x99s corridors. \n\nWhen the red-curtained West has \nbent red as with weeping \n\nLow over the couch where the prone \nday lay dying, \n\nI have stood with brow lifted, con\xc2\xac \nfronting the mountains \n\nThat held their white faces of snow in \nthe heavens, \n\nAnd said, \xe2\x80\x9cIt is theirs to array them \nso purely, \n\nBecause of their nearness to the \ntemple eternal\xe2\x80\x9d: \n\n\n\nI&itg from ina, & JBcanta \n\n\nAnd childlike have said, \xe2\x80\x9cThey are \nfair resting places \n\nFor the dear weary dead on their way \nup to heaven.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nBut my soul is not with you to\xc2\xac \nnight, mighty mountains: \n\nIt is held to the levels of earth by an \nangel \n\nFar more than a star, earth fallen or \nunfall\xe2\x80\x99n, \n\nYet fierce in her follies and head\xc2\xac \nstrong and stronger \n\nThan streams of the sea running in \nwith the billows. \n\nVery well. Let him woo, let him \nthrust his white whiskers \n\nAnd lips pale and purple with death, \nin between u>; \n\nLet her wed, as she wills, for the gold \nof the gray beard. \n\nI will set my face for you, O moun\xc2\xac \ntains, my brothers, \n\nFor I yet have my honor, my con\xc2\xac \nscience and freedom, \n\nMy fleet-footed mustang, and pistols \nrich silver\xe2\x80\x99d; \n\nI will turn as the earth turns her back \non the sun, \n\nBut return to the light of her eyes \nnever more, \n\nWhile noons have a night and white \nseas have a shore. \n\nIna, approaching. \n\nIna. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I have come, dear Don Carlos, to \nsay you farewell, \n\n\n127 \n\nI shall wed with Don Castro at dawn \nof to-morrow, \n\nAnd be all his own\xe2\x80\x94firm, honest and \nfaithful. \n\nI have promised this thing; that I \nwill keep my promise \n\nYou who do know me care never to \nquestion. \n\nI have mastered myself to say this \nthing to you; \n\nHear me: be strong, then, and say \nadieu bravely; \n\nThe world is his own who will brave \nits bleak hours. \n\nDare, then, to confront the cold days \nin their column; \n\nAs they march down upon you, stand, \nhew them to pieces, \n\nOne after another, as you would a \nfierce foeman, \n\nTill not one abideth between two true \nbosoms.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n[Don Carlos, with a laugh of scorn, \nflies from the veranda, mounts \nhorse, and disappears.] \n\nIna (looking out into the night, after a \nlong silence ). \n\nFlow doleful the night hawk screams \nin the heavens, \n\nHow dismally gibbers the gray coy\xc2\xac \note! \n\nAfar to the south now the turbulent \nthunder, \n\nMine equal, my brother, my soul\xe2\x80\x99s \none companion, \n\nTalks low in his sleep like a giant deep \ntroubled; \n\nTalks fierce in accord with my own \nstormy spirit. \n\n\n\n128 \n\n\nffita from 3 (na, 31 \xc2\xa9rama \n\n\nScene II. \n\nSunset on a spur of Mount Hood. \n\nLamonte contemplates the scene. \n\nLamonte. \n\nA flushed and weary messenger a- \nwest \n\nIs standing at the half-closed door of \nday, \n\nAs he would say, Good night; and \nnow his bright \n\nRed cap he tips to me and turns his \nface, \n\nWere it an unholy thing to say, an \nangel now \n\nBeside the door stood with uplifted \nseal? \n\nBehold the door seal\xe2\x80\x99d with that \nblood red seal \n\nNow burning, spreading o\xe2\x80\x99er the \nmighty West. \n\nNever again shall that dead day \narise \n\nTherefrom, but must be born and \ncome anew. \n\nThe tawny, solemn Night, child of \nthe East, \n\nHer mournful robe trails o\xe2\x80\x99er the dis\xc2\xac \ntant woods, \n\nAnd comes this way with firm and \nstately step. \n\nAfront, and very high, she wears a \nshield, \n\nA plate of silver, and upon her brow \n\nThe radiant Venus bums a pretty \nlamp. \n\nBehold! how in her gorgeous flow of \nhair \n\n\nDo gleam a million mellow yellow \ngems, \n\nThat spill their molten gold upon the \ndewy grass. \n\nNow throned on boundless plains, \nand gazing down \n\nSo calmly on the red-seal\xe2\x80\x99d tomb of \nday, \n\nShe rests her form against the Rocky \nMountains, \n\nAnd rules with silent power a peaceful \nworld. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis midnight now. The bent and \nbroken moon, \n\nAll batter\xe2\x80\x99d, black, as from a thou\xc2\xac \nsand battles, \n\nHangs silent on the purple walls of \nheaven. \n\nThe angel warrior, guard of the gates \neternal, \n\nIn battle-harness girt, sleeps on the \nfield: \n\nBut when tomorrow comes, when \nwicked men \n\nThat fret the patient earth are all \nastir, \n\nHe will resume his shield, and, facing \nearthward, \n\nThe gates of heaven guard from sins \nof earth. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis morn. Behold the kingly day \nnow leaps \n\nThe eastern wall of earth, bright sword \nin hand, \n\nAnd clad in flowing robe of mellow \nlight, \n\nLike to a king that has regain\xe2\x80\x99d his \nthrone, \n\n\n\n\nJStte from Kna, a Jirama \n\n\n129 \n\n\nHe warms his drooping subjects into \njoy, \n\nThat rise renewed to do him fealty, \n\nAnd rules with pomp the universal \nworld. \n\nDon Carlos ascends the mountain, \ngesticulating and talking to himself. \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nOh, for a name that black-eyed \nmaids would sigh \n\nAnd lean with parted lips at mention \n\nof; \n\nThat I should seem so tall in minds of \nmen \n\nThat I might walk beneath the arch \nof heaven, \n\nAnd pluck the ripe red stars as I \npass\xe2\x80\x99d on, \n\nAs favor\xe2\x80\x99d guests do pluck the purple \ngrapes \n\nThat hang above the humble entrance \nway \n\nOf palm-thatch\xe2\x80\x99d mountain inn of \nMexico. \n\nOh, I would give the green leaves of \nmy life \n\nFor something grand, for real and \nundream\xe2\x80\x99d deeds! \n\nTo wear a mantle, broad and richly \ngemm\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nAs purple heaven fringed with gold at \nsunset; \n\nTo wear a crown as dazzling as the \nsun, \n\nAnd, holding up a scepter lightning- \ncharged, \n\n\nStride out among the stars as I once \nstrode \n\nA barefoot boy among the buttercups. \n\nAlas! I am so restless. There is \nthat \n\nWithin me doth rebel and rise against \n\nThe all I am and half I see in others; \n\nAnd were\xe2\x80\x99t not for contempt of cow\xc2\xac \nard act \n\nOf flying all defeated from the world, \n\nAs if I feared and dared not face its \nills, \n\nI should ere this have known, known \nmore or less \n\nThan any flesh that frets this sullen \nearth. \n\nI know not where such thoughts will \nlead me to: \n\nI have had fear that they would drive \nme mad, \n\nAnd then have flattered my weak self, \nand said \n\nThe soul\xe2\x80\x99s outgrown the body\xe2\x80\x94yea, \nthe soul \n\nAspires to the stars, and in its strug\xc2\xac \ngles upward \n\nMakes the dull flesh quiver as an \naspen. \n\nLamonte. \n\nWhat waif is this cast here upon my \nshore, \n\nFrom seas of subtle and most selfish \nmen? \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nOf subtle and most selfish men!\xe2\x80\x94 \nah, that\xe2\x80\x99s the term! \n\n\n9 \n\n\n\n\n130 \n\n\ni&Hte front Ifna, 0 JBtama \n\n\nAnd if you be but earnest in your \nspleen. \n\nAnd other sex across man\xe2\x80\x99s shoulders \nlash, \n\nI\xe2\x80\x99ll stand beside you on this crag and \nhowl \n\nAnd hurl my clenched fists down upon \ntheir heads, \n\nTill I am hoarse as yonder cataract. \nLamonte. \n\nWhy, no, my friend, I\xe2\x80\x99ll not con\xc2\xac \nsent to that. \n\nNo true man yet has ever woman \ncursed. \n\nAnd I\xe2\x80\x94I do not hate my fellow man, \n\nFor man by nature bears within \nhimself \n\nNobility that makes him half a god; \n\nBut as in somewise he hath made \nhimself, \n\nHis universal thirst for gold and \npomp, \n\nAnd purchased fleeting fame and \nbubble honors, \n\nForgetting good, so mocking helpless \nage, \n\nI hold him but a sorry worm indeed; \n\nAnd so have turn\xe2\x80\x99d me quietly \naside \n\nTo know the majesty of peaceful \nwoods. \n\nDon Carlos (as if alone). \n\nThe fabled font of youth led many \nfools, \n\nZealous in its pursuit, to hapless \ndeath; \n\n\nAnd yet this thirst for fame, this hot \nambition, \n\nThis soft-toned syren-tongue, en\xc2\xac \nchanting Fame, \n\nDoth lead me headlong on to equal \nfolly, \n\nLike to a wild bird charm\xe2\x80\x99d by shin\xc2\xac \ning coils \n\nAnd swift mesmeric glance of deadly \nsnake: \n\nI would not break the charm, but win \na world \n\nOr die with curses blistering my \nlips. \n\nLamonte. \n\nGive up ambition, petty pride\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBy pride the angels fell. \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nBy pride they reached a place from \nwhence to fall. \n\nLamonte. \n\nYou startle me! I am unused to \nhear \n\nMen talk these fierce and bitter \nthoughts; and yet \n\nIn closed recesses of my soul was \nonce \n\nA dark and gloomy chamber where \nthey dwelt. \n\nGive up ambition\xe2\x80\x94yea, crush such \nthoughts \n\nAs you would crush from hearth a \nscorpion brood; \n\n\n\nGBits\' from 3na, 9 Drama \n\n\nFor, mark me well, they\xe2\x80\x99ll get the \nmastery, \n\nAnd drive you on to death\xe2\x80\x94or worse, \nacross \n\nA thousand ruin\xe2\x80\x99d homes and broken \nhearts. \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nGive up ambition! Oh, rather \nthan to die \n\nAnd glide a lonely, nameless, shiver\xc2\xac \ning ghost \n\nDown time\xe2\x80\x99s dark tide of utter \nnothingness, \n\nI\xe2\x80\x99d write a name in blood and or\xc2\xac \nphans\xe2\x80\x99 tears. \n\nThe temple-burner wiser was than \nkings. \n\nLamonte. \n\nAnd would you dare the curse of \nman and\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nDare the curse of man! \n\nI\xe2\x80\x99d dare the fearful curse of God! \n\nI\xe2\x80\x99d build a pyramid of whitest skulls, \n\nAnd step therefrom unto the spotted \nmoon, \n\nAnd thence to stars, and thence to \ncentral suns. \n\nThen with one grand and mighty leap \nwould land \n\nUnhinder\xe2\x80\x99d on the shining shore of \nheaven, \n\nAnd, sword in hand, unbared and \nunabash\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\n\n131 \n\nWould stand bold forth in presence of \nthe God \n\nOf gods, and on the jewel\xe2\x80\x99d inner \nside \n\nThe walls of heaven, carve with keen \nDamascus steel \n\nAnd highest up, a grand and titled \nname \n\nThat time nor tide could touch or \ntarnish ever. \n\nLamonte. \n\nSeek not to crop above the heads of \nmen \n\nTo be a better mark for envy\xe2\x80\x99s \nshafts. \n\nCome to my peaceful home, and leave \nbehind \n\nThese stormy thoughts and daring \naspirations. \n\nAll earthly power is but a thing \ncomparative. \n\nIs not a petty chief of some lone \nisle, \n\nWith half a dozen nude and starving \nsubjects, \n\nAs much a king as he the Czar of \nRusk? \n\nIn yonder sweet retreat and balmy \nplace \n\nI\xe2\x80\x99ll abdicate, and you be chief \nindeed. \n\nThere you will reign and tell me of \nthe world, \n\nIts life and lights, its sins and sickly \nshadows. \n\nThe pheasant will reveille beat at \nmorn, \n\nAnd rouse us to the battle of the \nday. \n\n\n\n132 \n\n\nJSitst from 3fna, 8 \xc2\xa9rarna \n\n\nMy swarthy subjects will in circle \nsit, \n\nAnd, gazing on your noble presence, \ndeem \n\nYou great indeed, and call you chief \nof chiefs: \n\nAnd, knowing no one greater than \nyourself \n\nIn all the leafy borders of your \nrealm, \n\n\'Gainst what can pride or poor ambi\xc2\xac \ntion chafe? \n\n\'Twill be a kingdom without king, \nsave you, \n\nMore broad than that the cruel Cortes \nwon, \n\nWith subjects truer than he ever \nknew, \n\nThat know no law but only nature\xe2\x80\x99s \nlaw, \n\nAnd no religion know but that of \nlove. \n\nThere truth and beauty are, for there \nis Nature, \n\nSerene and simple. She will be our \npriestess, \n\nAnd in her calm and uncomplaining \nface \n\nWe two will read her rubric and be \nwise. . . . \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nWhy, truly now, this fierce and \nbroken land, \n\nSeen through your eyes, assumes a \nfairer shape. \n\nLead up, for you are nearer God than \n\nI. \n\n\nScene III. \n\nIna, in black , alone . Midnight . \nIna. \n\nI weep? I weep? I laugh to \nthink of it! \n\nI lift my dark brow to the breath of \nthe ocean, \n\nSoft kissing me now like the lips of \nmy mother, \n\nAnd laugh low and long as I crush \nthe brown grasses, \n\nTo think I should weep! Why, I \nnever wept\xe2\x80\x94never, \n\nNot even in punishments dealt me in \nchildhood! \n\nYea, all of my wrongs and my bitter\xc2\xac \nness buried \n\nIn my brave baby heart, all alone and \nunfriended. \n\nAnd I pitied, with proud and disdain- \nfulest pity, \n\nThe weak who would weep, and I \nlaugh\xe2\x80\x99d at the folly \n\nOf those who could laugh and make \nmerry with playthings. \n\nNay, I will not weep now over that \nI desired. \n\nDesired? Yes: I to myself dare \nconfess it, \n\nAh, too, to the world should it ques\xc2\xac \ntion too closely, \n\nAnd bathe me and sport in a deep sea \nof candor. \n\nLet the world be deceived; it insists \nupon it: \n\n\n\n28its from 3na, & \xc2\xa9rama \n\n\n133 \n\n\nLet it bundle me round in its black \nwoe-garments; \n\nBut I, self with self\xe2\x80\x94my free soul \nfearless\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAm frank as the sun, nor the toss of a \ncopper \n\nCare I if the world call it good or \nevil. \n\nI am glad tonight, and in new-born \nfreedom \n\nForget all earth with my old \ncompanions,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe moon and the stars and the moon- \nclad ocean. \n\nI am face to face with the stars that \nknow me, \n\nAnd gaze as I gazed in the eyes of my \nmother, \n\nForgetting the city and the coarse \nthings in it; \n\nFor there\xe2\x80\x99s naught but God in the \nshape of mortal, \n\nSave one\xe2\x80\x94my wandering, wild boy- \nlover\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat I esteem worth a stale banana. \n\n\nThe hair hangs heavy and is warm on \nmy shoulder, \n\nAnd is thick with the odors of balm \nand of blossom, \n\nThe great bay sleeps with the ships on \nher bosom; \n\nThrough the Golden Gate, to the left \nhand yonder, \n\nThe white sea lies in a deep sleep, \nbreathing, \n\nThe father of melody, mother of \nmeasure. \n\n\nScene IV. \n\nA wood by a rivulet on a spur of \nMount Hood , overlooking the \nColumbia. Lamonte and Don \nCarlos, on their way to the camp , \nare reposing under the shadow of \nthe forest. Some deer are observed \ndescending to the brook , and Don \nCarlos seizes his rifle. \n\nLamonte. \n\nNay, nay, my friend, strike not \nfrom your covert, \n\nStrike like a serpent in the grass well \nhidden? \n\nWhat, steal into their homes, and, \nwhen they, thirsting, \n\nAnd all unsuspecting, come down in \ncouples \n\nAnd dip brown muzzles in the mossy \nbrink, \n\nThen shoot them down without \nchance to fly\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe only means that God has given \nthem, \n\nPoor, unarm\xe2\x80\x99d mutes, to baffle man\xe2\x80\x99s \ncunning? \n\nAh, now I see you had not thought of \nthis! \n\nThe hare is fleet, and is most quick at \nsound, \n\nHis coat is changed with the changing \nfields; \n\nYon deer turn brown when the leaves \nturn brown; \n\nThe dog has teeth, the cat has \ntalons, \n\nA man has craft and sinewy arms: \n\n\n\n\n134 \n\n\nSSite from fna, M JBtama \n\n\nAll things that live have some means \nof defense \n\nAll, all\xe2\x80\x94save only fair lovely woman. \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nNay, she has her tongue; is armed \nto the teeth. \n\nLamonte. \n\nThou Timon, what can \xe2\x80\x99scape your \nbitterness? \n\nBut for this sweet content of Nature \nhere, \n\nUpon whose breast we now recline \nand rest, \n\nWhy, you might lift your voice and \nrail at her! \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nOh, I am out of patience with your \nfaith! \n\nWhat! She content and peaceful, \nuncomplaining ? \n\nI\xe2\x80\x99ve seen her fretted like a lion \ncaged, \n\nChafe like a peevish woman cross\xe2\x80\x99d \nand churl\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nTramping and champing like a whelp\xc2\xac \nless bear; \n\nHave seen her weep till earth was wet \nwith tears, \n\nThen turn all smiles\xe2\x80\x94a jade that won \nher point? \n\nHave seen her tear the hoary hair of \nocean, \n\nWhile he, himself full half a world, \nwould moan \n\n\nAnd roll and toss his clumsy hands all \nday \n\nTo earth like some great helpless \nbabe, \n\nRude-rock\xe2\x80\x99d and cradled by an un\xc2\xac \nkind nurse, \n\nThen stain her snowy hem with salt- \nsea tears; \n\nAnd when the peaceful, mellow moon \ncame forth, \n\nTo walk and meditate among the \nblooms \n\nThat make so blest the upper purple \nfields, \n\nThis wroth dyspeptic sea ran after \nher \n\nWith all his soul, as if to pour him\xc2\xac \nself, \n\nAll sick and helpless, in her snowy \nlap. \n\nContent! Oh, she has cracked the \nribs of earth \n\nAnd made her shake poor trembling \nman from off \n\nHer back, e\xe2\x80\x99en as a grizzly shakes the \nhounds; \n\nShe has upheaved her rocky spine \nagainst \n\nThe flowing robes of the eternal God. \n\nLamonte. \n\nThere once was one of nature like \nto this: \n\nHe stood a barehead boy upon a cliff \n\nPine-crown\xe2\x80\x99d, that hung high o\xe2\x80\x99er a \nbleak north sea. \n\nHis long hair stream\xe2\x80\x99d and flashed \nlike yellow silk, \n\nHis sea-blue eyes lay deep and still as \nlakes \n\n\n\nfrom Sna, 8 \xc2\xa9rama \n\n\ni35 \n\n\nO\xe2\x80\x99erhung by mountains, arch\xe2\x80\x99d in \nvirgin snow; \n\nAnd far astray, and friendless and \nalone, \n\nA tropic bird blown through the north \nfrost wind, \n\nHe stood above the sea in the cold \nwhite moon, \n\nHis thin face lifted to the flashing \nstars. \n\nHe talk\xe2\x80\x99d familiarly and face to face \n\nWith the eternal God, in solemn \nnight, \n\nConfronting Him with free and flip\xc2\xac \npant air \n\nAs one confronts a merchant o\xe2\x80\x99er his \ncounter, \n\nAnd in vehement blasphemy did \nsay: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGod, put aside this world\xe2\x80\x94show me \nanother! \n\nGod, this world\xe2\x80\x99s but a cheat\xe2\x80\x94hand \ndown another! \n\nI will not buy\xe2\x80\x94not have it as a \ngift. \n\nPut this aside and hand me down \nanother\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnother, and another, still another, \n\nTill I have tried the fairest world that \nhangs \n\nUpon the walls and broad dome of \nyour shop. \n\nFor I am proud of soul and regal \nborn, \n\nAnd will not have a cheap and cheat\xc2\xac \ning world.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nThe noble youth! So God gave \nhim another? \n\n\nLamonte. \n\nA bear, as in old time, came from \nthe woods \n\nAnd tare him there upon that storm- \nswept cliff\xe2\x80\x94- \n\nA grim and grizzled bear, like unto \nhunger. \n\nA tall ship sail\xe2\x80\x99d adown the sea next \nmorn, \n\nAnd, standing with his glass upon the \nprow, \n\nThe captain saw a vulture on a cliff, \n\nGorging, and pecking, stretching his \nlong neck \n\nBracing his raven plumes against the \nwind, \n\nFretting the tempest with his sable \nfeathers. \n\nA Young Poet ascends the mountain \nand approaches. \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nHo! ho! whom have we here? \nTalk of the devil, \n\nAnd he\xe2\x80\x99s at hand. Say, who are you, \nand whence? \n\nPoet. \n\nI am a poet, and dwell down by the \nsea. \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nA poet! a poet, forsooth! A hun\xc2\xac \ngry fool! \n\nWould you know what it means to be \na poet now? \n\n\n\nffita from Sna, 3 \xc2\xa9rama \n\n\n136 \n\nIt is to want a friend, to want a \nhome, \n\nA country, money,\xe2\x80\x94ay, to want a \nmeal. \n\nIt is not wise to be a poet now, \n\nFor, oh, the world it has so modest \ngrown \n\nIt will not praise a poet to his face, \n\nBut waits till he is dead some hundred \nyears, \n\nThen uprears marbles cold and stupid \nas itself. \n\n[Poet rises to go .] \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nWhy, what\xe2\x80\x99s the haste? You\xe2\x80\x99ll \nreach there soon enough. \n\nPoet. \n\nReach where? \n\nDon Carlos. \n\nThe inn to which all earthly roads \ndo tend: \n\nThe \xe2\x80\x9cneat apartments furnish\xe2\x80\x99d\xe2\x80\x94see \nwithin\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99; \n\nThe \xe2\x80\x9cfurnish\xe2\x80\x99d rooms for quiet, single \ngentlemen\xe2\x80\x9d; \n\nThe narrow six-by-two where you \nwill lie \n\nWith cold blue nose up-pointing to \nthe grass, \n\nLabell\xe2\x80\x99d and box\xe2\x80\x99d, and ready all for \nshipment. \n\nPoet (loosening hair and letting fall a \nmantle ). \n\n\nAh me! my Don Carlos, look kindly \nupon me! \n\nWith my hand on your arm and my \ndark brow lifted \n\nFull level to yours, do you not now \nknow me? \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis I, your Ina, whom you loved by \nthe ocean, \n\nIn the warm-spiced winds from the \nfar Cathay. \n\nDon Carlos { bitterly ). \n\nWith the smell of the dead man still \nupon you! \n\nYour dark hair wet from his death- \ndamp forehead! \n\nYou are not my Ina, for she is a \nmemory, \n\nA marble chisell\xe2\x80\x99d, in my heart\xe2\x80\x99s dark \nchamber \n\nSet up for ever, and naught can \nchange her; \n\nAnd you are a stranger, and the gulf \nbetween us \n\nIs wide as the plains, and as deep as \nPacific. \n\nAnd now, good night. In your \nserape folded \n\nHard by in the light of the pine-knot \nfire, \n\nSleep you as sound as you will be \nwelcome; \n\nAnd on the morrow\xe2\x80\x94now mark me, \nmadam\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhen tomorrow comes, why, you will \nturn you \n\nTo the right or left as did Father \nAbram. \n\n\n\n\xe2\x82\xacben \xc2\xa7s>o \n\n\ni37 \n\n\nGood night, for ever and for aye, \ngood by; \n\nMy bitter is sweet and your truth is a \nlie. \n\nIna (letting go his arm and stepping \nhack). \n\nWell, then! \xe2\x80\x99tis over, and \xe2\x80\x99tis well \xe2\x80\xa2 \nthus ended; \n\nI am well escaped from my life\xe2\x80\x99s \ndevotion. \n\nThe waters of bliss are a waste of \nbitterness; \n\nThe day of joy I did join hands \nover, \n\nAs a bow of promise when my years \nwere weary, \n\nAnd set high up as a brazen serpent \n\nTo look upon when I else had \nfainted \n\nIn burning deserts, while you sipp\xe2\x80\x99d \nices \n\nAnd snowy sherbets, and roam\xe2\x80\x99d \nunfetter\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nIs a deadly asp in the fruit and \nflowers \n\nThat you in your bitterness now bear \nto me; \n\n\nBut its fangs unfasten and it glides \ndown from me, \n\nFrom a Cleopatra of cold white \nmarble. \n\nI have but done what I would do \nover, \n\nDid I find one worthy of so much \ndevotion; \n\nAnd, standing here with my clean \nhands folded \n\nAbove a bosom whose crime is \ncourage, \n\nThe only regret that my heart dis\xc2\xac \ncovers \n\nIs that I should do and have dared so \ngreatly \n\nFor the love ctf one who deserved so \nlittle. \n\nNay! say no more, nor attempt to \napproach me! \n\nThis ten feet line lying now between \nus \n\nShall never be less while the land has \nmeasure. \n\nSee! night is forgetting the east in the \nheavens; \n\nThe birds pipe shrill and the beasts \nhowl answer. \n\n\nEVEN SO \n\n\nSierras , and eternal tents \nOf snow that flash o\'er battlements \nOf mountains! My land of the sun, \nAm I not true? have I not done \nAll things for thine, for thee alone, \nO sun-land , sea-land, thou mine own? \nBe my reward some little place \nTo pitch my tent, some tree and vine \nWhere I may sit with lifted face , \n\n\nAnd drink the sun as drinking wine: \nWhere sweeps the Oregon, and where \nWhite storms carouse on perfumed \nair . \n\nIn the shadows a-west of the sunset \nmountains, \n\nWhere old-time giants had dwelt and \npeopled, \n\n\n\n\nCbett &o \n\n\n138 \n\nAnd built up cities and castled battle\xc2\xac \nments, \n\nAnd rear\xe2\x80\x99d up pillars that pierced the \nheavens, \n\nA poet dwelt of the book of Na\xc2\xac \nture\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAn ardent lover of the pure and \nbeautiful, \n\nDevoutest lover of the true and \nbeautiful, \n\nProfoundest lover of the grand and \nbeautiful\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWith heart all impulse, and intensest \npassion, \n\nWho believed in love as in God eter\xc2\xac \nnal\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA dream while the waken\xe2\x80\x99d world \nwent over, \n\nAn Indian summer of the singing \nseasons; \n\nAnd he sang wild songs like the wind \nin cedars, \n\nWas tempest-toss\xe2\x80\x99d as the pines, yet \never \n\nAs fix\xe2\x80\x99d in faith as they in the moun\xc2\xac \ntains. \n\nHe had heard of a name as one \nhears of a princess, \n\nHer glory had come unto him in \nstories; \n\nFrom afar he had look\xe2\x80\x99d as entranced \nupon her; \n\nHe gave her name to the wind in \nmeasures, \n\nAnd he heard her name in the deep\xc2\xac \nvoiced cedars, \n\nAnd afar in the winds rolling on like \nthe billows, \n\nHer name in the name of another for \never \n\n\nGave all his numbers their grandest \nstrophes; \n\nEnshrined her image in his heart\xe2\x80\x99s \nhigh temple, \n\nAnd saint-like held her, too sacred \nfor mortal. \n\nHe came to fall like a king of the \nforest \n\nCaught in the strong storm arms of \nthe wrestler; \n\nForgetting his songs, his crags ai\\d his \nmountains, \n\nAnd nearly his God, in his wild deep \npassion; \n\nAnd when he had won her and turn\xe2\x80\x99d \nhim homeward, \n\nWith the holiest pledges love gives its \nlover, \n\nThe mountain route was as strewn \nwith roses. \n\nCan high love then be a thing un\xc2\xac \nholy, \n\nTo make us better and bless\xe2\x80\x99d su\xc2\xac \npremely? \n\nThe day was fix\xe2\x80\x99d for the feast and \nnuptials; \n\nHe crazed with impatience at the \ntardy hours; \n\nHe flew in the face of old Time as a \ntyrant; \n\nHe had fought the days that stood \nstill between them, \n\nFought one by one, as you fight with a \nfoeman, \n\nHad they been animate and sensate \nbeings. \n\nAt last then the hour came coldly \nforward. \n\n\n\n\nCbett H>o \n\n\n139 \n\n\nWhen Mars was trailing his lance on \nthe mountains \n\nHe rein\xe2\x80\x99d his steed and look\xe2\x80\x99d down \nin the canon \n\nTo where she dwelt, with a heart of \nfire. \n\nHe kiss\xe2\x80\x99d his hand to the smoke slow \ncurling, \n\nThen bow\xe2\x80\x99d his head in devoutest \nblessing. \n\nHis spotted courser did plunge and \nfret him \n\nBeneath his gay silken-fringed carona \n\nAnd toss his neck in a black mane \nbanner\xe2\x80\x99d; \n\nThen all afoam, plunging iron-footed, \n\nDash\xe2\x80\x99d him down with a wild im\xc2\xac \npatience. \n\nA coldness met him, like the breath \nof a cavern, \n\nAs he joyously hasten\xe2\x80\x99d across the \nthreshold. \n\nShe came, and coldly she spoke and \nscornful, \n\nIn answer to warm and impulsive \npassion. \n\nAll things did array them in shapes \nmost hateful, \n\nAnd life did seem but a jest intolerable. \n\nHe dared to question her why this \nestrangement: \n\nShe spoke with a srange and stiff \nindifference, \n\nAnd bade him go on all alone life\xe2\x80\x99s \njourney. \n\nThen stern and tall he did stand up \nbefore her, \n\nAnd gaze dark-brow\xe2\x80\x99d through the \nlow narrow casement, \n\n\nFor a time, as if warring in thought \nwith a passion; \n\nThen, crushing hard down the hot \nwelling bitterness, \n\nHe folded his form in a sullen silent\xc2\xac \nness, \n\nAnd turned for ever away from her \npresence; \n\nBearing his sorrow like some great \nburden, \n\nLike a black nightmare in his hot \nheart muffled; \n\nWith his faith in the truth of woman \nbroken. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x99Mid Theban pillars, where sang \nthe Pindar, \n\nBreathing the breath of the Grecian \nislands, \n\nBreathing in spices and olive and \nmyrtle, \n\nCounting the caravans, curl\xe2\x80\x99d and \nsnowy, \n\nSlow journeying over his head to \nMecca \n\nOr the high Christ land of most holy \nmemory, \n\nCounting the clouds through the \nboughs above him, \n\nThat brush\xe2\x80\x99d white marbles that time \nhad chisel\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nAnd rear\xe2\x80\x99d as tombs on the great \ndead city, \n\nLetter\xe2\x80\x99d with solemn but unread \nmoral\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA poet rested in the red-hot summer. \n\nHe took no note of the things about \nhim, \n\nBut dream\xe2\x80\x99d and counted the clouds \nabove him; \n\n\n\n140 \n\n\nCben H>o \n\n\nHis soul was troubled, and his sad \nheart\xe2\x80\x99s Mecca \n\nWas a miner\xe2\x80\x99s home far over the \nocean, \n\nBanner\xe2\x80\x99d by pines that did brush \nblue heaven. \n\nWhen the sun went down on the \nbronzed Morea, \n\nHe read to himself from the lines of \nsorrow \n\nThat came as a wail from the one he \nworshipp\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nSent over the seas by an old compan\xc2\xac \nion: \n\nThey spoke no word of him, or re\xc2\xac \nmembrance. \n\nAnd he was most sad, for he felt for\xc2\xac \ngotten, \n\nAnd said: \xe2\x80\x9cIn the leaves of her fair \nheart\xe2\x80\x99s album \n\nShe has cover\xe2\x80\x99d my face with the \nface of another. \n\nLet the great sea lift like a wall be\xc2\xac \ntween us, \n\nHigh-back\xe2\x80\x99d, with his mane of white \nstorms for ever\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI shall learn to love, I shall wed my \nsorrow, \n\nI shall take as a spouse the days that \nare perish\xe2\x80\x99d; \n\nI shall dwell in a land where the \nmarch of genius \n\nMade tracks in marble in the days of \ngiants; \n\nI shall sit in the ruins where sat the \nMarius, \n\nGray with the ghosts of the great \ndeparted.\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nAnd then he said in the solemn \ntwilight . . . \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cStrangely wooing are yon worlds \nabove us, \n\nStrangely beautiful is the Faith of \nIslam, \n\nStrangely sweet are the songs of \nSolomon, \n\nStrangely tender are the teachings of \nJesus, \n\nStrangely cold is the sun on the moun\xc2\xac \ntains, \n\nStrangely mellow is the moon on old \nruins, \n\nStrangely pleasant are the stolen \nwaters, \n\nStrangely lighted is the North night \nregion, \n\nStrangely strong are the streams in \nthe ocean, \n\nStrangely true are the tales of the \nOrient, \n\nBut stranger than all are the ways of \nwomen.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHis head on his hands and his hands \non the marble, \n\nAlone in the midnight he slept in the \nruins; \n\nAnd a form was before him white \nmantled in moonlight, \n\nAnd bitter he said to the one he had \nworshipp\xe2\x80\x99d\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYour hands in mine, your face, \nyour eyes \n\nLook level into mine, and mine \n\nAre not abashed in anywise \n\nAs eyes were in an elden syne. \n\nPerhaps the pulse is colder now, \n\nAnd blood comes tamer to the brow \n\nBecause of hot blood long ago . . . \n\n\n\nCbett i\xc2\xa7>o \n\n\nWithdraw your hand? . . . Well, \nbe it so, \n\nAnd turn your bent head slow side- \nwise, \n\nFor recollections are as seas \n\nThat come and go in tides, and these \n\nAre flood tides filling to the eyes. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98How strange that you above the \nvale \n\nAnd I below the mountain wall \nShould walk and meet! . . Why, \nyou are pale! . . \n\nStrange meeting on the mountain \nfringe! . . \n\n.... More strange we ever met \nat all! ... . \n\nTides come and go, we know their \ntime; \n\nThe moon, we know her wane or \nprime; \n\nBut who knows how the heart may \nhinge? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou stand before me here to\xc2\xac \nnight, \n\nBut not beside me, not beside\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAre beautiful, but not a bride. \n\nSome things I recollect aright, \nThough full a dozen years are done \nSince we two met one winter night\xe2\x80\x94 \nSince I was crush\xe2\x80\x99d as by a fall; \n\nFor I have watch\xe2\x80\x99d and pray\xe2\x80\x99d \nthrough all \n\nThe shining circles of the sun. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI saw you where sad cedars wave; \nI sought you in the dewy eve \nWhen shining crickets thrill and \ngrieve; \n\nYou smiled, and I became a slave. \n\n\n141 \n\nA slave! I worshipp\xe2\x80\x99d you at night, \nWhen all the blue field blossom\xe2\x80\x99d red \nWith dewy roses overhead \nIn sweet and delicate delight. \n\nI was devout. I knelt that night \nTo Him who doeth all things well. \n\nI tried in vain to break the spell; \nMy prison\xe2\x80\x99d soul refused to rise \nAnd image saints in Paradise, \n\nWhile one was here before my eyes. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSome things are sooner marr\xe2\x80\x99d \nthan made. \n\nA frost fell on a soul that night, \n\nAnd one was black that erst was white. \nAnd you forget the place\xe2\x80\x94the night! \nForget that aught was done or said\xe2\x80\x94 \nSay this has pass\xe2\x80\x99d a long decade\xe2\x80\x94 \nSay not a single tear was shed\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSay you forget these little things! \n\nIs not your recollection loth? \n\nWell, little bees have bitter stings, \nAnd I remember for us both. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNo, not a tear. Do men com\xc2\xac \nplain? \n\nThe outer wound will show a stain, \nAnd we may shriek at idle pain; \n\nBut pierce the heart, and not a word, \nOr wail, or sign, is seen or heard. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI did not blame\xe2\x80\x94I do not blame, \nMy wild heart turns to you the same, \nSuch as it is; but oh, its meed \nOf faithfulness and trust and truth, \nAnd earnest confidence of youth, \n\nI caution, you, is small indeed. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI follow\xe2\x80\x99d you, I worshipp\xe2\x80\x99d you \nAnd I would follow, worship still; \nBut if I felt the blight and chill \n\n\n\n\n\n\n142 \n\n\nCfocn H>o \n\n\nOf frosts in my uncheerful spring, \nAnd show it now in riper years \nIn answer to this love you bring\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIn answer to this second love, \n\nThis wail of an unmated dove, \n\nIn cautious answer to your tears\xe2\x80\x94 \nYou, you know who taught me dis\xc2\xac \ndain. \n\nBut deem you I would deal you pain? \nI joy to know your heart is light, \n\nI journey glad to know it thus, \n\nAnd could I dare to make it less? \nYours\xe2\x80\x94you are day, but I am night. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGod knows I would descend to\xc2\xac \nday \n\nDevoutly on my knees, and pray \nYour way might be one path of peace \nThrough bending boughs and blos\xc2\xac \nsom\xe2\x80\x99d trees, \n\nAnd perfect bliss through roses fair; \nBut know you, back\xe2\x80\x94one long de\xc2\xac \ncade\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHow fervently, how fond I pray\xe2\x80\x99d?\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhat was the answer to that prayer? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe tale is old, and often told \nAnd lived by more than you suppose\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe fragrance of a summer rose \nPress\xe2\x80\x99d down beneath the stubborn \nlid, \n\nWhen sun and song are hush\xe2\x80\x99d and \nhid, \n\nAnd summer days are gray and old. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWe parted so. Amid the bays \nAnd peaceful palms and song and \nshade \n\nYour cheerful feet in pleasure stray\xe2\x80\x99d \nThrough all the swift and shining \ndays. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou made my way another way. \nYou bade it should not be with thine\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x96\xa0 \nA fierce and cheerless route was mine: \nBut we have met, tonight-\xe2\x80\x94today. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou talk of tears\xe2\x80\x94of bitter \ntears\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nAnd tell of tyranny and wrong, \n\nAnd I re-live some stinging jeers, \nBack, far back, in the leaden years. \n\nA lane without a turn is long, \n\nI muse, and whistle a reply\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen bite my lips and crush a sigh. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou sympathize that I am sad, \n\nI sigh for you that you complain, \n\nI shake my yellow hair in vain, \n\nI laugh with lips, but am not glad. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n. . . \xe2\x80\x9cHis was a hot love of the \nhours, \n\nAnd love and lover both are flown; \nNow you walk, like a ghost, alone. \nHe sipp\xe2\x80\x99d your sunny lips, and he \nTook all their honey; now the bee \nBends down the heads of other flowers \nAnd other lips lift up to kiss. . . . \n... I am not cruel, yet I find \nA savage solace for the mind \nAnd sweet delight in saying this. . . . \nNow you are silent, white, and you \nLift up your hands as making sign, \nAnd your rich lips lie thin and blue \nAnd ashen . . . and you writhe, \nand you \n\nBreathe quick and tremble ... is \nit true \n\nThe soul takes wounds, sheds blood \nlike wine? \n\n\n\nJWprtfj \n\n\ni43 \n\n\n. . . \xe2\x80\x9cYou seem so most uncom\xc2\xac \nmon tall \n\nAgainst the lonely ghostly moon, \nThat hurries homeward oversoon, \nAnd hides behind you and the pines; \nAnd your two hands hang cold and \nsmall, \n\nAnd your two thin arms lie like vines, \nOr winter moonbeams on a wall. \n\n. . . What if you be a weary ghost, \nAnd I but dream, and dream I wake? \nThen wake me not, and my mistake \nIs not so bad; let\xe2\x80\x99s make the most \nOf all we get, asleep, awake\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd waste not one sweet thing at all. \n\nGod knows that, at the best, life \nbrings \n\nThe soul\xe2\x80\x99s share so exceeding small \nWe weary for some better things, \nAnd hunger even unto death. \n\nLaugh loud, be glad with ready breath, \nFor after all are joy and grief \nNot merely matters of belief? \n\nAnd what is certain after all, \n\nBut death, delightful, patient death? \nThe cool and perfect, peaceful sleep, \nWithout one tossing hand, or deep \nSad sigh and catching in of breath! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Be satisfied. The price of breath \nIs paid in toll. But knowledge is \nBought only with a weary care, \n\n\nAnd wisdom means a world of pain. . . \nWell, we have suffered, will again, \nAnd we can work and wait and bear, \nStrong in the certainty of bliss. \nDeath is delightful: after death \nBreaks in the dawn of perfect day. \nLet question he who will: the May \nThrows fragrance far beyond the wall. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cDeath is delightful. Death is \ndawn. \n\nFame is not much, love is not much, \nYet what else is there worth the touch \nOf lifted hand with dagger drawn? \n\nSo surely life is little worth: \nTherefore I say, Look up; therefore \nI say One little star has more \nBright gold than all the earth of earth. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea, we must labor, plant to reap\xe2\x80\x94 \nLife knows no folding up of hands\xe2\x80\x94 \nMust plow the soul, as plowing lands, \nIn furrows fashion\xe2\x80\x99d strong and deep. \nLife has its lesson. Let us learn \nThe hard, long lesson from the birth, \nAnd be content; stand breast to \nbreast, \n\nAnd bear and battle till the rest. \n\nYet I look to yon stars, and say: \nThank Christ, ye are so far away \nThat when I win you I can turn \nAnd look, and see no sign of earth. \n\n\nMYRRH \n\n\nLife knows no dead so beautiful \nAs is the white cold coffin\'d past; \nThis I may love nor be betray\'d: \n\n\nThe dead are faithful to the last. \nI am not spouseless\xe2\x80\x94I have wed \nA memory\xe2\x80\x94a life that\'s dead. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n144 \n\n\niUlprrfj \n\n\nFarewell! for here the ways at last \nDivide\xe2\x80\x94diverge, like delta\xe2\x80\x99d Nile, \nWhich after desert dangers pass\xe2\x80\x99d \nOf many and many a thousand mile, \nAs constant as a column stone, \n\nSeeks out the sea, divorced\xe2\x80\x94alone. \n\nAnd you and I have buried Love, \n\nA red seal on the coffin\xe2\x80\x99s lid; \n\nThe clerk below, the court above, \nPronounce it dead: the corpse is hid \nAnd I who never cross\xe2\x80\x99d your will \nConsent . . . that you may have it \nstill. \n\nFarewell! a sad word easy said \nAnd easy sung, I think, by some. . . \n... I clutch\xe2\x80\x99d my hands, I turn\xe2\x80\x99d \nmy head \n\nIn my endeavor and was dumb; \n\nAnd when I should have said, Fare\xc2\xac \nwell, \n\nI only murmur\xe2\x80\x99d, \xe2\x80\x9cThis is hell.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nWhat recks it now, whose was the \nblame? \n\nBut call it mine; for better used \nAm I to wrong and cold disdain, \n\nCan better bear to be accused \nOf all that wears the shape of shame, \nThan have you bear one touch of \nblame. \n\nI set my face for power and place, \nMy soul is toned to sullenness, \n\nMy heart holds not one sign nor trace \nOf love, or trust, or tenderness. \n\nBut you\xe2\x80\x94your years of happiness \nGod knows I would not make them \nless. \n\n\nAnd you will come some summer \neve, \n\nWhen wheels the white moon on her \ntrack, \n\nAnd hear the plaintive night-bird \ngrieve, \n\nAnd heed the crickets clad in black; \nAlone\xe2\x80\x94not far\xe2\x80\x94a little spell, \n\nAnd say, \xe2\x80\x9cWell, yes, he loved me \nwell\xe2\x80\x9d; \n\nAnd sigh, \xe2\x80\x9cWell, yes, I mind me \nnow, \n\nNone were so bravely true as he; \nAnd yet his love was tame somehow, \nIt was so truly true to me; \n\nI wish\xe2\x80\x99d his patient love had less \nOf worship and of tenderness: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I wish it still, for thus alone \nThere comes a keen reproach or pain, \nA feeling I dislike to own; \n\nHalf yearnings for his voice again, \nHalf longing for his earnest gaze, \n\nTo know him mine always\xe2\x80\x94always.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nI make no murmur; steady, calm, \nSphinx-like I gaze on days ahead. \nNo wooing word, no pressing palm, \nNo sealing love with lips seal-red, \n\nNo waiting for some dusk or dawn, \nNo sacred hour . . . all are gone. \n\nI go alone, no little hands \nTo lead me from forbidden ways, \n\nNo little voice in other lands \nTo cheer through all the weary days, \nYet these are yours, and that to me \n\nIs much indeed.So let it \n\nbe . . . \n\n\n\n\n\njftlprrf) \n\n\ni45 \n\n\n.... A last look from my moun\xc2\xac \ntain wall. . . . \n\nI watch the red sun wed the sea \nBeside your home . . . the tides \nwill fall \n\nAnd rise, but nevermore shall we \nStand hand in hand and watch them \nflow, \n\nAs we once stood. . . . Christ! \nthis is so! \n\nBut, when the stately sea comes in \nWith measured tread and mouth \nafoam, \n\nMy darling cries above the din, \n\nAnd asks, \xe2\x80\x9cHas father yet come \nhome? \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThen look into the peaceful sky, \n\nAnd answer, gently, \xe2\x80\x9cBy and by.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nOne deep spring in a desert sand, \nOne moss\xe2\x80\x99d and mystic pyramid, \n\nA lonely palm on either hand, \n\nA fountain in a forest hid, \n\nAre all my life has realized \nOf all I cherish\xe2\x80\x99d, all I prized: \n\nOf all I dream\xe2\x80\x99d in early youth \nOf love by streams and love-lit ways, \nWhile my heart held its type of truth \nThrough all the tropic golden days, \nAnd I the oak, and you the vine, \nClung palm in palm through cloud or \nshine. \n\nSome time when clouds hang over\xc2\xac \nhead, \n\n(What weary skies without one \ncloud!) \n\nYou may muse on this love that\xe2\x80\x99s dead, \nMuse calm when not so cold or proud, \n\n\nAnd say, \xe2\x80\x9cAt last it comes to me, \nThat none was ever true as he.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nMy sin was that I loved too much\xe2\x80\x94 \nBut I enlisted for the war, \n\nTill we the deep-sea shore should \ntouch, \n\nBeyond Atlanta\xe2\x80\x94near or far\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd truer soldier never yet \nBore shining sword or bayonet. \n\nI did not blame you\xe2\x80\x94do not blame. \nThe stormy elements of soul \nThat I did scorn to tone or tame, \n\nOr bind down unto dull control \nIn full fierce youth, they are all yours, \nWith all their folly and their force. \n\nGod keep you pure, oh, very pure, \nGod give you grace to dare and do; \nGod give you courage to endure \nThe all He may demand of you,\xe2\x80\x94 \nKeep time-frosts from your raven \nhair, \n\nAnd your young heart without a care. \n\nI make no murmur nor complain; \nAbove me are the stars and blue \nAlluring far to grand refrain; \n\nBefore, the beautiful and true, \n\nTo love or hate, to win or lose; \n\nLo! I will now arise, and choose. \n\nBut should you sometime read a \nsign, \n\nIn isles of song beyond the brine, \nThen you will think a time, and you \nWill turn and say, \xe2\x80\x9cHe once was \nmine, \n\nWas all my own; his smiles, his tears \nWere mine\xe2\x80\x94were mine for years and \nyears.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n10 \n\n\n\n146 \n\n\nJdurn# \n\nBURNS \n\n\nEld Druid oaks of Ayr, \n\nPrecepts! Poems! Pages! \n\nLessons! Leaves, and Volumes! \nArches! Pillars! Columns \nhi corridors of ages! \n\nGrand patriarchal sages \nLifting palms in prayer! \n\nThe Druid hears are drifting \nAnd shifting to and fro, \n\nIn gentle breezes lifting, \n\nThat bat-like come and go. \n\nThe while the moon is sifting \nA sheen of shining snow \nOn all these blossoms lifting \nTheir blue eyes from below. \n\nNo, \xe2\x80\x99tis not phantoms walking \nThat you hear rustling there, \n\nBut bearded Druids talking, \n\nA nd turning leaves in prayer. \n\nNo, not a night-bird singing \n\nNor breeze the broad bough swinging, \n\nBut that bough holds a censer, \n\nA nd swings it to and fro. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis Sunday eve, remember, \n\nThat\'s why they chant so low. \n\nI linger in the autumn noon, \n\nI listen to the partridge call, \n\nI watch the yellow leaflets fall \nAnd drift adown the dimpled Doon. \n\nI lean me o\xe2\x80\x99er the ivy-grown \nAuld brig, where Vandal tourists\xe2\x80\x99 \ntools \n\nHave ribb\xe2\x80\x99d out names that would be \nknown, \n\nAre known\xe2\x80\x94known as a herd of fools. \n\n\nDown Ailsa Craig the sun declines, \nWith lances level\xe2\x80\x99d here and there\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe tinted thorns! the trailing vines! \nO braes of Doon! so fond, so fair! \n\nSo passing fair, so more than fond! \nThe Poet\xe2\x80\x99s place of birth beyond, \nBeyond the mellow bells of Ayr! \n\nI hear the milk-maid\xe2\x80\x99s twilight \nsong \n\nCome bravely through the storm- \nbent oaks; \n\nBeyond, the white surf\xe2\x80\x99s sullen \nstrokes \n\nBeat in a chorus deep and strong; \n\nI hear the sounding forge afar, \n\nAnd rush and rumble of the car, \n\nThe steady tinkle of the bell \nOf lazy, leaden, home-bound cows \nThat stop to bellow and to browse; \nI breathe the soft sea-wind as well. \n\nO Burns! where bid? where bide \nye now? \n\nWhere rest you in this night\xe2\x80\x99s full \nnoon, \n\nGreat master of the pen and plow ? \nMight you not on yon slanting beam \nOf moonlight kneeling to the Doon, \nDescend once to this hallow\xe2\x80\x99d stream? \nSure yon stars yield enough of light \nFor heaven to spare your face one \nnight. \n\nO Burns! another name for song, \nAnother name for passion\xe2\x80\x94pride; \nFor love and poesy allied; \n\nFor strangely blended right and \nwrong. \n\n\n\nJBprott \n\n\nH7 \n\n\nI picture you as one who kneel\xe2\x80\x99d \nA stranger at his own hearthstone; \nOne knowing all, yet all unknown, \nOne seeing all, yet all conceal\xe2\x80\x99d; \n\nThe fitful years you linger\xe2\x80\x99d here \nA lease of peril and of pain; \n\nAnd I am thankful yet again \nThe gods did love you, plowman! \npeer! \n\nIn all your own and other lands, \n\nI hear your touching songs of cheer; \nThe lowly peasant, lordly peer, \nAbove your honor\xe2\x80\x99d dust strike hands. \n\nA touch of tenderness is shown \nIn this unselfish love of Ayr, \n\nAnd it is well, you earn\xe2\x80\x99d it fair; \n\nFor all unhelmeted, alone, \n\nYou proved a plowman\xe2\x80\x99s honest \nclaim \n\n\nTo battle in the lists of fame; \n\nYou earn\xe2\x80\x99d it as a warrior earns \nHis laurels fighting for his land, \n\nAnd died\xe2\x80\x94it was your right to go. \n\nO eloquence of silent woe! \n\nThe Master leaning, reach\xe2\x80\x99d a hand, \nAnd whisper\xe2\x80\x99d," It is finish\xe2\x80\x99d, Burns!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nO sad, sweet singer of a Spring! \nYours was a chill, uncheerful May, \nAnd you knew no full days of June; \nYou ran too swiftly up the way, \n\nAnd wearied soon, so over-soon! \n\nYou sang in weariness and woe; \n\nYou falter\xe2\x80\x99d, and God heard you sing, \nThen touch\xe2\x80\x99d your hand and led you \nso, \n\nYou found life\xe2\x80\x99s hill-top low, so low, \nYou cross\xe2\x80\x99d its summit long ere noon. \nThus sooner than one would suppose \nSome weary feet will find repose. \n\n\nBYRON \n\n\nIn men whom men condemn as ill \nI find so much of goodness still, \n\nIn men whom men pronounce divine \nI find so much of sin and blot, \n\nI do not dare to draw a line \nBetween the two, where God has not. \n\nO cold and cruel Nottingham! \n\nIn disappointment and in tears, \n\nSad, lost, and lonely, here I am \nTo question, "Is this Nottingham \nOf which I dream\xe2\x80\x99d for years and \nyears?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nI seek in vain for name or sign \nOf him who made this mold a shrine, \nA Mecca to the fair and fond \nBeyond the seas, and still beyond. \n\n\nWhere white clouds crush their \ndrooping wings \n\nAgainst my snow-crown\xe2\x80\x99d battle\xc2\xac \nments, \n\nAnd peaks that flash like silver \ntents; \n\nWhere Sacramento\xe2\x80\x99s fountain springs, \nAnd proud Columbia frets his shore \nOf somber, boundless wood and wold, \nAnd lifts his yellow sands of gold \nIn plaintive murmurs evermore; \nWhere snowy dimpled Tahoe smiles, \nAnd where white breakers from the \nsea, \n\nIn solid phalanx knee to knee, \nSurround the calm Pacific Isles, \nThen run and reach unto the land \n\n\n\n\n148 \n\n\nJSpron \n\n\nAnd spread their thin palms on the \nsand,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIs he supreme\xe2\x80\x94there understood: \nThe free can understand the free; \nThe brave and good the brave and \ngood. \n\nYea, he did sin; who hath reveal\xe2\x80\x99d \nThat he was more than man, or less? \nYet sinn\xe2\x80\x99d no more; but less conceal\xe2\x80\x99d \nThan they who cloak\xe2\x80\x99d their follies \no\xe2\x80\x99er, \n\nAnd then cast stones in his distress. \nHe scorn\xe2\x80\x99d to make the good seem \nmore, \n\nOr make the bitter sin seem less. \n\nAnd so his very manliness \nThe seeds of persecution bore. \n\nWhen all his songs and fervid love \nBrought back no olive branch or dove, \nOr love or trust from any one, \n\nProud, all unpitied and alone \nHe lived to make himself unknown, \nDisdaining love and yielding none. \nLike some high-lifted sea-girt stone \nThat could not stoop, but all the days, \nWith proud brow fronted to the \nbreeze, \n\nFelt seas blown from the south, and \nseas \n\nBlown from the north, and many \nways, \n\nHe stood\xe2\x80\x94a solitary light \nIn stormy seas and settled night\xe2\x80\x94 \nThen fell, but stirr\xe2\x80\x99d the seas as far \nAs winds and waves and waters are. \n\nThe meek-eyed stars are cold and \nwhite \n\nAnd steady, fix\xe2\x80\x99d for all the years; \n\n\nThe comet burns the wings of night, \nAnd dazzles elements and spheres, \nThen dies in beauty and a blaze \nOf light, blown far through other \ndays. \n\nThe poet\xe2\x80\x99s passion, sense of pride, \nHis boundless love, the wooing throng \nOf sweet temptations that betide \nThe warm and wayward child of song, \nThe world knows not: I lift a hand \nTo ye who know, who understand. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nThe ancient Abbey\xe2\x80\x99s breast is \nbroad, \n\nAnd stout her massive walls of stone; \nBut let him lie, repose alone \nUngather\xe2\x80\x99d with the great of God, \nIn dust, by his fierce fellow man. \nSome one, some day, loud voiced will \nspeak \n\nAnd say the broad breast was not \nbroad, \n\nThe walls of stone were all too weak \nTo hold his proud dust, in their plan; \nThe hollow of God\xe2\x80\x99s great right hand \nReceives it; let it rest with God. \n\nIn sad but beautiful decay \nGray Hucknall kneels into the dust, \nAnd, cherishing her sacred trust, \nDoes blend her clay with lordly clay. \n\nNo sign or cryptic stone or cross \nUnto the passing world has said, \n\xe2\x80\x9cHe died, and we deplore his loss.\xe2\x80\x9d \nNo sound of sandall\xe2\x80\x99d pilgrim\xe2\x80\x99s tread \nDisturbs the pilgrim\xe2\x80\x99s peaceful rest, \nOr frets the proud, impatient breast, \nThe bat flits through the broken pane. \n\n\n\n2 Stft Carbon\xe2\x80\x99s &foe \n\n\n149 \n\n\nThe black swift swallow gathers moss, \nAnd builds in peace above his head, \nThen goes, then comes, and builds \nagain. \n\nAnd it is well; not otherwise \nWould he, the grand sad singer, will. \n\n\nThe serene peace of paradise \nHe sought\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x99tis his\xe2\x80\x94the storm is \nstill. \n\nSecure in his eternal fame, \n\nAnd blended pity and respect, \n\nHe does not feel the cold neglect,\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd England does not fear the shame. \n\n\nKIT CARSON\xe2\x80\x99S RIDE \n\n\nRoom! room to turn round in, to breathe \nand be free, \n\nTo grow to be giant, to sail as at sea \n\nWith the speed of the wind on a steed \nwith his mane \n\nTo the wind, without pathway or route \nor a rein. \n\nRoom! room to be free where the white \nborder\'d sea \n\nBlows a kiss to a brother as boundless \nas he; \n\nWhere the buffalo come like a cloud on \nthe plain, \n\nPouring on like the tide of a storm- \ndriven main, \n\nAnd the lodge of the hunter to friend or \nto foe \n\nOffers rest; and unquestion\'d you come \nor you go. \n\nMy plains of America! Seas of wild \nlands! \n\nFrom a land in the seas in a raiment of \nfoam, \n\nThat has .reached to a stranger the wel\xc2\xac \ncome of home, \n\nI turn to you, lean to you, lift you my \nhands. \n\nRun? Run? See this flank, sir, and \nI do iove him so! \n\n\nBut he\xe2\x80\x99s blind, badger blind. Whoa, \nPache, boy, whoa. \n\nNo, you wouldn\xe2\x80\x99t believe it to look at \nhis eyes, \n\nBut he\xe2\x80\x99s blind, badger blind, and it \nhappen\xe2\x80\x99d this wise: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWe lay in the grass and the sun\xc2\xac \nburnt clover \n\nThat spread on the ground like a great \nbrown cover \n\nNorthward and southward, and west \nand away \n\nTo the Brazos, where our lodges lay, \n\nOne broad and unbroken level of \nbrown. \n\nWe were waiting the curtains of night \nto come down \n\nTo cover us trio and conceal our flight \n\nWith my brown bride, won from an \nIndian town \n\nThat lay in the rear the full ride of a \nnight. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWe lounged in the grass\xe2\x80\x94her eyes \nwere in mine, \n\nAnd her hands on my knee, and her \nhair was as wine \n\nIn its wealth and its flood, pouring on \nand all over \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCarfiott\xe2\x80\x99s JUbe \n\n\n150 \n\nHer bosom wine red, and press\'d \nnever by one. \n\nHer touch was. as warm as the tinge \nof the clover \n\nBurnt brown as it reach\xe2\x80\x99d to the kiss \nof the sun. \n\nHer words they were low as the lute- \nthroated dove, \n\nAnd as laden with love as the heart \nwhen it beats \n\nIn its hot, eager answer to earliest \nlove, \n\nOr the bee hurried home by its bur\xc2\xac \nthen of sweets. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWe lay low in the grass on the \nbroad plain levels, \n\nOld Revels and I, and my stolen \nbrown bride; \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Forty full miles if a foot, and the \ndevils \n\nOf red Comanches are hot on the \ntrack \n\nWhen once they strike it. Let the sun \ngo down \n\nSoon, very soon,\xe2\x80\x99 muttered bearded \nold Revels \n\nAs he peer\xe2\x80\x99d at the sun, lying low on \nhis back, \n\nHolding fast to his lasso. Then he \njerk\xe2\x80\x99d at his steed \n\nAnd he sprang to his feet, and glanced \nswiftly around, \n\nAnd then dropp\xe2\x80\x99d, as if shot, with an \near to the ground; \n\nThen again to his feet, and to me, to \nmy bride, \n\nWhile his eyes were like flame, his \nface like a shroud, \n\nHis form like a king, and his beard \nlike a cloud, \n\n\nAnd his voice loud and shrill, as both \ntrumpet and reed,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 Pull, pull in your lassoes, and bridle \n\nto steed, \n\nAnd speed you if ever for life you \nwould speed. \n\nAye, ride for your lives, for your lives \nyou must ride! \n\nFor the plain is aflame, the prairie on \nfire, \n\nAnd the feet of wild horses hard flying \nbefore \n\nI heard like a sea breaking high on the \nshore, \n\nWhile the buffalo come like a surge of \nthe sea, \n\nDriven far by the flame, driving fast \non us three \n\nAs a hurricane comes, crushing palms \nin his ire.\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWe drew in the lassoes, seized \nsaddle and rein, \n\nThrew them on, cinched them on, \ncinched them over again, \n\nAnd again drew the girth; and spring \nwe to horse, \n\nWith head to the Brazos, with a sound \nin the air \n\nLike the surge of a sea, with a flash in \nthe eye, \n\nFrom that red wall of flame reaching \nup to the sky; \n\nA red \xe2\x80\x99wall of flame and a black rolling \n\nsea \n\nRushing fast upon us, as the wind \nsweeping free \n\nAnd afar from the desert blown hol\xc2\xac \nlow and hoarse. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNot a word, not a wail from a lip \nwas let fall, \n\n\n\n\nItft CarSon\xe2\x80\x99g IXtOe \n\n\nWe broke not a whisper, we breathed \nnot a prayer, \n\nThere was work to be done, there was \ndeath in the air, \n\nAnd the chance was as one to a thou\xc2\xac \nsand for all. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTwenty miles! . . . thirty miles! \n\n... a dim distant speck.... \n\nThen a long reaching line, and the \nBrazos in sight! \n\nAnd I rose in my seat with a shout of \ndelight. \n\nI stood in my stirrup, and look\xe2\x80\x99d to \nmy right\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut Revels was gone; I glanced by \nmy shoulder \n\nAnd saw his horse stagger; I saw his \nhead drooping \n\nHard down on his breast, and his \nnaked breast stooping \n\nLow down to the mane, as so swifter \nand bolder \n\nRan reaching out for us the red-footed \nfire. \n\nHe rode neck to neck with a buffalo \nbull, \n\nThat made the earth shake where he \ncame in his course, \n\nThe monarch of millions, with shaggy \nmane full \n\nOf smoke and of dust, and it shook \nwith desire \n\n\n151 \n\nOf battle, with rage and with bellow\xc2\xac \ning hoarse. \n\nHis keen, crooked horns, through the \nstorm of his mane, \n\nLike black lances lifted and lifted \nagain; \n\nAnd I looked but this once, for the \nfire licked through, \n\nAnd Revels was gone, as we rode two \nand two. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI look\xe2\x80\x99d to my left then\xe2\x80\x94and \nnose, neck, and shoulder \n\nSank slowly, sank surely, till back to \nmy thighs, \n\nAnd up through the black blowing veil \nof her hair \n\nDid beam full in mine her two mar\xc2\xac \nvelous eyes, \n\nWith a longing and love yet a look of \ndespair \n\nAnd of pity for me, as she felt the \nsmoke fold her, \n\nAnd flames leaping far for her glorious \nhair. \n\nHer sinking horse falter\xe2\x80\x99d, plunged, \nfell and was gone \n\nAs I reach\xe2\x80\x99d through the flame and I \nbore her still on. \n\nOn! into the Brazos, she, Pacheand I\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nPoor, burnt, blinded Pache. I love \nhim .... \n\nThat\xe2\x80\x99s why." \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFALLEN LEAVES, 1873 \n\n\nSome fugitive lines that allure us no more , \n\nSome fragments that fell to the sea out of time; \nUnfinish\'d and guiltless of thought as of rhyme , \nThrown now on the world like waifs on the shore. \n\n\n153 \n\n\n\n\n\nPALM LEAVES \n\n\nThatch of palm and a patch of \nclover, \n\nBreath of balm in a field of brown, \nThe clouds blew up and the birds flew \nover, \n\nAnd I look\xe2\x80\x99d upward; but who \nlook\xe2\x80\x99d down? \n\nWho was true in the test that tried \nus ? \n\nWho was it mock\xe2\x80\x99d? Who now \nmay mourn \n\n\nThe loss of a love that a cross denied \nus, \n\nWith folded hands and a heart \nforlorn? \n\nGod forgive us when the fair forget us. \n\nThe worth of a smile, the weight of \na tear, \n\nWhy, who can measure? The fates \nbeset us. \n\nWe laugh a moment; we mourn a \nyear. \n\n\nTHOMAS OF TIGRE \n\n\nKing of Tigre, comrade true, \nWhere in all thine isles art thou? \nSailing on Fonseca blue? \n\nNearing Amapala now? \n\nKing of Tigre, where art thou? \n\nBattling for Antilles\xe2\x80\x99 queen? \n\nSaber hilt, or olive bough? \n\nCrown of dust, or laurel green? \nRoving love, or marriage vow? \n\nKing and comrade, where art thou? \n\n\nSailing on Pacific seas? \n\nPitching tent in Pimo now? \nUnderneath magnolia trees? \nThatch of palm, or cedar bough? \nSoldier singer, where art thou? \n\nCoasting on the Oregon? \n\nSaddle bow, or birchen prow? \nRound the Isles of Amazon? \nPampas, plain, or mountain brow? \nPrince of rovers, where art thou? \n\n\nYOSEMITE \n\n\nSound!sound!sound! \n\nO colossal walls and crown\xe2\x80\x99d \nIn one eternal thunder! \n\nSound!sound!sound! \n\nO ye oceans overhead, \n\nWhile we walk, subdued in wonder, \nIn the ferns and grasses, under \nAnd beside the swift Merced! \n\n\nFret! fret! fret! \n\nStreaming, sounding banners, set \nOn the giant granite castles \nIn the clouds and in the snow! \nBut the foe he comes not yet,\xe2\x80\x94 \nWe are loyal, valiant vassals, \nAnd we touch the trailing tassels \nOf the banners far below. \n\n\n155 \n\n\n\n\n\n3Seab m tfje Sierras \n\n\n156 \n\nSurge! surge! surge! \n\nFrom the white Sierra\xe2\x80\x99s verge, \n\nTo the very valley blossom. \n\nSurge! surge! surge! \n\nYet the song-bird builds a home, \n\nAnd the mossy branches cross them, \nAnd the tasselled tree-tops toss them \nIn the clouds of falling foam. \n\nSweep! sweep! sweep! \n\nO ye heaven-born and deep, \n\nIn one dread, unbroken chorus! \n\nWe may wonder or may weep,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nWe may wait on God before us; \n\nWe may shout or lift a hand,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWe may bow down and deplore us, \nBut may never understand. \n\nBeat! beat! beat! \n\nWe advance, but would retreat \nFrom this restless, broken breast \nOf the earth in a convulsion. \n\nWe would rest, but dare not rest, \n\nFor the angel of expulsion \nFrom this Paradise below \nWaves us onward and ... we go. \n\n\nDEAD IN THE SIERRAS \n\n\nHis footprints have failed us, \nWhere berries are red, \n\nAnd madronos are rankest. \n\nThe hunter is dead! \n\nThe grizzly may pass \nBy his half-open door; \n\nMay pass and repass \nOn his path, as of yore; \n\nThe panther may crouch \nIn the leaves on his limb; \n\nMay scream and may scream,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt is nothing to him. \n\nIN SOUTHERN \n\nWhere the cocoa and cactus are neigh\xc2\xac \nbors, \n\nWhere the fig and the fir-tree are \none; \n\nWhere the brave corn is lifting bent \nsabres \n\nAnd flashing them far in the sun; \n\n\nProne, bearded, and breasted \nLike columns of stone; \n\nAnd tall as a pine\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs a pine overthrown! \n\nHis camp-fires gone, \n\nWhat else can be done \nThan let him sleep on \nTill the light of the sun? \n\nAy, tombless! what of it? \n\nMarble is dust, \n\nCold and repellent; \n\nAnd iron is rust. \n\nCALIFORNIA \n\nWhere maidens blush red in their \n\ntresses \n\nOf night, and retreat to advance, \nAnd the dark, sweeping eyelash ex\xc2\xac \npresses \n\nDeep passion, half hush\xe2\x80\x99d in a \ntrance; \n\n\n\n\n\n\nWjo ibap? \n\n\n157 \n\n\nWhere the fig is in leaf, where the \nblossom \n\nOf orange is fragrant as fair,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSanta Barbara\xe2\x80\x99s balm in the bosom, \n\nHer sunny, soft winds in the hair; \n\nWhere the grape is most luscious; \nwhere laden \n\nLong branches bend double with \ngold; \n\nLos Angelos leans like a maiden, \n\nRed, blushing, half shy, and half \nbold. \n\nWhere passion was born, and where \npoets \n\nAre deeper in silence than song, \n\n\nA love knows a love, and may know \nits \n\nReward, yet may never know \nwrong. \n\nWhere passion was born and where \nblushes \n\nGave birth to my songs of the \nSouth, \n\nAnd a song is a love-tale, and rushes, \nUnchid, through the red of the \nmouth; \n\nWhere an Adam in Eden reposes, \n\nI repose, I am glad, and take wine \n\nIn the clambering, redolent roses, \nAnd under my fig and my vine. \n\n\nWHO SHALL SAY? \n\n\nA sinking sun, a sky of red, \n\nIn bars and banners overhead, \n\nAnd blown apart like curtains drawn; \nAfar a-sea a blowing sail \nThat shall go down before the dawn; \nAnd they are passion-toss\xe2\x80\x99d and \npale, \n\nThe two that stand and look alone \nAnd silent, as two shafts of stone \nSet head and foot above the dead. \n\nThey watch the ship, the weary sun, \nThe banner\xe2\x80\x99d streamers every one, \nTill darkness hides them in her hair. \n\nA LOV \n\nIf earth is an oyster, love is the pearl, \nAs pure as pure caresses; \n\nThen loosen the gold of your hair, my \ngirl, \n\nAnd hide my pearl in your tresses. \n\n\nThe winds come in as cold as death, \nAnd not a palm above the pair \nTo lift a lance or break a breath. \n\nThe hollow of the ocean fills \nLike sounding hollow halls of stone, \nAnd not a banner streams above; \nThe sea is set in snowy hills. \n\nThe ship is lost. The winds are blown \nUnheeded now; yet who shall say: \n\xe2\x80\x9cWe had been wiser so than they \nWho wept and watch\xe2\x80\x99d the parting \nsail \n\nIn silence; mute with sorrow, pale \nWith weeping for departed love\xe2\x80\x9d? \n\nSONG \n\nSo, coral to coral and pearl to \npearl, \n\nAnd a cloud of curls above me, \n\nO bury me deep, my beautiful girl, \nAnd then confess you love me. \n\n\n\n\n\n158 \n\n\nI)n i?an Jfranctsco \n\n\nThe world goes over my beautiful \ngirl \n\nIn glitter and gold and odor of roses, \nIn eddies of splendor, in oceans of \npearl, \n\nBut here the heaven reposes. . . . \n\n\nThe world is wide; men go their ways, \nBut love it is wise, and of all the \nhours, \n\nAnd of all the beautiful sun-bom days, \nIt sips their sweets as the bees sip \nflowers. \n\n\nIN SAN FRANCISCO \n\n\nLo! here sit we mid the sun-down seas \n\nAnd the white sierras. The swift, \nsweet breeze \n\nIs about us here; and a sky so fair \n\nIs bending above in its azaline \nhue, \n\nThat you gaze and you gaze in \ndelight, and you \n\nSee God and the portals of heaven \nthere. \n\nYea, here sit we where the white \nships ride \n\nIn the mom, made glad and forget\xc2\xac \nful of night, \n\nThe white and the brown men side by \nside \n\nIn search of the truth, and be\xc2\xac \ntrothed to the right; \n\nFor these are the idols, and only these, \n\nOf men that abide by the sun-down \nseas. \n\n\nThe brown brave hand of the har \nvester, \n\nThe delicate hand of the prince un\xc2\xac \ntried, \n\nThe rough hard hand of the carpenter, \nThey are all upheld with an equal \npride; \n\nAnd the prize it is his to be crown\xe2\x80\x99d or \nblest, \n\nPrince or peon, who bears him best. \n\nYea, here sit we by the golden gate, \nNot demanding much, but inviting \nyou all, \n\nNor publishing loud, but daring to \nwait, \n\nAnd great in much that the days \ndeem small; \n\nAnd the gate it is God\xe2\x80\x99s, to Cathay, \nJapan,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd who shall shut it in the face of \nman? \n\n\nSHADOWS OF SHASTA \n\n\nIn the place where the grizzly reposes, \nUnder peaks where a right is a \nwrong, \n\nI have memories richer than roses, \nSweet echoes more sweet than a \nsong; \n\n\nSounds sweet as the voice of a \nsinger \n\nMade sacred with sorrows unsaid, \nAnd a love that implores me to linger \nFor the love of dead days and their \ndead. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSt jg>ea \n\n\ni59 \n\n\nBut I turn, throwing kisses, return\xc2\xac \ning \n\nTo strife and to turbulent men, \n\nAT \n\nWe part as ships on a pathless \nmain, \n\nGayly enough, for the sense of pain \nIs asleep at first: but ghosts will arise \n\nWhen we would repose, and the \nforms will come \n\nAnd walk when we walk, and will \nnot be dumb, \n\nNor yet forget with their wakeful \neyes. \n\nWhen we most need rest, and the \nperfect sleep, \n\n\nAs to learn to be wise, as unlearning \nAll things that were manliest \nthen. \n\nSEA \n\nSome hand will reach from the \ndark, and keep \n\nThe curtains drawn and the pillows \ntoss\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nLike a tide of foam; and one will say \n\nAt night,\xe2\x80\x94O, Heaven, that it were \nday! \n\nAnd one by night through the \nmisty tears \n\nWill say,\xe2\x80\x94O, Heaven, the days \nare years, \n\nAnd I would to Heaven that the \nwaves were cross\xe2\x80\x99d. \n\n\nA MEMORY OF SANTA BARBARA \n\n\nYea, Santa Barbara is fair; \n\nA sunny clime and sweet to touch, \nFor tamer men of gentler mien, \n\nBut as for me\xe2\x80\x94another scene. \n\nA land below the Alps I know, \n\nSet well with grapes and girt with \nmuch \n\nOf woodland beauty; I shall share \nMy rides by night below the light \nOf Mauna Loa, ride below \nThe steep and starry Hebron height; \nShall lift my hands in many lands, \nSee South Sea palm, see Northland \nfir, \n\nSee white-wing\xe2\x80\x99d swans, see red-bill\xe2\x80\x99d \ndoves; \n\nSee many lands and many loves, \n\nBut never more the face of her. \n\n\nAnd what her name or where the \nplace \n\nOf her who makes my Mecca\xe2\x80\x99s prayer, \nConcerns you not; not any trace \nOf entrance to my temple\'s shrine \nRemains. The memory is mine, \nAnd none shall pass the portals there. \n\nThe present! take it, hold it thine, \nBut that one hour out from all \nThe years that are, or yet shall fall, \nI pluck it out, I name it mine, \n\nAnd whistle by the rest, and laugh \nTo see it blown about as chaff; \n\nThat hour bound in sunny sheaves, \nWith tassell\xe2\x80\x99d shocks of golden shine, \nThat hour, wound in scarlet leaves, \nIs mine. I stretch a hand and swear \n\n\n\n\n\n\ni6o Summer \n\nAn oath that breaks into a prayer; \n\nBy heaven, it is wholly mine! \n\nI see the gold and purple gleam \nOf autumn leaves, a reach of seas, \n\nA silent rider like a dream \nMoves by, a mist of mysteries, \n\nAnd these are mine, and only these, \nYet they be more in my esteem, \n\nThan silver\xe2\x80\x99d sails on coral\xe2\x80\x99d seas. \n\n\njftosts; \n\nLet red-leaf\xe2\x80\x99d boughs sweet fruits \nbestow, \n\nLet fame of foreign lands be mine, \nLet blame of faithless men befall; \n\nIt matters nothing; over all, \n\nOne hour arches like a bow \nOf promise bent in many hues, \n\nThat tide nor time shall bid de\xc2\xac \ncline; \n\nOr storms of all the years refuse. \n\n\nSUMMER FROSTS \n\n\nFrosts of an hour! Fruits of a \nseason! \n\nWho foresees them? Slain in a \nday, \n\nThe loves of a lustrum. Who shall \nsay \n\nThe heart has sense or the soul has \nreason? \n\n\n. . . One not knowing and one not \ncaring. \n\n. . . Leaves in their pathway. \nLet them part; \n\nShe with the gifts of a gracious bear\xc2\xac \ning, \n\nHe with the pangs of a passionate \nheart. \n\n\nSIERRAS ADIOS \n\n\nWith the buckler and sword into \nbattle \n\nI moved, I was matchless and \nstrong; \n\nI stood in the rush and the rattle \n\nOf shot, and the spirit of song \nWas upon me; and youthful and \nsplendid \n\nMy armor flashed far in the sun \nAs I sang of my land. It is ended, \n\nAnd all has been done, and undone. \n\nI descend with my dead in the \ntrenches, \n\nTo-night I bend down on the plain \n\n\nIn the dark, and a memory wrenches \nThe soul; I turn up to the rain \nThe cold and beautiful faces, \n\nAy, faces forbidden for years, \nTurn\xe2\x80\x99d up to my face with the traces \nOf blood to the white rain of \ntears. \n\nCount backward the years on your \nfingers, \n\nWhile forward rides yonder white \nmoon, \n\nT ill the soul turns aside, and it lingers \nBy a grave that was bom of a \nJune; \n\n\n\n\n\n&imag \xc2\xa3Toiog \n\n\n161 \n\n\nBy the grave of a soul, where the \ngrasses \n\nAre tangled as witch-woven hair; \n\nWhere footprints are not, and wdiere \npasses \n\nNot any thing known anywhere; \n\nBy a grave without tombstone or \ntoken, \n\nAt a tomb where not fern leaf or \nfir, \n\nRoot or branch, was once bended or \nbroken, \n\nTo bestow there the body of her; \n\nFor it lives, and the soul perish\xe2\x80\x99d \nonly, \n\nAnd alone in that land, with these \nhands, \n\nDid I lay the dead soul, and all lonely \n\nDoes it lie to this day in the sands. \n\nLo! a wild little maiden with tresses \n\nOf gold on the wind of the hills; \n\nAy, a wise little maiden that guesses \n\nSome good in the cruelest ills; \n\nAnd a babe with its baby-fists \ndoubled, \n\nAnd thrust to my beard, and with\xc2\xac \nin, \n\nAs he laughs like a fountain half- \ntroubled, \n\nWhen my finger chucks under his \nchin. \n\nShould the dead not decay, when the \nculture \n\nOf fields be resumed in the May? \n\n\nLo! the days are dark-wing\xe2\x80\x99d as the \nvulture! \n\nLet them swoop, then, and bear \nthem away: \n\nBy the walks let me cherish red \nflowers, \n\nBy the wall teach one tendril to \nrun; \n\nLest I wake, and I watch all the hours \nI shall ever see under the sun. \n\nIt is well, may be so, to bear losses, \nAnd to bend and bow down to the \nrod; \n\nIf the scarlet bars and the crosses \nBe but rounds up the ladder to \nGod. \n\nBut this mocking of men! Ah, that \nenters \n\nThe marrow! the murmurs that \nswell \n\nTo reproach for my song-love, that \ncentres, \n\nVast land, upon thee, are not well. \n\nAnd I go, thanking God in my going, \nThat an ocean flows stormy and \ndeep, \n\nAnd yet gentler to me is its flowing \nThan the storm that forbids me to \nsleep. \n\nAnd I go, thanking God, with hands \nlifted, \n\nThat a land lies beyond where the \nfree \n\nAnd the gentle of heart and the gifted \nOf soul have a home in the sea. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nBY THE SUN-DOWN SEAS, 1873 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOYE-AGUA: OREGON \n\n\nMy brave world-builders of the West! \nWhy, who doth know ye? Who shall \nknow \n\nBut I, that on thy peaks of snow \nBrake bread the first? Who loves ye \nbest? \n\nWho holds ye still, of more stern worth \nThen all proud peoples of the earth? \n\n\nYea, I, the rhymer of wild rhymes, \nIndifferent of blame or praise, \n\nStill sing of ye, as one who plays \nThe same sweet air in all strange \nclimes \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe same wild, piercing highland \nair, \n\nBecause \xe2\x80\x94 because, his heart is there. \n\n\nSIERRA GRANDE DEL NORTE \n\n\nLike fragments of an uncompleted \nworld, \n\nFrom bleak Alaska, bound in ice and \nspray, \n\nTo where the peaks of Darien lie \ncurl\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nIn clouds, the broken lands loom bold \nand gray. \n\nThe seamen nearing San Francisco Bay \n\nForget the compass here; with sturdy \nhand \n\nThey seize the wheel, look up, then \nbravely lay \n\nThe ship to shore by rugged peaks \nthat stand \n\nThe stem and proud patrician fathers \nof the land. \n\nThey stand white stairs of heaven, \n\xe2\x80\x94stand a line \n\nOf lifting, endless, and eternal white. \n\nThey look upon the far and flashing \nbrine. \n\n\nUpon the boundless plains, the broken \nheight \n\nOf Kamiakin\xe2\x80\x99s battlements. The \nflight \n\nOf time is underneath their untopp\xe2\x80\x99d \ntowers. \n\nThey seem to push aside the moon at \nnight, \n\nTo jostle and to loose the stars. The \nflowers \n\nOf heaven fall about their brows in \nshining showers. \n\nThey stand in line of lifted snowy \nisles \n\nHigh held above the toss\xe2\x80\x99d and \ntumbled sea,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA sea of wood in wild unmeasured \nmiles: \n\nWhite pyramids of Faith where man \nis free; \n\nWhite monuments of Hope that yet \nshall be \n\n165 \n\n\n\n\n\n166 \xe2\x82\xacxobus 1 \n\nThe mounts of matchless and im\xc2\xac \nmortal song . . . \n\nI look far down the hollow days; I see \n\nThe bearded prophets, simple-soul\xe2\x80\x99d \nand strong, \n\nThat strike the sounding harp and \nthrill the heeding throng. \n\nSerene and satisfied! supreme! as \nlone \n\nAs God, they loom like God\'s arch\xc2\xac \nangels churl\xe2\x80\x99d; \n\nEXODUS F< \n\nA tale half told and hardly under\xc2\xac \nstood ; \n\nThe talk of bearded men that chanced \nto meet, \n\nThat lean\xe2\x80\x99d on long quaint rifles in \nthe wood, \n\nThat look\xe2\x80\x99d in fellow faces, spoke \ndiscreet \n\nAnd low, as half in doubt and in \ndefeat \n\nOf hope; a tale it was of lands of gold \n\nThat lay below the sun. Wild\xc2\xac \nwing\xe2\x80\x99d and fleet \n\nIt spread among the swift Missouri\xe2\x80\x99s \nbold \n\nUnbridled men, and reach\xe2\x80\x99d to where \nOhio roll\xe2\x80\x99d. \n\nThen long chain\xe2\x80\x99d lines of yoked \nand patient steers; \n\nThen long white trains that pointed \nto the west, \n\nBeyond the savage west; the hopes \nand fears \n\nOf blunt, untutor\xe2\x80\x99d men, who hardly \nguess\xe2\x80\x99d \n\n\nir Oregon \n\nThey look as cold as kings upon a \nthrone; \n\nThe mantling wings of night are \ncrush\xe2\x80\x99d and curl\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nAs feathers curl. The elements are \nhurl\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nFrom off their bosoms, and are bidden \ngo, \n\nLike evil spirits, to an under-world. \n\nThey stretch from Cariboo to Mexico, \n\nA line of battle-tents in everlasting \nsnow. \n\nR OREGON \n\nTheir course; the brave and silent \nwomen, dress\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nIn homely spun attire, the boys in \nbands, \n\nThe cheery babes that laugh\xe2\x80\x99d at all, \nand bless\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nThe doubting hearts, with laughing \nlifted hands! . . . \n\nWhat exodus for far untraversed \nlands! \n\nThe Plains! The shouting drivers \nat the wheel; \n\nThe crash of leather whips; the crush \nand roll \n\nOf wheels; the groan of yokes and \ngrinding steel \n\nAnd iron chain, and lo! at last the \nwhole \n\nVast line, that reach\xe2\x80\x99d as if to touch \nthe goal, \n\nBegan to stretch and stream away \nand wind \n\nToward the west, as if with one con\xc2\xac \ntrol; \n\n\n\n\n\n\nCxoims for (Oregon \n\n\nThen hope loom\xe2\x80\x99d fair, and home lay- \nfar behind; \n\nBefore, the boundless plain, and \nfiercest of their kind. \n\nAt first the way lay green and \nfresh as seas, \n\nAnd far away as any reach of wave; \n\nThe sunny streams went by in belt of \ntrees; \n\nAnd here and there the tassell\xe2\x80\x99d \ntawny brave \n\nSwept by on horse, look\xe2\x80\x99d back, \nstretch\xe2\x80\x99d forth and gave \n\nA yell of warn, and then did wheel \nand rein \n\nAwhile, and point away, dark-brow\xe2\x80\x99d \nand grave, \n\nInto the far and dim and distant plain \n\nWith signs and prophecies, and then \nplunged on again. \n\nSome hills at last began to lift and \nbreak; \n\nSome streams began to fail of wood \nand tide, \n\nThe somber plain began betime to \ntake \n\nA hue of weary brown, and wild and \nwide \n\nIt stretch\xe2\x80\x99d its naked breast on every \nside. \n\nA babe was heard at last to cry for \nbread \n\nAmid the deserts; cattle low\xe2\x80\x99d and \ndied, \n\nAnd dying men went by with broken \ntread, \n\nAnd left a long black serpent line of \nwreck and dead. \n\n\nI67 \n\nStrange hunger\xe2\x80\x99d birds, black\xc2\xac \nwing\xe2\x80\x99d and still as death, \n\nAnd crown\xe2\x80\x99d of red with hooked \n\n\xe2\x96\xa0 beaks, blew low \n\nAnd close about, till we could touch \ntheir breath\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nStrange unnamed birds, that seem\xe2\x80\x99d \nto come and go \n\nIn circles now, and now direct and \nslow, \n\nContinual, yet never touch the earth; \n\nSlim foxes slid and shuttled to and \nfro \n\nAt times across the dusty weary \ndearth \n\nOf life, look\xe2\x80\x99d back, then sank like \ncrickets in a hearth. \n\nThen dust arose, a long dim line \nlike smoke \n\nFrom out of riven earth. The wheels \nwent groaning by, \n\nTen thousand feet in harness and in \nyoke, \n\nThey tore the ways of ashen alkali, \n\nAnd desert winds blew sudden, swift \nand dry. \n\nThe dust! it sat upon and fill\xe2\x80\x99d the \ntrain! \n\nIt seem\xe2\x80\x99d to fret and fill the very sky. \n\nLo! dust upon the beasts, the tent, \nthe plain, \n\nAnd dust, alas! on breasts that rose \nnot up again. \n\nThey sat in desolation and in dust \n\nBy dried-up desert streams; the \nmother\xe2\x80\x99s hands \n\nHid all her bended face; the cattle \nthrust \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje Zeroes ot Oregon \n\n\nx68 \n\nTheir tongues and faintly call\xe2\x80\x99d across \nthe lands. \n\nThe babes, that knew not what this \nway through sands \n\nCould mean, did ask if it would end \ntoday . . . \n\nThe panting wolves slid by, red-eyed, \nin bands \n\nTo pools beyond. The men look\xe2\x80\x99d \nfar away, \n\nAnd, silent, saw that all a boundless \ndesert lay. \n\nThey rose by night; they struggled \non and on \n\nAs thin and still as ghosts; then here \nand there \n\nBeside the dusty way before the dawn, \n\nMen silent laid them down in their \ndespair, \n\nAnd died. But woman! Woman, \nfrail as fair \n\nMay man have strength to give to \nyou your due; \n\n\nYou falter\xe2\x80\x99d not, nor murmured any\xc2\xac \nwhere, \n\nYou held your babes, held to your \ncourse, and you \n\nBore on through burning hell your \ndouble burdens through. \n\nMen stood at last, the decimated \nfew, \n\nAbove a land of running streams, and \nthey? \n\nThey push\xe2\x80\x99d aside the boughs, and \npeering through \n\nBeheld afar the cool, refreshing bay; \n\nThen some did curse, and some bend \nhands to pray; \n\nBut some look\xe2\x80\x99d back upon the \ndesert, wide \n\nAnd desolate with death, then all the \nday \n\nThey mourned. But one, with noth\xc2\xac \ning left beside \n\nHis dog to love, crept down among \nthe ferns and died. \n\n\nTHE HEROES OF OREGON \n\n\nI stand upon the green Sierra\xe2\x80\x99s \nwall; \n\nAgainst the east, beyond the yellow \ngrass, \n\nI see the broken hill-tops lift and fall, \n\nThen sands that shimmer like a sea \nof glass . . . \n\nThere lies the nation\xe2\x80\x99s great high road \nof dead. \n\nForgotten aye, unnumbered, and, \nalas! \n\nUnchronicled in deed or death; \ninstead, \n\n\nThe new aristocrat lifts high a lordly \nhead. \n\nMy brave and unremember\xe2\x80\x99d \nheroes, rest; \n\nYou fell in silence, silent lie and \nsleep. \n\nSleep on unsung, for this, I say, were \nbest: \n\nThe world today has hardly time to \nweep; \n\nThe world today will hardly care to \nkeep \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje Percies of Oregon \n\n\nIn heart her plain and unpretending \nbrave. \n\nThe desert winds, they whistle by \nand sweep \n\nAbout you; brown\'d and russet \ngrasses wave \n\nAlong a thousand leagues that lie one \ncommon grave. \n\nThe proud and careless pass in \npalace car \n\nAlong the line you blazon\xe2\x80\x99d white \nwith bones; \n\nPass swift to people, and possess and \nmar \n\nYour lands with monuments and \nletter\xe2\x80\x99d stones \n\nUnto themselves. Thank God! this \nwaste disowns \n\nTheir touch. His everlasting hand \nhas drawn \n\nA shining line around you. Wealth \nbemoans \n\nThe waste your splendid grave em\xc2\xac \nploys. Sleep on, \n\nNo hand shall touch your dust this \nside of God and dawn. \n\nI let them stride across with grasp\xc2\xac \ning hands \n\nAnd strive for brief possession; mark \nand line \n\nWith lifted walls the new divided \nlands, \n\nAnd gather growing herds of lowing \nkine. \n\nI could not covet these, could not \nconfine \n\nMy heart to one; all seem\'d to me the \nsame, \n\n\n169 \n\nAnd all below my mountain home, \ndivine \n\nAnd beautiful, held in another\xe2\x80\x99s \nname, \n\nAs if the herds and lands were mine, \n\nAll mine, or his, all beautiful the \nsame. \n\nI have not been, shall not be, \nunderstood; \n\nI have not wit, nor will, to well \nexplain, \n\nBut that which men call good I find \nnot good. \n\nThe lands the savage held, shall hold \nagain, \n\nThe gold the savage spurn\xe2\x80\x99d in proud \ndisdain \n\nFor centuries; go, take them all; build \nhigh \n\nYour gilded temples; strive and strike \nand strain \n\nAnd crowd and controvert and curse \nand lie \n\nIn church and State, in town and \ncitadel, and . . . die. \n\nAnd who shall grow the nobler \nfrom it all? \n\nThe mute and unsung savage loved \nas true\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe felt, as grateful felt, God\xe2\x80\x99s bless\xc2\xac \nings fall \n\nAbout his lodge and tawny babes as \nyou \n\nIn temples,\xe2\x80\x94Moslem, Christian, in\xc2\xac \nfidel, or Jew. \n\n. . . The sea, the great white, \nbraided, bounding sea, \n\nIs laughing in your face; the arching \nblue \n\n\n\n\n\n170 \n\n\n(Klfjere 3 RnUs! tfjc (Oregon \n\n\nRemains to God; the mountains still \nare free, \n\nA refuge for the few remaining tribes \nand me. \n\nYour cities! from the first the hand \nof God \n\nHas been against them; sword and \nflood and flame. \n\nThe earthquake\xe2\x80\x99s march, and pesti\xc2\xac \nlence, have trod \n\n\nTo undiscerning dust the very \nname \n\nOf antique capitals; and still the \nsame \n\nSad destiny besets the battle-fields \n\nOf Mammon and the harlot\xe2\x80\x99s house \nof shame. \n\nLo! man with monuments and lifted \nshields \n\nAgainst his city\xe2\x80\x99s fate. A flame! his \ncity yields. \n\n\nWHERE ROLLS THE OREGON \n\n\nSee once these stately scenes, then \nroam no more; \n\nNo more remains on earth to eager \neyes; \n\nThe cataract comes down, a broken \nroar, \n\nThe palisades defy approach, and rise \n\nGreen moss\xe2\x80\x99d and dripping to the \nclouded skies. \n\nThe canon thunders with its full of \nfoam, \n\nAnd calls loud-mouth\xe2\x80\x99d, and all the \nland defies; \n\nThe mounts make fellowship and \ndwell at home \n\nIn snowy brotherhood beneath their \npurpled dome. \n\nThe rainbows swim in circles round, \nand rise \n\nAgainst the hanging granite walls till \nlost \n\nIn drifting dreamy clouds and dappled \nskies, \n\nA grand mosaic intertwined and \ntoss\xe2\x80\x99d \n\n\nAlong the mighty canon, bound and \ncross\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nBy storms of screaming birds of sea \nand land; \n\nThe salmon rush below, bright red \nand boss\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nIn silver. Tawny, tall, on either \nhand \n\nYou see the savage spearman nude \nand silent stand. \n\nHere sweep the wide wild waters cold \nand white \n\nAnd blue in their far depths; divided \nnow \n\nBy sudden swift canoe as still and \nlight \n\nAs feathers nodding from the painted \nbrow \n\nThat lifts and looks from out the \nimaged prow. \n\nAshore you hear the papoose shout at \nplay; \n\nThe curl\xe2\x80\x99d smoke comes from under\xc2\xac \nneath the bough \n\nOf leaning fir: the wife looks far \naway \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nOTjere 3&olte tfje \xc2\xa9regon \n\n\n171 \n\n\nAnd sees a swift slim bark divide the \ndashing spray. \n\nSlow drift adown the river\xe2\x80\x99s level\xe2\x80\x99d \ndeep, \n\nAnd look above; lo, columns! woods! \nthe snow! \n\nThe rivers rush upon the brink and \nleap \n\nFrom out the clouds three thousand \nfeet below, \n\nAnd land afoam in tops of firs that \ngrow \n\nAgainst your river\xe2\x80\x99s rim: t\'ney plash, \nthey play \n\nIn clouds, now loud and now subdued \nand slow, \n\nA thousand thunder tones; they swing \nand sway \n\nIn idle winds, long leaning shafts of \nshining spray. \n\nAn Indian summer-time it was, \nlong past, \n\nWe lay on this Columbia, far below \n\nThe stormy water falls, and God had \ncast \n\nUs heaven\xe2\x80\x99s stillness. Dreamily and \nslow \n\nWe drifted as the light bark chose to \ngo. \n\nAn Indian girl with ornaments of \nshell \n\nBegan to sing. . . . The stars may \nhold such flow \n\nOf hair, such eyes, but rarely earth. \nThere fell \n\nA sweet enchantment that possess\xe2\x80\x99d \nme as a spell. \n\n\nWe saw an elk forsake the sable \nwood, \n\nStep quick across the rim of shining \nsand, \n\nBreast out unscared against the flash\xc2\xac \ning flood, \n\nThen brisket deep with lifted antlers \nstand, \n\nAnd ears alert, look sharp on either \nhand, \n\nThen whistle shrill to dam and doubt\xc2\xac \ning fawn \n\nTo cross, then lead with black nose \nfrom the land. \n\nThey cross\xe2\x80\x99d, they climb\xe2\x80\x99d the heav\xc2\xac \ning hills, were gone, \n\nA sturdy charging line with crooked \nsabers drawn. \n\nThen black swans cross\xe2\x80\x99d us slowly \nlow and still; \n\nThen other swans, wide-wing\xe2\x80\x99d and \nwhite as snow, \n\nFlew overhead and topp\xe2\x80\x99d the \ntimber\xe2\x80\x99d hill, \n\nAnd call\xe2\x80\x99d and sang afar, coarse\xc2\xac \nvoiced and slow, \n\nTill sounds roam\xe2\x80\x99d lost in somber firs \nbelow . . . \n\nThen clouds blew in, and all the sky \nwas cast \n\nWith tumbled and tumultuous clouds \nthat grow \n\nRed thunderbolts. ... A flash! \nA thunderblast! \n\nThe clouds were rent, and lo! Mount \nHood hung white and vast. \n\n\n\n\n172 \n\n\npicture of a JBull \n\n\nPICTURE OF A BULL \n\n\nOnce, morn by morn, when snowy \nmountains flamed \n\nWith sudden shafts of light that shot \na flood \n\nInto the vale like fiery arrows aim\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nAt night from mighty battlements, \nthere stood \n\nUpon a cliff high-limn\xe2\x80\x99d against \nMount Hood, \n\nA matchless bull, fresh forth from \nsable wold, \n\nAnd standing so seem\xe2\x80\x99d grander \n\xe2\x80\x99gainst the wood \n\nThan winged bull that stood with tips \nof gold \n\nBeside the brazen gates of Nineveh \nof old. \n\nA time he toss\xe2\x80\x99d the dewy turf, and \nthen \n\nStretch\xe2\x80\x99d forth his wrinkled neck, \nand loud \n\nHe call\xe2\x80\x99d above the far abodes of men \n\nUntil his breath became a curling \ncloud \n\nAnd wreathed about his neck a misty \nshroud. \n\nHe then as sudden as he came pass\xe2\x80\x99d \non \n\n\nWith lifted head, majestic and most \nproud, \n\nAnd lone as night in deepest wood \nwithdrawn \n\nHe roamed in silent rage until an\xc2\xac \nother dawn. \n\nWhat drove the hermit from the \nvalley herd, \n\nWhat cross of love, what cold neglect \nto kind, \n\nOr scorn of unpretending worth had \nstirr\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nThe stubborn blood and drove him \nforth to find \n\nA fellowship in mountain cloud and \nwind, \n\nI ofttime wonder\xe2\x80\x99d much; and oft- \ntime thought \n\nThe beast betray\xe2\x80\x99d a royal monarch\xe2\x80\x99s \nmind \n\nTo lift above the low herd\xe2\x80\x99s common \nlot \n\nAnd make them hear him still when \nthey had fain forgot. \n\n\nVAQUERO \n\n\nHis broad-brimm\xe2\x80\x99d hat push\xe2\x80\x99d \nback with careless air, \n\nThe proud vaquero sits his steed as \nfree \n\nAs winds that toss his black abundant \nhair. \n\nNo rover ever swept a lawless sea \n\n\nWith such a haught and heedless air \n\nas he \n\nWho scorns the path, and bounds \nwith swift disdain \nAway, a peon bom, yet born to be \nA splendid king; behold him ride, \nand reign. \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje \xc2\xa9real Cmeralto tCatib \n\n\n173 \n\n\nKow brave he takes his herds in \nbranding days, \n\nOn timber\xe2\x80\x99d hills that belt about the \nplain; \n\nHe climbs, he wheels, he shouts \nthrough winding ways \n\nOf hiding ferns and hanging fir; the \nrein \n\nIs loose, the rattling spur drives swift; \nthe mane \n\nBlows free; the bullocks rush in \nstorms before; \n\nThey turn with lifted heads, they \nrush again, \n\nThen sudden plunge from out the \nwood, and pour \n\nA cloud upon the plain with one \nterrific roar. \n\n\nNow sweeps the tawny man on \nstormy steed, \n\nHis gaudy trappings toss\xe2\x80\x99d about and \nblown \n\nAbout the limbs as lithe as any reed; \n\nThe swift long lasso twirl\xe2\x80\x99d above is \nthrown \n\nFrom flying hand; the fall, the fearful \ngroan \n\nOf bullock toil\xe2\x80\x99d and tumbled in the \ndust\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe black herds onward sweep, and \nall disown \n\nThe fallen, struggling monarch that \nhas thrust \n\nHis tongue in rage and roll\xe2\x80\x99d his red \neyes in disgust. \n\n\nTHE GREAT EMERALD LAND \n\n\nA morn in Oregon! The kindled \ncamp \n\nUpon the mountain brow that broke \nbelow \n\nIn steep and grassy stairway to the \ndamp \n\nAnd dewy valley, snapp\xe2\x80\x99d and flamed \naglow \n\nWith knots of pine. Above, the \npeaks of snow, \n\nWith under-belts of sable forest, rose \n\nAnd flash\xe2\x80\x99d in sudden sunlight. To \nand fro \n\nAnd far below, in lines and winding \nrows, \n\nThe herders drove their bands, and \nbroke the deep repose. \n\n\nI heard their shouts like sounding \nhunter\xe2\x80\x99s horn, \n\nThe lowing herds made echoes far \naway; \n\nWhen lo! the clouds came driving in \nwith mom \n\nToward the sea, as fleeing from the \nday. \n\nThe valleys fill\xe2\x80\x99d with curly clouds. \nThey lay \n\nBelow, a levell\xe2\x80\x99d sea that reach\xe2\x80\x99d and \nroll\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nAnd broke like breakers of a stormy \nbay \n\nAgainst the grassy shingle fold on fold. \n\nSo like some splendid ocean, snowy* \nwhite and cold. \n\n\n\n\n174 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje (great Cmeralb Hattb \n\n\nThe peopled valley lay a hidden \nworld, \n\nThe shouts were shouts of drowning \nmen that died, \n\nThe broken clouds along the border \ncurl\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAnd bent the grass with weighty \nfreight of tide. \n\nA savage stood in silence at my side, \n\nThen sudden threw aback his beaded \nstrouds \n\nAnd stretch\xe2\x80\x99d his hand above the \nscene, and cried, \n\nAs all the land lay dead in snowy \nshrouds: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBehold! the sun bathes in a silver \nsea of clouds.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHere lifts the land of clouds! \nFierce mountain forms, \n\nMade white with everlasting snows, \nlook down \n\nThrough mists of many canons, \nmighty storms \n\nThat stretch from Autumn\xe2\x80\x99s purple, \ndrench and drown \n\nThe yellow hem of Spring. Tall \ncedars frown \n\nDark-brow\xe2\x80\x99d, through banner\xe2\x80\x99d \nclouds that stretch and stream \n\nAbove the sea from snowy mountain \ncrown. \n\nThe heavens roll, and all things drift \nor seem \n\nTo drift about and drive like some \nmajestic dream. \n\n\nIn waning Autumn time, when \npurpled skies \n\nBegin to haze in indolence below \n\nThe snowy peaks, you see black forms \narise, \n\nIn rolling thunder banks above, and \nthrow \n\nQuick barricades about the gleaming \nsnow. \n\nThe strife begins! The battling \nseasons stand \n\nBroad breast to breast. A flash! \nContentions grow \n\nTerrific. Thunders crash, and light\xc2\xac \nnings brand \n\nThe battlements. The clouds pos\xc2\xac \nsess the conquered land. \n\nThen, clouds blow by, the swans \ntake loftier flight, \n\nThe yellow blooms burst out upon the \nhill, \n\nThe purple camas comes as in a night, \n\nTall spiked and dripping of the dews \nthat fill \n\nThe misty valley. Sunbeams break \nand spill \n\nTheir glory till the vale is full of noon. \n\nThen roses belt the streams, no bird \nis still. \n\nThe stars, as large as lilies, meet the \nmoon \n\nAnd sing of summer, bom thus sud\xc2\xac \nden full and soon. \n\n\n\n\n\ntEo at Hast \n\nTO REST AT LAST \n\n\n175 \n\n\nWhat wonder that I swore a \nprophet\xe2\x80\x99s oath \n\nOf after days. ... I push\xe2\x80\x99d the \nboughs apart, \n\nI stood, look\xe2\x80\x99d forth, and then look\'d \nback, all loath \n\nTo leave my shadow\xe2\x80\x99d wood. I \ngathered heart \n\nFrom very fearfulness; with sudden \nstart \n\nI plunged in the arena; stood a wild \n\nUncertain thing, all artless, in all \nart. . . . \n\nThe brave approved, the fair lean\xe2\x80\x99d \nfair and smiled,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTrue lions touch with velvet-touch a \ntimid child. \n\nBut now enough of men. Enough, \nbrief day \n\nOf tinsel\xe2\x80\x99d life. The court, the castle \ngate \n\nThat open\xe2\x80\x99d wide along the pleasant \nway, \n\nThe gracious converse of the kingly \ngreat \n\nHad made another glad and well elate \n\nWith all. A word of thanks; but I \nam grown \n\nAweary. ... I am not of this \nestate; \n\nThe poor, the plain brave border-men \nalone \n\nWere my first love, and these I will \nnot now disown. \n\nI know a grassy slope above the \nsea, \n\n\nThe utmost limit of the westmost \nland. \n\nIn savage, gnarl\xe2\x80\x99d, and antique \nmajesty \n\nThe great trees belt about the place, \nand stand \n\nIn guard, with mailed limb and lifted \nhand, \n\nAgainst the cold approaching civic \npride. \n\nThe foamy brooklets seaward leap; \nthe bland \n\nStill air is fresh with touch of wood \nand tide, \n\nAnd peace, eternal peace, possesses, \nwild and wide. \n\nHere I return, here I abide and \nand rest; \n\nSome flocks and herds shall feed \nalong the stream; \n\nSome corn and climbing vines shall \nmake us blest \n\nWith bread and luscious fruit. . . . \nThe sunny dream \n\nOr wampum men in moccasins that \nseem \n\nTo come and go in silence, girt in \nshell, \n\nBefore a sun-clad cabin-door, I deem \n\nThe harbinger of peace. Hope \nweaves her spell \n\nAgain about the wearied heart, and \nall is well. \n\nHere I shall sit in sunlit life\xe2\x80\x99s \ndecline \n\nBeneath my vine and somber verdant \ntree. \n\n\n\n176 \n\n\niUst at Unit \n\n\nSome tawny maids in other tongues \nthan mine \n\nShall minister. Some memories shall \nbe \n\nBefore me. I shall sit and I shall see, \n\nThat last vast day that dawn shall \nreinspire, \n\n\nThe sun fall down upon the farther \nsea, \n\nFall wearied down to rest, and so \nretire, \n\nA splendid sinking isle of far-off \nfading fire. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\nSONGS OF THE SUNLANDS \n\n\n12 \n\n\n177 \n\n\n\n\n/ \n\n\n\\ \n\n\nISLES OP THE AMAZONS \n\n\nPART I \n\nPrimeval forests! virgin sod! \n\nThat Saxon has not ravish\'d yet , \n\nLo! peak on peak in stairways set \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIn stepping stairs that reach to God! \n\nHere we are free as sea or wind , \n\nFor here are set Time\'s snowy tents \n\nIn everlasting battlements \n\nAgainst the march of Saxon mind. \n\nFar up in the hush of the Amazon \nRiver, \n\nAnd mantled and hung in the \ntropical trees, \n\nThere are isles as grand as the isles \nof seas. \n\nAnd the waves strike strophes, and \nkeen reeds quiver, \n\nAs the sudden canoe shoots past them \nand over \n\nThe strong, still tide to the opposite \nshore, \n\nWhere the blue-eyed men by the \nsycamore \n\nSit mending their nets \xe2\x80\x99neath the \nvine-twined cover; \n\nSit weaving the threads of long, \nstrong grasses; \n\nThey wind and they spin on the \nclumsy wheel, \n\n\nInto hammocks red-hued with the \ncochineal, \n\nTo trade with the single black ship \nthat passes, \n\nWith foreign old freightage of curious \nold store, \n\nAnd still and slow as if half \nasleep,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA cunning old trader that loves to \ncreep \n\nCautious and slow in the shade of the \nshore. \n\nAnd the blue-eyed men that are mild \nas the dawns\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOh, delicate dawns of the grand \nAndes! \n\nLift up soft eyes that are deep like \nseas, \n\nAnd mild yet wild as the red-white \nfawns\xe2\x80\x99; \n\nAnd they gaze into yours, then weave, \nthen listen, \n\nThen look in wonder, then again \nweave on, \n\nThen again look wonder that you \nare not gone, \n\nWhile the keen reeds quiver and the \nbent waves glisten; \n\nBut they say no word while they \nweave and wonder, \n\n\n179 \n\n\n\nMes of tfjc Sma^ong \n\n\n180 \n\nThough they sometimes sing, \nvoiced low like the dove, \n\nAnd as deep and as rich as their \ntropical love, \n\nA-weaving their net threads through \nand under. \n\nA pure, true people you may trust are \nthese \n\nThat weave their threads where the \nquick leaves quiver; \n\nAnd this is their tale of the Isles of \nthe river, \n\nAnd the why that their eyes are so \nblue like seas; \n\nThe why that the men draw water \nand bear \n\nThe wine or the water in the wild \nboar skin, \n\nAnd do hew the wood and weave \nand spin, \n\nAnd so bear with the women full \nburthen and share. \n\nA curious old tale of a curious old \ntime, \n\nThat is told you betimes by a \nquaint old crone, \n\nWho sits on the rim of an island \nalone, \n\nAs ever was told you in story or \nrhyme. \n\nHer brown, bare feet dip down to the \nriver, \n\nAnd dabble and plash to her mono\xc2\xac \ntone, \n\nAs she holds in her hands a strange \ngreen stone, \n\n\nAnd talks to the boat where the bent \nreeds quiver. \n\nAnd the quaint old crone has a singu\xc2\xac \nlar way \n\nOf holding her head to the side and \naskew, \n\nAnd smoothing the stone in her \npalms all day \n\nAs saying \xe2\x80\x9cI\xe2\x80\x99ve nothing at all for \nyou,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nUntil you have anointed her palm, \nand you \n\nHave touched on the delicate \nspring of a door \n\nThat silver has opened perhaps \nbefore; \n\nFor woman is woman the wide world \nthrough. \n\nThe old near truth on the far new \nshore, \n\nI bought and I paid for it; so did \nyou; \n\nThe tale may be false or the tale \nmay be true; \n\nI give it as I got it, and who can more? \n\nIf I have made journeys to difficult \nshores, \n\nAnd woven delusions in innocent \nverse, \n\nIf none be the wiser, why, who is \nthe worse? \n\nThe field it was mine, the fruit it is \nyours. \n\nA sudden told tale. You may read \nas you run. \n\nA part of it hers, some part is my \nown, \n\n\n\n\n\nSsles: of tfje Smajons \n\n\nCrude, and too carelessly woven \nand sown, \n\nAs I sail\xe2\x80\x99d on the Mexican seas in the \nsun. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas nations ago, when the Ama\xc2\xac \nzons were, \n\nThat a fair young knight\xe2\x80\x94says the \nquaint old crone, \n\nWith her head sidewise, as she \nsmooths at the stone\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nCame over the seas, with his golden \nhair, \n\nAnd a great black steed, and glitter\xc2\xac \ning spurs, \n\nWith a woman\xe2\x80\x99s face, with a manly \nfrown, \n\nA heart as tender and as true as \nhers, \n\nAnd a sword that had come from \ncrusaders down. \n\nAnd fairest, and foremost in love as in \nwar \n\nWas the brave young knight of the \nbrave old days. \n\nOf all the knights, with their \nknightly ways, \n\nThat had journey\xe2\x80\x99d away to this \nworld afar \n\nIn the name of Spain; of the splendid \nfew \n\nWho bore her banner in the new\xc2\xac \nborn world, \n\nFrom the sea rim up to where \nclouds are curl\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAnd condors beat with black wings \nthe blue. \n\nHe was born, says the crone, where \nthe brave are fair, \n\n\n1 8 1 \n\nAnd blown from the banks of the \nGuadalquiver, \n\nAnd yet blue-eyed, with the Celt\xe2\x80\x99s \nsoft hair, \n\nWith never a drop of the dark deep \nriver \n\nOf Moorish blood that had swept \nthrough Spain, \n\nAnd plash\xe2\x80\x99d the world with its tawny \nstain. \n\nHe sat on his steed, and his sword was \nbloody \n\nWith heathen blood: the battle \nwas done; \n\nHis heart rebelled and rose with pity. \n\nFor crown\xe2\x80\x99d with fire, wreathed and \nruddy \n\nFell antique temples built up to the \nsun. \n\nBelow on the plain lay the burning \ncity \n\nAt the conqueror\xe2\x80\x99s feet; the red \nstreet strown \n\nWith dead, with gold, and with \ngods overthrown. \n\nAnd the heathen pour\xe2\x80\x99d, in a helpless \nflood, \n\nWith never a wail and with never a \nblow, \n\nAt last, to even provoke a foe, \n\nThrough gateways, wet with the \npagan\xe2\x80\x99s blood. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHo, forward! smite!\xe2\x80\x9d but the min\xc2\xac \nstrel linger\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nHe reach\xe2\x80\x99d his hand and he touch\xe2\x80\x99d \nthe rein, \n\nHe humm\xe2\x80\x99d an air, and he toy\xe2\x80\x99d and \nfinger\xe2\x80\x99d \n\n\n\n\nMe\xc2\xab of tfje Smajotuf \n\n\n182 \n\n\nThe arching neck and the glossy \nmane. \n\nHe rested the heel, he rested the hand, \n\nThough the thing was death to the \nman to dare \n\nTo doubt, to question, to falter \nthere, \n\nNor heeded at all to the hot com\xc2\xac \nmand. \n\nHe wiped his steel on his black steed\xe2\x80\x99s \nmane, \n\nHe sheathed it deep, then look\xe2\x80\x99d at \nthe sun, \n\nThen counted his comrades, one \nby one, \n\nWith booty returning from the \nplunder\xe2\x80\x99d plain. \n\nHe lifted his face to the flashing snow, \n\nHe lifted his shield of steel as he \nsang, \n\nAnd he flung it away till it clang\xe2\x80\x99d \nand rang \n\nOn the granite rocks in the plain \nbelow. \n\nHe cross\xe2\x80\x99d his bosom. Made over\xc2\xac \nbold, \n\nHe lifted his voice and sang, quite \nlow \n\nAt first, then loud in the long ago, \n\nWhen the loves endured though the \ndays grew old. \n\nThey heard his song, the chief on the \nplain \n\nStood up in his stirrups, and, sword \nin hand, \n\nHe curs\xe2\x80\x99d and he call\xe2\x80\x99d with a \nloud command \n\n\nTo the blue-eyed boy to return again; \n\nTo lift his shield again to the sky, \n\nAnd come and surrender his sword \nor die. \n\nHe wove his hand in the stormy mane, \n\nHe lean\xe2\x80\x99d him forward, he lifted the \nrein, \n\nHe struck the flank, he wheel\xe2\x80\x99d and \nsprang, \n\nAnd gaily rode in the face of the \nsun, \n\nAnd bared his sword and he bravely \nsang, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Ho! come and take it! \xe2\x80\x9d but there \ncame not one. \n\nAnd so he sang with his face to the \nsouth: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI shall go; I shall search for the \nAmazon shore, \n\nWhere the curses of man they are \nheard no more, \n\nAnd kisses alone shall embrace the \nmouth. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I shall journey in search of the Incan \nIsles, \n\nGo far and away to traditional \nland, \n\nWhere love is queen in a crown of \nsmiles, \n\nAnd battle has never imbrued a \nhand; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhere man has never despoil\xe2\x80\x99d or \ntrod; \n\nWhere woman\xe2\x80\x99s hand with a \nwoman\xe2\x80\x99s heart \n\nHas fashion\xe2\x80\x99d an Eden from man \napart, \n\n\n\nllsles of tfjc Smajonsi \n\n\nAnd walks in her garden alone with \nGod. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI shall find that Eden, and all my \nyears \n\nShall sit and repose, shall sing in \nthe sun; \n\nAnd the tides may rest or the tides \nmay run, \n\nAnd men may water the world with \ntears; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd the years may come and the \nyears may go, \n\nAnd men make war, may slay and \nbe slain, \n\nBut I not care, for I never shall know \n\nOf man, or of aught that is man\xe2\x80\x99s \nagain. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe waves may battle, the winds \nmay blow, \n\nThe mellow rich moons may ripen \nand fall, \n\nThe seasons of gold they may gather \nor go, \n\nThe mono may chatter, the paro\xc2\xac \nquet call, \n\nAnd I shall not heed, take note, or \nknow, \n\nIf the Fates befriend, or if ill \nbefall, \n\nOf worlds without or of worlds at \n\nall, \n\nOf heaven above, or of hades below.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\'Twas the song of a dream and the \ndream of a singer, \n\nDrawn fine as the delicate fibers of \ngold, \n\n\n183 \n\nAnd broken in two by the touch of a \nfinger, \n\nAnd blown as the winds blow, rent \nand roll\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nIn dust, and spent as a tale that is \ntold. \n\nAlas! for his dreams and the songs he \nsung; \n\nThe beasts beset him; the serpents \nthey hung, \n\nRed-tongued and terrible, over his \nhead. \n\nHe clove and he thrust with his \nkeen, quick steel, \n\nHe coax\xe2\x80\x99d with his hand, he urged \nwith his heel, \n\nTill his steel was broken, and his steed \nlay dead. \n\nHe toil\xe2\x80\x99d to the river, he lean\xe2\x80\x99d intent \n\nTo the wave, and away to the \nislands fair, \n\nFrom beasts that pursued, and he \nbreathed a prayer; \n\nFor soul and body were well-nigh \nspent. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas the king of rivers, and the Isles \nwere near; \n\nYet it moved so strange, so still, so \nstrong, \n\nIt gave no sound, not even the song \n\nOf a sea-bird screaming defiance or \nfear. \n\nIt was dark and dreadful! Wide like \nan ocean, \n\nMuch like a river but more like a \n\n\nsea, \n\n\n\n\nMeg of tfje Smajong \n\n\n184 \n\nSave that there was naught of the \nturbulent motion \n\nOf tides, or of winds blown abaft, \nor alee. \n\nYea, strangely strong was the wave \nand slow, \n\nAnd half-way hid in the dark, deep \ntide, \n\nGreat turtles, they paddled them to \nand fro, \n\nAnd away to the Isles and the \nopposite side. \n\nThe nude black boar through abun\xc2\xac \ndant grass \n\nStole down to the water and buried \nhis nose, \n\nAnd crunch\xe2\x80\x99d white teeth till the \nbubbles rose \n\nAs white and as bright as are globes \nof glass. \n\nYea, steadily moved it, mile upon \nmile, \n\nAbove and below and as still as the \nair; \n\nThe bank made slippery here and \nthere \n\nBy the slushing slide of the crocodile. \n\nThe great trees bent to the tide like \nslaves; \n\nThey dipp\xe2\x80\x99d their boughs as the \nstream swept on, \n\nAnd then drew back, then dipp\xe2\x80\x99d \nand were gone \n\nAway to the sea with the resolute \nwaves. \n\nThe land was the tide\xe2\x80\x99s; the shore was \nundone; \n\n\nIt look\xe2\x80\x99d as the lawless, unsatisfied \n\nseas \n\nHad thrust up an arm through the \ntangle of trees, \n\nAnd clutchd at the citrons that grew \nin the sun; \n\nAnd clutch\xe2\x80\x99d at the diamonds that \nhid in the sand, \n\nAnd laid heavy hand on the gold, and \na hand \n\nOn the redolent fruits, on the ruby\xc2\xac \nlike wine, \n\nOn the stones like the stars when the \nstars are divine; \n\nHad thrust through the rocks of the \nribb\xe2\x80\x99d Andes; \n\nHad wrested and fled; and had left \na waste \n\nAnd a wide way strewn in precipi\xc2\xac \ntate haste, \n\nAs he bore them away to the \nbuccaneer seas. \n\nOh heavens, the eloquent song of the \nsilence! \n\nAsleep lay the sun in the vines, on \nthe sod, \n\nAnd asleep in the sun lay the green \ngirdled islands, \n\nAs rock\xe2\x80\x99d to their rest in the cradle \nof God. \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s poet is silence! His song is \nunspoken, \n\nAnd yet so profound, so loud, and \nso far, \n\nIt fills you, it thrills you with \nmeasures unbroken, \n\nAnd as still, and as fair, and as far \nas a star. \n\n\n/ \n\n\n\n\n\nSsleg of tfje &ma?ott0 \n\n\n185 \n\n\nThe shallow seas moan. From the \nfirst they have mutter\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAs a child that is fretted, and weeps \nat its will. . . . \n\nThe poems of God are too grand to \nbe utter\xe2\x80\x99d: \n\nThe dreadful deep seas they are \nloudest when still. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 I shall fold my hands, for this is the \nriver \n\nOf death,\xe2\x80\x9d he said, "and the sea- \ngreen isle \n\nIs an Eden set by the Gracious Giver \n\nWherein to rest.\xe2\x80\x9d He listened the \nwhile, \n\nThen lifted his head, then lifted a \nhand \n\nArch\xe2\x80\x99d over his brow, and he lean\xe2\x80\x99d \nand listen\xe2\x80\x99d,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas only a bird on a border of \nsand,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe dark stream eddied and \ngleam\xe2\x80\x99d and glisten\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAnd the martial notes from the \nisle were gone, \n\nGone as a dream dies out with \nthe dawn. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas only a bird on a border of \nsand, \n\nSlow piping, and diving it here \nand there, \n\nSlim, gray, and shadowy, light as \nthe air, \n\nThat dipp\xe2\x80\x99d below from a point of the \nland. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98\'Unto God a prayer and to love a \ntear, \n\n\nAnd I die,\xe2\x80\x9d he said, \xe2\x80\x9cin a desert here, \n\nSo deep that never a note is heard \n\nBut the listless song of that soulless \nbird. \n\nThe strong trees lean in their love \nunto trees, \n\nLock arms in their loves, and are so \nmade strong, \n\nStronger than armies; aye, stronger \nthan seas \n\nThat rush from their caves in a \nstorm of song. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 A miser of old, his last great treasure \n\nFlung far in the sea, and he fell and \nhe died; \n\nAnd so shall I give, O terrible tide, \n\nTo you my song and my last sad \nmeasure.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHe blew on a reed by the still, strong \nriver, \n\nBlew low at first, like a dream, then \nlong, \n\nThen loud, then loud as the keys that \nquiver, \n\nAnd fret and toss with their freight \nof song. \n\nHe sang and he sang with a resolute \nwill, \n\nTill the mono rested above on his \nhaunches, \n\nAnd held his head to the side and was \nstill,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTill a bird blown out of the night of \nbranches \n\nSang sadder than love, so sweeter \nthan sad, \n\n\n\nMess of tfje amajons \n\n\n186 \n\nTill the boughs did burthen and \nand the reeds did fill \n\nWith beautiful birds, and the boy \nwas glad. \n\nOur loves they are told by the \nmyriad-eyed stars, \n\nAnd love it is grand in a reasonable \nway, \n\nAnd fame it is good in its way for a \nday, \n\nBorne dusty from books and bloody \nfrom wars; \n\nAnd death, I say, is an aboslute need, \n\nAnd a calm delight, and an ulti\xc2\xac \nmate good; \n\nBut a song that is blown from a \nwatery reed \n\nBy a soundless deep from a bound\xc2\xac \nless wood, \n\nWith never a hearer to heed or to \nprize \n\nBut God and the birds and the \nhairy wild beasts, \n\nIs sweeter than love, than fame, or \nthan feasts, \n\nOr any thing else that is under the \nskies. \n\nThe quick leaves quiver\xe2\x80\x99d, and the \nsunlight danced; \n\nAs the boy sang sweet, and the \nbirds said, \xe2\x80\x9cSweet;\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAnd the tiger crept close and lay \nlow at his feet, \n\nAnd he sheathed his claws as he \nlistened entranced. \n\nThe serpent that hung from the syca\xc2\xac \nmore bough, \n\n\nAnd sway\xe2\x80\x99d his head in a crescent \nabove, \n\nHad folded his neck to the white limb \nnow, \n\nAnd fondled it close like a great \nblack love. \n\nBut the hands grew weary, the heart \nwax\xe2\x80\x99d faint, \n\nThe loud notes fell to a far-off plaint, \n\nThe sweet birds echo\xe2\x80\x99d no more, \xe2\x80\x9c Oh, \nsweet,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe tiger arose and unsheathed his \nclaws, \n\nThe serpent extended his iron jaws, \n\nAnd the frail reed shiver\xe2\x80\x99d and fell at \nhis feet. \n\nA sound on the tide! and he turn\xe2\x80\x99d \nand cried, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOh, give God thanks, for they \ncome, they come!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHe look\xe2\x80\x99d out afar on the opaline \ntide, \n\nThen clasp\xe2\x80\x99d his hands, and his \nlips were dumb. \n\nA sweeping swift crescent of sudden \ncanoes! \n\nAs light as the sun of the south and \nas soon, \n\nAnd true and as still as a sweet half\xc2\xac \nmoon \n\nThat leans from the heavens, and \nloves and woos! \n\nThe Amazons came in their martial \npride, \n\nAs full on the stream as a studding \nof stars, \n\n\n/ \n\n\n\n\nSales: of ttje Smajona \n\n\nAll girded in armor as girded in \nwars, \n\nIn foamy white furrows dividing the \ntide. \n\nWith a face as brown as the boat\xc2\xac \nmen\xe2\x80\x99s are, \n\nOr the brave, brown hand of a \nharvester; \n\nThe Queen on a prow stood splen\xc2\xac \ndid and tall, \n\nAs the petulant waters did lift and \nfall; \n\nStood forth for the song, half lean\xe2\x80\x99d \nin surprise, \n\nStood fair to behold, and yet grand \nto behold, \n\nAnd austere in her face, and \nsaturnine-soul\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAnd sad and subdued, in her eloquent \neyes. \n\nAnd sad were they all; yet tall and \nserene \n\nOf presence, but silent, and brow\xe2\x80\x99d \nsevere; \n\nAs for some things lost, or for some \nfair, green, \n\nAnd beautiful place, to the memory \ndear. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cO Mother of God! Thrice merciful \nsaint! \n\nI am saved!\xe2\x80\x9d he said, and he wept \noutright; \n\nAy, wept as even a woman might, \n\nFor the soul was full and the heart \nwas faint. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cStay! stay!\xe2\x80\x9d cried the Queen, and \nshe leapt to the land, \n\n\n187 \n\nAnd she lifted her hand, and she \nlowered their spears, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cA woman! a woman! ho! help! give \na hand! \n\nA woman! a woman! I know by the \ntears.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThen gently as touch of the truest of \nwoman, \n\nThey lifted him up from the earth \nwhere he fell, \n\nAnd into the boat, with a half \nhidden swell \n\nOf the heart that was holy and \ntenderly human. \n\nThey spoke low-voiced as a vesper \nprayer; \n\nThey pillowed his head as only the \nhand \n\nOf woman can pillow, and push\xe2\x80\x99d \nfrom the land, \n\nAnd the Queen she sat threading the \ngold of his hair. \n\nPART II \n\nForsake those People. What are \nthey \n\nThat laugh, that live, that love by rule? \n\nForsake the Saxon. Who are these \n\nThat shun the shadows of the trees; \n\nThe perfumed forests? ... Go thy \nway, \n\nWe are not one. I will not please \n\nYou:\xe2\x80\x94fare you well, 0 wiser fool! \n\nBut ye who love me:\xe2\x80\x94Ye who love \n\nThe shaggy forests, fierce delights \n\nOf sounding waterfalls, of heights \n\nThat hang like broken moons above, \n\n\n\nMka of tfje 8ma?otus \n\n\n188 \n\nWith brows of pine that brush the sun , \n\nBelieve and follow. We are one: \n\nThe wild man shall to us be tame, \n\nThe woods shall yield their mysteries; \n\nThe stars shall answer to a name, \n\nAnd be as birds above the trees . \n\nThey swept to their Isles through the \nfurrows of foam; \n\nThy alit on the land, as love hasten\xc2\xac \ning home, \n\nAnd below the banana, with leaf like \na tent, \n\nThey tenderly laid him, they bade \nhim take rest, \n\nThey brought him strange fishes \nand fruits of the best, \n\nAnd he ate and took rest with a \npatient content. \n\nThey watched so well that he rose up \nstrong, \n\nAnd stood in their midst, and they \nsaid, \xe2\x80\x9cHow fair!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAnd they said, \xe2\x80\x9cHow tall!\xe2\x80\x9d And \nthey toy\xe2\x80\x99d with his hair. \n\nAnd they touched his limbs and they \nsaid, \xe2\x80\x9cHow long \n\nAnd how strong they are; and how \nbrave she is, \n\nThat she made her way through \nthe wiles of man, \n\nThat she braved his wrath, that she \nbroke the ban \n\nOf his desolate life for the love of \nthis!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThey wrought for him armor and \ncunning attire, \n\n\nThey brought him a sword and a \ngreat shell shield, \n\nAnd implored him to shiver the \nlance on the field, \n\nAnd to follow their beautiful Queen \nin her ire. \n\nBut he took him apart; then the \nAmazons came \n\nAnd entreated of him with their \neloquent eyes \n\nAnd their earnest and passionate \nsouls of flame, \n\nAnd the soft, sweet words that are \nbroken of sighs, \n\nTo be one of their own, but he still \ndenied \n\nAnd bow\xe2\x80\x99d and abash\xe2\x80\x99d he stole \nfurther aside. \n\nHe stood by the Palms and he lean\xe2\x80\x99d \nin unrest, \n\nAnd standing alone, looked out \nand afar, \n\nFor his own fair land where the \ncastles are, \n\nWith irresolute arms on a restless \nbreast. \n\nHe re-lived his loves, he recall\xe2\x80\x99d his \nwars, \n\nHe gazed and he gazed with a soul \ndistress\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nLike a far sweet star that is lost in \nthe west, \n\nTill the day was broken to a dust of \nstars. \n\nThey sigh\xe2\x80\x99d, and they left him alone \nin the care \n\n\n/ \n\n\n\n3 teleg of tfje gtma^ons 189 \n\n\nOf faithfullest matron; they moved \nto the field \n\nWith the lifted sword and the \nsounding shield \n\nHigh fretting magnificent storms of \nhair. \n\nAnd, true as the moon in her march \nof stars, \n\nThe Queen stood forth in her fierce \nattire \n\nWorn as they trained or worn in the \nwars, \n\nAs bright and as chaste as a flash \nof fire. \n\nWith girdles of gold and of silver \ncross\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAnd plaited, and chased, and \nbound together, \n\nBroader and stronger than belts of \nleather, \n\nCunningly fashion\xe2\x80\x99d and blazon\xe2\x80\x99d \nand boss\xe2\x80\x99d\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWith diamonds circling her, stone \nupon stone, \n\nAbove the breast where the borders \nfail, \n\nBelow the breast where the fringes \nzone, \n\nShe moved in a glittering garment \nof mail. \n\nThe form made hardy and the waist \nmade spare \n\nFrom athlete sports and adven\xc2\xac \ntures bold, \n\nThe breastplate, fasten\xe2\x80\x99d with \nclasps of gold, \n\n\nWas clasp\xe2\x80\x99d, as close as the breasts \ncould bear,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd bound and drawn to a delicate \nspan, \n\nIt flash\xe2\x80\x99d in the red front ranks of \nthe field\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWas fashion\xe2\x80\x99d full trim in its in\xc2\xac \ntricate plan \n\nAnd gleam\xe2\x80\x99d as a sign, as well as a \nshield, \n\nThat the virgin Queen was unyield\xc2\xac \ning still, \n\nAnd pure as the tides that around \nher ran; \n\nTrue to her trust, and strong in her \nwill \n\nOf war, and hatred to the touch of \nman. \n\nThe field it was theirs in storm or in \nshine, \n\nSo fairly they stood that the foe \ncame not \n\nTo battle again, and the fair forgot \n\nThe rage of battle; and they trimm\xe2\x80\x99d \nthe vine, \n\nThey tended the fields of the tall \ngreen corn, \n\nThey crush\xe2\x80\x99d the grape and they \ndrew the wine \n\nIn the great round gourds and the \nbended horn\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd they lived as the gods in the \ndays divine. \n\nThey bathed in the wave in the \namber mom, \n\n\n\n\n190 \n\n\nDslcs of tfjc Smajons \n\n\nThey took repose in the peaceful \nshade \n\nOf eternal palms, and were never \nafraid; \n\nYet oft did they sigh, and look far \nand forlorn. \n\nWhere the rim of the wave was weav\xc2\xac \ning a spell, \n\nAnd the grass grew soft where it \nhid from the sun, \n\nWould the Amazons gather them \nevery one \n\nAt the call of the Queen or the sound \nof her shell: \n\nWould come in strides through the \nkingly trees, \n\nAnd train and marshal them brave \nand well \n\nIn the golden noon, in the hush of \npeace \n\nWhere the shifting shades of the \nfan-palms fell; \n\nWould train till flush\xe2\x80\x99d and as warm \nas wine: \n\nWould reach with their limbs, \nwould thrust with the lance, \n\nAttack, retire, retreat and advance, \n\nThen wheel in column, then fall in \nline; \n\nStand thigh and thigh with the limbs \nmade hard \n\nAnd rich and round as the swift \nlimb\xe2\x80\x99d pard, \n\nOr a racer train\xe2\x80\x99d, or a white bull \ncaught \n\nIn the lasso\xe2\x80\x99s toils, where the tame \n\nare not: \n\n\nWould curve as the waves curve, \nswerve in line; \n\nWould dash through the trees, \nwould train with the bow, \n\nThen back to the lines, now sud\xc2\xac \nden, then slow, \n\nThen flash their swords in the sun at \na sign: \n\nWould settle the foot right firmly \nafront, \n\nThen soimd the shield till the sound \nwas heard \n\nAfar, as the horn in the black boar \nhunt; \n\nYet, strangest of all, say never one \nword. \n\nWhen shadows fell far from the west\xc2\xac \nward, and when \n\nThe sun had kiss\xe2\x80\x99d hands and set \nforth for the east, \n\nThey would kindle campfires and \ngather them then, \n\nWell-worn and most merry with \nsong, to the feast. \n\nThey sang of all things, but the one, \nsacred one, \n\nThat could make them most glad, \nas they lifted the gourd \n\nAnd pass\xe2\x80\x99d it around, with its rich \npurple hoard, \n\nFrom the island that lay with its \nface to the sun. \n\nThough lips were most luscious, and \neyes as divine \n\nAs the eyes of the skies that bend \ndown from above; \n\n\n\n\nSales of tfje 9 ma?ons \n\n\nThough hearts were made glad \nand most mellow with love, \n\nAs dripping gourds drain\xe2\x80\x99d of their \nburthens of wine; \n\nThough brimming, and dripping, and \nbent of their shape \n\nWere the generous gourds from the \njuice of the grape, \n\nThey could sing not of love, they \ncould breathe not a thought \n\nOf the savor of life; of love sought, or \nunsought. \n\nTheir loves they were not; they had \nbanished the name \n\nOf man, and the uttermost mention \nof love,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe moonbeams about them, the \nquick stars above, \n\nThe mellow-voiced waves, they were \never the same, \n\nIn sign, and in saying, of the old true \nlies; \n\nBut they took no heed; no answer\xc2\xac \ning sign, \n\nSave glances averted and half-hush\xe2\x80\x99d \nsighs, \n\nWent back from the breasts with \ntheir loves divine. \n\nThey sang of free life with a will, and \nwell, \n\nThey had paid for it well when the \nprice was blood; \n\nThey beat on the shield, and they \nblew on the shell, \n\nWhen their wars were not, for they \nheld it good \n\nTo be glad, and to sing the flush of \nthe day, \n\n\n191 \n\nIn an annual feast, when the \nbroad leaves fell; \n\nYet some sang not, and some \nsighed, \xe2\x80\x9cAh, well!\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor there\xe2\x80\x99s far less left you to sing or \nto say, \n\nWhen mettlesome love is banish\xe2\x80\x99d, I \nween\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo hint at as hidden, or to half \ndisclose \n\nIn the swift sword-cuts of the tongue, \nmade keen \n\nWith wine at a feast,\xe2\x80\x94than one \nwould suppose. \n\nSo the days wore by but they brought \nno rest \n\nTo the minstrel knight, though the \nsun was as gold, \n\nAnd the Isles were green, and the \ngreat Queen blest \n\nIn the splendor of arms, and. as \npure as bold. \n\nHe would now resolve to reveal to her \nall, \n\nHis sex and his race in a well-timed \nsong; \n\nAnd his love of peace, his hatred of \nwrong, \n\nAnd his own deceit, though the sun \nshould fall. \n\nThen again he would linger, and knew \nnot how \n\nHe could best proceed, and deferr\xe2\x80\x99d \nhim now \n\nTill a favorite day, then the fair day \ncame, \n\nAnd still he delay\xe2\x80\x99d, and reproached \nhim the same. \n\n\n\n192 \n\n\nMt\xc2\xab of tfje 0ma?onst \n\n\nAnd he still said nought, but, subdu\xc2\xac \ning his head \n\nHe wander\xe2\x80\x99d one day in a dubious \nspell \n\nOf unutterable thought of the truth \nunsaid, \n\nTo the indolent shore, and he \ngather\xe2\x80\x99d a shell, \n\nAnd he shaped its point to his pas\xc2\xac \nsionate mouth, \n\nAnd he turn\xe2\x80\x99d to a bank and began \nto blow, \n\nWhile the Amazons trained in a \ntroop below\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBlew soft and sweet as a kiss of the \nsouth. \n\nI\'he Amazons lifted with glad sur\xc2\xac \nprise, \n\nStood splendid and glad and look\xe2\x80\x99d \nfar and fair, \n\nSet forward a foot, and shook back \ntheir hair, \n\nLike clouds push\xe2\x80\x99d back from the \nsun-lit skies. \n\nIt stirr\xe2\x80\x99d their souls, and they ceased \nto train \n\nIn troop by the shore, as the tremu\xc2\xac \nlous strain \n\nFell down from the hill through \nthe tasselling trees; \n\nAnd a murmur of song, like the \nsound of bees \n\nIn the clover crown of a queenly \nspring, \n\nCame back unto him, and he laid \nthe shell \n\nAside on the bank, and began to sing \n\nOf eloquent love; and the ancient \nspell \n\n\nOf passionate song was his, and the \nIsle, \n\nAs waked to delight from its \nslumber long, \n\nCame back in echoes; yet all this \nwhile \n\nHe knew not at all the sin of his \nsong. \n\nPART III \n\nCome , lovers, come, forget your painsI \n\nI know upcn this earth a spot \nWhere clinking coins, that clank as \nchains, \n\nUpon the souls of men, are not; \n\nNor man is measured for his gains \nOf gold that stream with crimson stains. \n\nThere snow-topp\'d towers crush the \nclouds \n\nAnd break the still abode of stars, \nLike sudden ghosts in snowy shrouds, \n\nNew broken through their earthly \nbars, \n\nAnd condors whet their crooked beaks \nOn lofty limits of the peaks. \n\nO men that fret as frets the main! \n\nYou irk me with your eager gaze \n\nDown in the earth for fat increase \xe2\x80\x94 \nEternal talks of gold and gain, \n\nYour shallow wit, your shallow ways , \nAnd breaks my soul across the shoal \nAs breakers break on shallow seas. \n\nThey bared their brows to the palms \nabove, \n\nBut some look\xe2\x80\x99d level into com\xc2\xac \nrades\xe2\x80\x99 eyes, \n\n\n\n\n3tel ts of tfje gmajons \n\n\ni93 \n\n\nAnd they then remember\xe2\x80\x99d that the \nthought of love \n\nWas the thing forbidden, and they \nsank in sighs. \n\nThey turned from the training, to \nheed in throng \n\nTo the old, old tale; and they \ntrained no more, \n\nAs he sang of love; and some on the \nshore, \n\nAnd full in the sound of the eloquent \nsong, \n\nWith womanly air and an irresolute \nwill \n\nWent listlessly onward as gathering \nshells; \n\nThen gazed in the waters, as bound \nby spells; \n\nThen turned to the song and so sigh\xe2\x80\x99d, \nand were still. \n\nAnd they said no word. Some tapp\'d \non the sand \n\nWith the sandal\xe2\x80\x99d foot, keeping \ntime to the sound, \n\nIn a sort of dream; some timed with \nthe hand, \n\nAnd one held eyes full of tears to \nthe ground. \n\nShe thought of the days when their \nwars they were not, \n\nAs she lean\xe2\x80\x99d and listened to the \nold, old song, \n\nWhen they sang of their loves, and \nshe well forgot \n\nMan\xe2\x80\x99s hard oppressions and a world \nof wrong. \n\n13 \n\n\nLike a pure true woman, with her \ntrust in tears \n\nAnd the things that are true, she \nrelieved them in thought, \n\nThough hush\xe2\x80\x99d and crush\xe2\x80\x99d in the fall \nof the years; \n\nShe lived but the fair, and the false \nshe forgot. \n\nAs a tale long told, or as things that \nare dreams \n\nThe quivering curve of the lip it \ncontest \n\nThe silent regrets, and the soul that \nteems \n\nWith a world of love in a brave \ntrue breast. \n\nThen this one, younger, who had \nknown no love, \n\nNor look\'d upon man but in blood \non the field, \n\nShe bow\xe2\x80\x99d her head, and she leaned \non her shield. \n\nAnd her heart beat quick as the wings \nof a dove \n\nThat is blown from the sea, where \nthe rests are not \n\nIn the time of storms; and by in\xc2\xac \nstinct taught \n\nGrew pensive, and sigh\xe2\x80\x99d; as she \nthought and she thought \n\nOf some wonderful things, and\xe2\x80\x94she \nknew not of what. \n\nThen this one thought of a love for\xc2\xac \nsaken, \n\nShe thought of a brown sweet babe, \nand she thought \n\nOf the bread-fruits gather\xe2\x80\x99d, of the \nswift fish taken \n\n\n\\ \n\n\n\n194 \n\n\nSales of tije Smajonsi \n\n\nIn intricate nets, like a love well \nsought. \n\nShe thought of the moons of her \nmaiden dawn, \n\nMellow\xe2\x80\x99d and fair with the forms \nof man; \n\nvSo dearer indeed to dwell upon \n\nThan the beautiful waves that \naround her ran: \n\nSo fairer indeed than the fringes of \nlight \n\nThat lie at rest on the west of the \nsea \n\nIn furrows of foam on the borders of \nnight, \n\nAnd dearer indeed than the songs \nto be\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThan calling of dreams from the \nopposite land, \n\nTo the land of life, and of journeys \ndreary, \n\nWhen the soul goes over from the \nform grown weary, \n\nAnd walks in the cool of the trees on \nthe sand. \n\nBut the Queen was enraged and \nwould smite him at first \n\nWith the sword unto death, yet it \nseemed that she durst \n\nNot touch him at all; and she moved \nas to chide, \n\nAnd she lifted her face, and she \nfrown\xe2\x80\x99d at his side, \n\nThen she touch\xe2\x80\x99d on his arm; then \nshe looked in his eyes \n\nAnd right full in his soul, but she \nsaw no fear, \n\n\nIn the pale fair face, and with frown \nsevere \n\nShe press\xe2\x80\x99d her lips as suppressing \nher sighs. \n\nShe banish\xe2\x80\x99d her wrath, she unbended \nher face, \n\nShe lifted her hand and put back \nhis hair \n\nFrom his fair sad brow, with a \npenitent air, \n\nAnd forgave him all with unuttered \ngrace. \n\nBut she said no word, yet no more was \nsevere; \n\nShe stood as subdued by the side \nof him still, \n\nThen averted her face with a reso\xc2\xac \nlute will, \n\nAs to hush a regret, or to hide back a \ntear. \n\nShe sighed to herself: \xe2\x80\x9cA stranger is \nthis, \n\nAnd ill and alone, that knows not \n\nat all \n\nThat a throne shall totter and the \nstrong shall fall, \n\nAt the mention of love and its bane- \nfullest bliss. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cO life that is lost in bewildering \nlove\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut a stranger is sacred!\xe2\x80\x9d She \nlifted a hand \n\nAnd she laid it as soft as the breast of \na dove \n\nOn the minstrel\xe2\x80\x99s mouth. It was \nmore than the wand \n\n\n\nMies of tf)e Smajotut \n\n\ni95 \n\n\nOf the tamer of serpents, for she did \nno more \n\nThan to bid with her eyes and to \nbeck with her hand, \n\nAnd the song drew away to the waves \nof the shore; \n\nTook wings, as it were, to the verge \nof the land. \n\nBut her heart was oppress\xe2\x80\x99d. With \npenitent head \n\nShe turned to her troop, and retiring, \nshe said: \n\n4 \xe2\x80\x98Alas! and alas! shall it come to pass \n\nThat the panther shall die from a \nblade of grass? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c That the tiger shall yield at the \nbenthom\xe2\x80\x99s blast? \n\nThat we, who have conquer\xe2\x80\x99d a \nworld and all \n\nOf men and of beasts in the world \nmust fall \n\nOurselves at the mention of love at \nlast?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe tall Queen turn\xe2\x80\x99d with her \ntroop; \n\nShe led minstrel and all to the \ninnermost part \n\nOf the palm-crowned Isle, where \ngreat trees group \n\nIn armies, to battle when black- \nstorms start, \n\nAnd made a retreat from the sun by \nthe trees \n\nThat are topp\xe2\x80\x99d like tents, where \nthe fire-flies \n\nAre a light to the feet, and a fair \nlake lies, \n\nAs cool as the coral-set center of seas. \n\n\nThe palm-trees lorded the scope like \nkings, \n\nTheir tall tops tossing the indolent \nclouds \n\nThat folded the Isle in the dawn, \nlike shrouds, \n\nThen fled from the sun like to living \nthings. \n\nThe cockatoo swung in the vines \nbelow, \n\nAnd muttering hung on a golden \nthread, \n\nOr moved on the moss\xe2\x80\x99d bough to \nand fro, \n\nIn plumes of gold and array\xe2\x80\x99d in \nred. \n\nThe lake lay hidden away from the \nlight, \n\nAs asleep in the Isle from the tropical \nnoon, \n\nAnd narrow and bent like a new\xc2\xac \nborn moon, \n\nAnd fair as a moon in the noon of the \nnight. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas shadow\xe2\x80\x99d by forests, and \nfringed by ferns, \n\nAnd fretted anon by red fishes that \nleapt \n\nAt indolent flies that slept or kept \n\nTheir drowsy tones on the tide by \nturns. \n\nAnd here in the dawn when the Day \nwas strong \n\nAnd newly aroused from leafy \nrepose, \n\nWith dews on his feet and tints of \nthe rose \n\n\n\n196 \n\n\nMes of tfje 8ma?ott\xc2\xa3f \n\n\nIn his great flush\xe2\x80\x99d face was a sense \nof song \n\nThat the tame old world has not \nknown or heard. \n\nThe soul was filled with the soft \nperfumes, \n\nThe eloquent wings of the humming \nbird \n\nBeguiled the heart, they purpled \nthe air \n\nAnd allured the eye, as so everywhere \n\nOn the rim of the wave or across it \nin swings, \n\nThey swept or they sank in a sea of \nblooms, \n\nAnd wove and wound in a song of \nwings. \n\nA bird in scarlet and gold, made mad \n\nWith sweet delights, through the \nbranches slid \n\nAnd kiss\xe2\x80\x99d the lake on a drowsy lid \n\nTill the ripples ran and the face was \nglad; \n\nWas glad and lovely as lights that \nsweep \n\nThe face of heaven when the stars \nare forth \n\nIn autumn time through the \nsapphire north, \n\nOr the face of a child when it smiles \nin sleep. \n\nAnd here came the Queen, in the \ntropical noon, \n\nWhen the wars and the world and \nall were asleep, \n\nAnd nothing look\xe2\x80\x99d forth to betray \nor to peep \n\n\nThrough the glories of jungle in \ngarments of June, \n\nTo bathe with her court in the \nwaters that bent \n\nIn the beautiful lake through tassel- \ning trees, \n\nAnd the tangle of blooms in a burden \nof bees, \n\nAs bold and as sharp as a bow \nunspent. \n\nAnd strangely still, and more \nstrangely sweet, \n\nWas the lake that lay in its cradle \nof fern, \n\nAs still as a moon with her horns \nthat turn \n\nIn the night, like lamps to white \ndelicate feet. \n\nThey came and they stood by the \nbrink of the tide, \n\nThey hung their shields on the \nboughs of the trees, \n\nThey lean\xe2\x80\x99d their lances against the \nside, \n\nUnloosed their sandals, and busy \nas bees \n\nUngather\xe2\x80\x99d their robes in the \nrustle of leaves \n\nThat wound them as close as the \nwine-vine weaves. \n\nThe minstrel then falter\xe2\x80\x99d, and fur\xc2\xac \nther aside \n\nThan ever before he averted his \nhead; \n\nHe pick\xe2\x80\x99d up a pebble and fretted the \ntide \n\nAfar, with a countenance flushed \nand red. \n\n\n\n\nMejS of tfje &ma?ons( \n\n\n197 \n\n\nHe feign\xe2\x80\x99d him ill, he wander\xe2\x80\x99d away, \n\nHe sat him down by the waters \nalone, \n\nAnd pray\xe2\x80\x99d for pardon, as a knight \nshould pray, \n\nAnd rued an error not all his own. \n\nThe Amazons press\xe2\x80\x99d to the girdle of \nreeds, \n\nTwo and by two they advanced to \nthe tide, \n\nThey challenged each other, they \nlaughed in their pride, \n\nAnd banter\xe2\x80\x99d, and vaunted of valor\xc2\xac \nous deeds. \n\nThey push\xe2\x80\x99d and they parted the \ncurtains of green, \n\nAll timid at first; then looked in the \nwave \n\nAnd laugh\xe2\x80\x99d; retreated, then came \nup brave \n\nTo the brink of the water, led on by \ntheir Queen. \n\nAgain they retreated, again advanced, \n\nThen parted the boughs in a proud \ndisdain, \n\nThen bent their heads to the waters, \nand glanced \n\nBelow, then blush\xe2\x80\x99d, and then \nlaughed again. \n\nA bird awaken\xe2\x80\x99d; then all dismayed \n\nWith a womanly sense of a beauti\xc2\xac \nful shame \n\nThat strife and changes had left \nthe same \n\nThey shrank to the leaves and the \nsomber shade. \n\n\nAt last, press\xe2\x80\x99d forward a beautiful pair \n\nAnd leapt to the wave, and laugh\xc2\xac \ning they blushed \n\nAs rich as their wines; when the \nwaters rush\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nTo the dimpled limbs, and laugh\xe2\x80\x99d in \ntheir hair. \n\nThe fair troop follow\'d with shouts \nand cheers, \n\nThey cleft the wave, and the \nfriendly ferns \n\nCame down in curtains and curves \nby turns, \n\nAnd a brave palm lifted a thousand \nspears. \n\nFrom under the ferns and away from \nthe land, \n\nAnd out in the wave until lost \nbelow, \n\nThere lay, as white as a bank of \nsnow, \n\nA long and beautiful border of sand. \n\nHere clothed alone in their clouds of \nhair \n\nAnd curtain\xe2\x80\x99d about by the palm \nand fern, \n\nAnd made as their maker had made \nthem, fair, \n\nAnd splendid of natural curve and \nturn; \n\nUntrammel\xe2\x80\x99d by art and untroubled \nby man \n\nThey tested their strength, or tried \ntheir speed: \n\nAnd here they wrestled, and there \nthey ran, \n\nAs supple and lithe as the watery \nreed. \n\n\n\n\n198 \n\n\nllsrtes of ttje Smajonfi \n\n\nThe great trees shadow\xe2\x80\x99d the bow- \ntipp\xe2\x80\x99d tide, \n\nAnd nodded their plumes from the \nopposite side, \n\nAs if to whisper, Take care! take \ncare! \n\nBut the meddlesome sunshine here \nand there \n\nKept pointing a finger right under \nthe trees,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nKept shifting the branches and \nwagging a hand \n\nAt the round brown limbs on the \nborder of sand, \n\nAnd seem\'d to whisper: Fie! what \nare these? \n\nThe gold-barr\xe2\x80\x99d butterflies to and \nfro \n\nAnd over the waterside wander\xe2\x80\x99d \nand wove \n\nAs heedless and idle as clouds that \nrove \n\nAnd drift by the peaks of perpetual \nsnow. \n\nA monkey swung out from a bough \nin the skies, \n\nWhite-whisker\xe2\x80\x99d and ancient, and \nwisest of all \n\nOf his populous race, when he \nheard them call \n\nAnd he watch\xe2\x80\x99d them long, with his \nhead sidewise. \n\nHe wondered much and he watch\xe2\x80\x99d \nthem all \n\nFrom under his brows of amber and \nbrown, \n\nAll patient and silent, and never \nonce stirr\'d \n\n\nTill he saw two wrestle, and \nwrestling fall; \n\nThen he arched his brows and he \nhasten\xe2\x80\x99d him down \n\nTo his army below and said never \na word. \n\nPART IV \n\nThere is many a love in the land , my \nlove , \n\nBut never a love like this is; \n\nThen kill me dead with your love , my \nlove , \n\nAnd cover me up with kisses. \n\nYea , kill me dead and cover me deep \n\nWhere never a sold discovers; \n\nDeep in your heart to sleep , to sleep , \n\nIn the darlingest tomb of lovers. \n\nThe wanderer took him apart from \nthe place; \n\nLook\xe2\x80\x99d up in the boughs at the \ngold birds there, \n\nHe envied the humming-birds fret\xc2\xac \nting the air, \n\nAnd frowned at the butterflies fan\xc2\xac \nning his face. \n\nHe sat him down in a crook of the \nwave \n\nAnd away from the Amazons, \nunder the skies \n\nWhere great trees curved to a leaf- \nlined cave, \n\nAnd he lifted his hands and he \nshaded his eyes: \n\nAnd he held his head to the north \nwhen they came \n\n\n\n\n\nSslesf of ttjc ^ma^ons \n\n\n199 \n\n\nTo run on the reaches of sand from \nthe south, \n\nAnd he pull\xe2\x80\x99d at his chin, and he \npursed his mouth, \n\nAnd he shut his eyes, with a sense of \nshame. \n\nHe reach\xe2\x80\x99d and he shaped a bamboo \nreed \n\nFrom the brink below, and began \nto blow \n\nAs if to himself; as the sea sometimes \n\nDoes soothe and soothe in a low, \nsweet song, \n\nWhen his rage is spent, and the \nbeach swells strong \n\nWith sweet repetitions of alliterate \nrhymes. \n\nThe echoes blew back from the in\xc2\xac \ndolent land; \n\nSilent and still sat the tropical \nbird, \n\nAnd only the sound of the reed was \nheard, \n\nAs the Amazons ceased from their \nsports on the sand. \n\nThey rose from the wave, and inclin\xc2\xac \ning the head, \n\nThey listened intent, with the \ndelicate tip \n\nOf the finger touch\xe2\x80\x99d to the pouting \nlip, \n\nTill the brown Queen turn\xe2\x80\x99d in the \ntide, and led \n\nThrough the opaline lake, and \nunder the shade, \n\nTo the shore where the chivalrous \nsinger played. \n\n\nHe bended his head and he shaded \nhis eyes \n\nAs well as he might with his lifted \nfingers, \n\nAnd ceased to sing. But in mute \nsurprise \n\nHe saw them linger as a child that \nlingers \n\nAllured by a song that has ceased \nin the street, \n\nAnd looks bewilder\xe2\x80\x99d about from its \nplay, \n\nFor the last loved notes that fell at \nits feet. \n\nHow the singer was vexed; he averted \nhis head; \n\nHe lifted his eyes, looked far and \nwide \n\nFor a brief, little time; but they \nbathed at his side \n\nTn spite of his will, or of prayers well \nsaid. \n\nHe press\xe2\x80\x99d four fingers against each \nlid, \n\nTill the light was gone; yet for all \nthat he did \n\nIt seem\xe2\x80\x99d that the lithe forms lay and \nbeat \n\nAfloat in his face and full under his \nfeet. \n\nHe seem\xe2\x80\x99d to behold the* billowy \nbreasts, \n\nAnd the rounded limbs in the rest or \nunrests\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo see them swim as the mermaid \nswims, \n\nWith the drifting, dimpled delicate \nlimbs, \n\n\n\n200 \n\n\nMe$ of tfje Smajonss \n\n\nFolded or hidden or reach\xe2\x80\x99d or \ncaress\xe2\x80\x99d. \n\nIt seems to me there is more that \nsees \n\nThan the eyes in man; you may \nclose your eyes, \n\nYou may turn your back, and may \nstill be wise \n\nIn sacred and marvelous mysteries. \n\nHe saw as one sees the sun of a \nnoon \n\nIn the sun-kiss\xe2\x80\x99d south, when the \neyes are closed\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe saw as one sees the bars of a moon \n\nThat fall through the boughs of the \ntropical trees, \n\nWhen he lies at length, and is all \ncomposed, \n\nAnd asleep in his hammock by the \nsundown seas. \n\nHe heard the waters beat, bubble and \nfret; \n\nHe lifted his eyes, yet forever they \nlay \n\nAfloat in the tide; and he turn\'d \nhim away \n\nAnd resolved to fly and for aye to \nforget. \n\nHe rose up strong, and he cross\xe2\x80\x99d him \ntwice, \n\nHe nerved his heart and he lifted \nhis head, \n\nHe crush\xe2\x80\x99d the treacherous reed in a \ntrice, \n\nWith an angry foot, and he turn\xe2\x80\x99d \nand fled. \n\nYet flying, he hurriedly turn\xe2\x80\x99d his \nhead \n\n\nWith an eager glance, with meddle\xc2\xac \nsome eyes, \n\nAs a woman will turn; and he saw \narise \n\nThe beautiful Queen from the \nsilvery bed. \n\nShe toss\xe2\x80\x99d back her hair, and she \nturned her eyes \n\nWith all of their splendor to his as \nhe fled; \n\nAy, all their glory, and a strange \nsurprise, \n\nAnd a sad reproach, and a world \nunsaid. \n\nThen she struck their shields, they \nrose in array, \n\nAs roused from a trance, and \nhurriedly came \n\nFrom out of the wave. He wander\xe2\x80\x99d \naway, \n\nStill fretting his sensitive soul with \nblame. \n\nAlone he sat in the shadows at noon, \n\nAlone he sat by the waters at night; \n\nAlone he sang, as a woman might, \n\nWith pale, kind face to the pale, cold \nmoon. \n\nHe would here advance, and would \nthere retreat, \n\nAs a petulant child that has lost its \nway \n\nIn the redolent walks of a sultry \nday, \n\nAnd wanders around with irresolute \nfeet. \n\n\n\nMeg of tfje Smajong \n\n\n201 \n\n\nHe made him a harp of mahogany \nwood, \n\nHe strung it well with the sounding \nstrings \n\nOf a strong bird\xe2\x80\x99s thews, and from \nostrich wings, \n\nAnd play\xe2\x80\x99d and sang in a sad, sweet \nrune. \n\nHe hang\xe2\x80\x99d his harp in the vines, \nand stood \n\nBy the tide at night, in the palms at \nnoon, \n\nAnd lone as a ghost in the shadowy \nwood. \n\nThen two grew sad, and alone sat \nshe \n\nBy the great, strong stream, and \nshe bow\xe2\x80\x99d her head, \n\nThen lifted her face to the tide, and \nsaid: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cO pure as a tear and as strong as a \nsea, \n\nYet tender to me as the touch of a \ndove, \n\nI had rather sit sad and alone by thee, \n\nThan to go and be glad, with a \nlegion in love.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nShe sat one time at the wanderer\xe2\x80\x99s \nside \n\nAs the kingly water went wander\xc2\xac \ning by; \n\nAnd the two once look\xe2\x80\x99d, and they \nknew not why, \n\nFull sad in each other\xe2\x80\x99s eyes, and \n\nthey sigh\'d. \n\nShe courted the solitude under the \n\nrim \n\n/ \n\n\nOf the trees that reach\xe2\x80\x99d to the re\xc2\xac \nsolute stream, \n\nAnd gazed in the waters as one in a \ndream, \n\nTill her soul grew heavy and her eyes \ngrew dim. \n\nShe bow\xe2\x80\x99d her head with a beautiful \ngrief \n\nThat grew from her pity; she for\xc2\xac \ngot her arms, \n\nAnd she made neglect of the battle \nalarms \n\nThat threaten\xe2\x80\x99d the land; the \nbanana\xe2\x80\x99s leaf \n\nMade shelter; he lifted his harp \nagain, \n\nShe sat, she listen\xe2\x80\x99d intent and \nlong, \n\nForgetting her care and forgetting \nher pain\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMade sad for the singer, made \nglad for his song. \n\nAnd the women waxed cold; the \nwhite moons waned, \n\nAnd the brown Queen marshall\xe2\x80\x99d \nthem never once more, \n\nWith sword and with shield, in the \npalms by the shore; \n\nBut they sat them down to repose, or \nremain\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nApart and scatter\xe2\x80\x99d in the tropic- \nleaf\'d trees, \n\nAs sadden\xe2\x80\x99d by song, or for loves \ndelay\xe2\x80\x99d; \n\nOr away in the Isle in couples they \nstray\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nNot at all content in their Isles of \npeace. \n\n\n\n202 \n\n\nMeg of tfje &majong \n\n\nThey wander\xe2\x80\x99d away to the lakes once \nmore, \n\nOr walk\xe2\x80\x99d in the moon, or they \nsigh\xe2\x80\x99d or slept, \n\nOr they sat in pairs by the shadowy \nshore, \n\nAnd silent song with the waters \nkept. \n\nThere was one who stood by the \nwaters one eve, \n\nWith the stars on her hair, and the \nbars of the moon \n\nBroken up at her feet by the \nbountiful boon \n\nOf extending old trees, who did \nquestioning grieve; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c The birds they go over us two and \nby two; \n\nThe mono is mated; his bride in the \nboughs \n\nSits nursing his babe, and his pas\xc2\xac \nsionate vows \n\nOf love, you may hear them the whole \nday through. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe lizard, the cayman, the white- \ntooth\xe2\x80\x99d boar, \n\nThe serpents that glide in the \nsword-leaf\xe2\x80\x99d grass, \n\nThe beasts that abide or the birds \nthat pass, \n\nThey are glad in their loves as the \ngreen-leaf\xe2\x80\x99d shore. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThere is nothing that is that can \nyield one bliss \n\nLike an innocent love; the leaves \nhave tongue \n\n\nAnd the tides talk low in the reeds, \nand the young \n\nAnd the quick buds open their lips \nbut for this. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c In the steep and the starry silences, \n\nOn the stormy levels of the limit\xc2\xac \nless seas, \n\nOr here in the deeps of the dark- \nbrow\xe2\x80\x99d trees, \n\nThere is nothing so much as a brave \nman\xe2\x80\x99s kiss. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThere is nothing so strong, in the \nstream, on the land, \n\nIn the valley of palms, on the \npinnacled snow, \n\nIn the clouds of the gods, on the \ngrasses below \n\nAs the silk-soft touch of a baby\xe2\x80\x99s \nbrown hand. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c It were better to sit and to spin on a \nstone \n\nThe whole year through with a \nbabe at the knee, \n\nWith its brown hands reaching \ncaressingly, \n\nThan to sit in a girdle of gold and \nalone. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIt were better indeed to be mothers \nof men, \n\nAnd to murmur not much; there \nare clouds in the sun. \n\nCan a woman undo what the gods \nhave done? \n\nNay, the things must be as the things \nhave been.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n\nMl es of ttjc 3majons \n\n\n203 \n\n\nThey wander\xe2\x80\x99d well forth, some \nhere and some there, \n\nUnsatisfied some and irresolute all. \n\nThe sun w r as the same, the moon\xc2\xac \nlight did fall \n\nRich-barr\xe2\x80\x99d and refulgent; the stars \nwere as fair \n\nAs ever were stars; the fruitful clouds \ncross\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nAnd the harvest fail\'d not; yet the \nfair Isles grew \n\nAs a prison to all, and they search\xe2\x80\x99d \non through \n\nThe magnificent shades as for things \nthat were lost. \n\nThe minstrel, more pensive, went \ndeep in the wood, \n\nAnd oft-time delay\xe2\x80\x99d him the whole \nday through, \n\nAs charm\xe2\x80\x99d by the deeps, or the sad \nheart drew \n\nSome solaces sweet from the solitude. \n\nThe singer forsook them at last, and \nthe Queen \n\nCame seldom then forth from the \nfierce deep wood, \n\nAnd her warriors, dark-brow\xe2\x80\x99d and \nbewildering stood \n\nIn bands by the wave in the com\xc2\xac \nplicate screen \n\nOf overbent boughs. They would \nlean on their spears \n\nAnd would sometimes talk, low\xc2\xac \nvoiced and by twos, \n\nAs allured by longings they could \nnot refuse, \n\nAnd would sidewise look, as beset by \n\ni \n\ntheir fears. \n\n\nOnce, wearied and sad, by the \nshadowy trees \n\nIn the flush of the sun they sank \nto their rests, \n\nThe dark hair veiling the beautiful \nbreasts \n\nThat rose in billows, as mists veil \nseas. \n\nThen away to the dream-world one \nby one; \n\nThe great red sun in his purple was \nroll\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAnd red-wing\xe2\x80\x99d birds and the birds \nof gold \n\nWere above in the trees like the \nbeams of the sun. \n\nThen the sun came down, on his \nladders of gold \n\nBuilt up of his beams, and the \nsouls arose \n\nAnd ascended on these, and the \nfair repose \n\nOf the negligent forms was a feast to \nbehold. \n\nThe round brown limbs they were \nreach\xe2\x80\x99d or drawn, \n\nThe grass made dark with the \nfervour of hair; \n\nAnd here were the rose-red lips and \nthere \n\nA flush\xe2\x80\x99d breast rose like a sun at a \ndawn. \n\nThen black-wing\xe2\x80\x99d birds flew over in \npair, \n\nListless and slow, as they call\xe2\x80\x99d of \nthe seas \n\n\n\n\n\n204 \n\n\nMess of tf je gmajons \n\n\nAnd sounds came down through \nthe tangle of trees \n\nAs lost, and nestled, and hid in their \nhair. \n\nThey started disturb\'d, they sprang \nas at war \n\nTo lance and to shield; but the \ndolorous sound \n\nWas gone from the wood; they \ngazed around \n\nAnd saw but the birds, black-wing\xe2\x80\x99d \nand afar. \n\nThey gazed at each other, then turn\xe2\x80\x99d \nthem unheard, \n\nSlow trailing their lances, in long \nsingle line; \n\nThey moved through the forest, all \ndark as the sign \n\nOf death that fell down from the \nominous bird. \n\nThen the great sun died, and a rose- \nred bloom \n\nGrew over his grave in a border of \ngold, \n\nAnd a cloud with a silver-white \nrim was roll\'d \n\nLike a cold gray stone at the door of \nhis tomb. \n\nStrange voices were heard, sad visions \nwere seen \n\nBy sentries, betimes, on the op\xc2\xac \nposite shore, \n\nWhere broad boughs bended their \ncurtains of green \n\nFar over the wave with their \ntropical store. \n\n\nA sentry bent low on her palms and \nshe peer\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nSuspiciously through; and, heavens! \na man, \n\nLow-brow\'d and wicked, looked back\xc2\xac \nward, and jeer\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nAnd taunted right full in her face \nas he ran: \n\nA low crooked man, with eyes like a \nbird,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs round and as cunning,\xe2\x80\x94who came \nfrom the land \n\nOf lakes, where the cloucfs lie low \nand at hand, \n\nAnd the songs of the bent black swans \nare heard; \n\nWhere men are most cunning and \ncruel withal, \n\nAnd are famous as spies, and are \nsupple and fleet, \n\nAnd are webb\xe2\x80\x99d like the water- \nfowl under the feet, \n\nAnd they swim like the swans, and \nlike pelicans call. \n\nAnd again, on a night when the moon \nshe was not, \n\nA sentry saw stealing, as still as a \ndream, \n\nA sudden canoe down the mid of \nthe stream, \n\nLike the dark boat of death, and as \nstill as a thought. \n\nAnd lo! as it pass\'d, from the prow \nthere arose \n\nA dreadful and gibbering, hairy \nold man, \n\n\n\n3feles of tfjc &ma$onjS \n\n\n205 \n\n\nLoud laughing as only a maniac \ncan, \n\nAnd shaking a lance at the land of his \nfoes; \n\nThen sudden it vanish\xe2\x80\x99d, as still as it \ncame, \n\nFar down through the walls of the \nshadowy wood, \n\nAnd the great moon rose like a forest \naflame, \n\nAll threat\xe2\x80\x99ning, sullen, and red like \nblood. \n\nPART V \n\nWell, we have threaded through and \nthrough \n\nThe gloaming forests, Fairy Isles, \nAfloat in sun and summer smiles, \n\nAs fallen stars in fields of blue; \n\nSome futile wars with subtile love \nThat mortal never vanquish\'d yet, \n\nSome symphonies by angels set \nIn wave below, in bough above, \n\nWere yours and mine; but here adieu. \n\nAnd if it come to pass some days \nThat you grow weary, sad, and you \nLift up deep eyes from dusty ways \nOf mart and moneys to the blue \nAnd pure cold waters, isle and vine, \nAnd bathe you there, and then arise \nRefresh\'d by one fresh thought of mine, \nI rest content: I kiss your eyes, \n\nI kiss your hair, in my delight: \n\nI kiss my hand, and say, \xe2\x80\x9c Good-night." \n\nI tell you that love is the bitterest \nsweet \n\nThat ever laid hold on the heart of \na man; \n\n\nA chain to the soul, and to cheer as \na ban, \n\nAnd a bane to the brain and a snare \nto the feet. \n\nAye! who shall ascend on the hollow \nwhite wings \n\nOf love but to fall; to fall and to \nlearn, \n\nLike a moth, or a man, that the \nlights lure to burn, \n\nThat the roses have thorns and the \nhoney-bee stings? \n\nI say to you surely that grief shall \nbefall; \n\nI lift you my finger, I caution you \ntrue, \n\nAnd yet you go forward, laugh \ngaily, and you \n\nMust learn for yourself, then lament \nfor us all. \n\nYou had better be drown\xe2\x80\x99d than to \nlove and to dream. \n\nIt were better to sit on a moss- \ngrown stone, \n\nAnd away from the sun, forever \nalone, \n\nSlow pitching white pebbles at trout \nin a stream. \n\nAlas for a heart that must live forlorn! \n\nIf you live you must love; if you \nlove, regret\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt were better, perhaps, had you \nnever been bom, \n\nOr better, at least, you could well \nforget. \n\n\n\n206 \n\n\nSsles of tfjc 0majom( \n\n\nThe clouds are above us and snowy \nand cold, \n\nAnd what is beyond but the steel \ngray sky, \n\nAnd the still far stars that twinkle \nand lie \n\nLike the eyes of a love or delusions of \ngold! \n\nAh! who would ascend? The clouds \nare above. \n\nAye! all things perish; to rise is to \nfall. \n\nAnd alack for lovers, and alas for \nlove, \n\nAnd alas that we ever were born \nat all. \n\n\nThe minstrel now stood by the border \nof wood, \n\nBut now not alone; with a resolute \nheart \n\nHe reach\xe2\x80\x99d his hand, like to one \nmade strong, \n\nForgot his silence and resumed his \nsong, \n\nAnd aroused his soul, and assumed his \npart \n\nWith a passionate will, in the palms \nwhere he stood. \n\n\'\xe2\x80\x98She is sweet as the breath of the \nCastile rose, \n\nShe is warm to the heart as a world \nof wine, \n\nAnd as rich to behold as the rose that \ngrows \n\nWith its red heart bent to the tide \nof the Rhine. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI shall sip her lips as the brown \nbees sup \n\nFrom the great gold heart of the \nbuttercup! \n\nI shall live and love! I shall have \nmy day, \n\nAnd die in my time, and who shall \ngainsay? \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98What boots me the battles that I \nhave fought \n\nWith self for honor? My brave \nresolves? \n\nAnd who takes note? The soul \ndissolves \n\nIn a sea of love, and the wars are \nforgot. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe march of men, and the drift of \nships, \n\nThe dreams of fame, and desires \nfor gold, \n\nShall go for aye as a tale that is \ntold, \n\nNor divide for a day my lips from \nher lips. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd a knight shall rest, and none \nshall say nay, \n\nIn a green Isle wash\xe2\x80\x99d by an arm \nof the seas, \n\nAnd walled from the world by the \nwhite Andes: \n\nThe years are of age and can go their \nway.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nA sentinel stood on the farther\xc2\xac \nmost land, \n\nAnd struck her shield, and her sword \nin hand, \n\n\n\n\n207 \n\n\nSales of tfje &majons \n\n\nShe cried, \xe2\x80\x9cHe comes with his \nsilver spears, \n\nWith flint-tipp\xe2\x80\x99d arrows and bended \nbows, \n\nTo take our blood though we give \nhim tears, \n\nAnd to flood our Isle in a world of \n\nwoes! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c He comes, O Queen of the sun-kiss\xe2\x80\x99d \nIsle, \n\nHe comes as a wind comes, blown \nfrom the seas, \n\nIn cloud of canoes, on the curling \nbreeze, \n\nWith his shields of tortoise and of \ncrocodile!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nSweeter than swans\' are a maiden\xe2\x80\x99s \ngraces! \n\nSweeter than fruits are the kisses of \nmorn! \n\nSweeter than babes\xe2\x80\x99 is a love new\xc2\xac \nborn, \n\nBut sweeter than all are a love\xe2\x80\x99s \nembraces. \n\nThe Queen was at peace. Her terms \nof surrender \n\nTo love, who knows? and who can \ndefend her? \n\nShe slept at peace, and the sentry\xe2\x80\x99s \nwarning \n\nCould scarce awaken the love- \nconquer\xe2\x80\x99d Queen; \n\nShe slept at peace in the opaline \n\nHush and blush of that tropical \nmorning; \n\nAnd bound about by the twining glory, \n\nVine and trellis in the vernal morn, \n\n\nAs still and sweet as a babe new\xc2\xac \nborn, \n\nThe brown Queen dream\xe2\x80\x99d of the old \nnew story. \n\nBut hark! her sentry\xe2\x80\x99s passionate \nwords, \n\nThe sound of shields, and the clash \nof swords! \n\nAnd slow she came, her head on her \nbreast, \n\nAnd her two hands held as to plead \nfor rest. \n\nWhere, O where, were the Juno \ngraces? \n\nWhere, O where, was the glance of \nJove, \n\nAs the Queen came forth from the \nsacred places, \n\nHidden away in the heart of the \ngrove? \n\nThey rallied around as of old,\xe2\x80\x94they \nbesought her, \n\nWith swords to the sun and the \nsounding shield, \n\nTo lead them again to the glorious \nfield, \n\nSo sacred to Freedom; and, breath\xc2\xac \nless, they brought her \n\nHer buckler and sword, and her armor \nall bright \n\nWith a thousand gems enjewell\xe2\x80\x99d in \ngold. \n\nShe lifted her head with the look of \nold \n\nAn instant only; with all of her \nmight \n\nShe sought to be strong and majestic \nagain: \n\n\n\n208 \n\n\nMhs of tfjc Smajontf \n\n\nShe bared them her arms and her \nample brown breast; \n\nThey lifted her armor, they strove \nto invest \n\nHer form in armor, but they strove in \nvain. \n\nIt could close no more, but it clang\xe2\x80\x99d \non the ground, \n\nLike the fall of a knight, with an \nominous sound, \n\nAnd she shook her hair and she \ncried \xe2\x80\x9cAlas! \n\nThat love should come and liberty \npass;\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAnd she cried, \xe2\x80\x9cAlas! to be cursed \n. . . and bless\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nFor the nights of love and noons of \nrest.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHer warriors wonder\xe2\x80\x99d; they wan\xc2\xac \nder\xe2\x80\x99d apart, \n\nAnd trail\xe2\x80\x99d their swords, and sub\xc2\xac \ndued their eyes \n\nTo earth in sorrow and in hush\xe2\x80\x99d \nsurprise, \n\nAnd forgot themselves in their pity \nof heart. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cO Isles of the sun,\xe2\x80\x9d sang the blue\xc2\xac \neyed youth, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cO Edens new-made and let down \nfrom above! \n\nBe sacred to peace and to passion\xc2\xac \nate love, \n\nMade happy in peace and made holy \nwith truth.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe fair Isle fill\xe2\x80\x99d with the fierce \ninvader; \n\n\nThey form\xe2\x80\x99d on the strand, they \nlifted their spears, \n\nWhere never was man for years \nand for years, \n\nAnd moved on the Queen. She \nlifted and laid her \n\nFinger-tips to her lips. For O sweet \n\nWas the song of love as the love \nnew-born, \n\nThat the minstrel blew in the virgin \nmorn, \n\nAway where the trees and the soft \nsands meet. \n\nThe strong men lean\xe2\x80\x99d and their \nshields let fall, \n\nAnd slowly they came with their \ntrailing spears, \n\nAnd heads bow\xe2\x80\x99d down as if bent \nwith years, \n\nAnd an air of gentleness over them alb \n\nThe men grew glad as the song as\xc2\xac \ncended, \n\nThey lean\xe2\x80\x99d their lances against \nthe palms, \n\nThey reach\xe2\x80\x99d their arms as to reach \nfor alms, \n\nAnd the Amazons came\xe2\x80\x94and their \nreign was ended. \n\n\nThe tawny old crone here lays her \nstone \n\nOn the leaning grass and reaches a \nhand; \n\nThe day like a beautiful dream has \nflown, \n\nThe curtains of night come down \non the land, \n\n\n\n\niHn inbiau Summer \n\n\n209 \n\n\nAnd I dip to the oars; but ere I \ngo, \n\nI tip her an extra bright pesos \nor so, \n\n\nAnd I smile my thanks, for I think \nthem due: \n\nBut, reader, fair reader, now what \nthink you? \n\n\nAN INDIAN SUMMER \n\n\nThe world it is wide; men go their \nways \n\nBut love he is wise, and of ail the hours \nAnd of all the beautiful sun-born days, \nHe sips their sweets as the bee sips \nflowers. \n\nThe sunlight lay in gather\xe2\x80\x99d \nsheaves \n\nAlong the ground, the golden leaves \nPossess\xe2\x80\x99d the land and lay in bars \nAbove the lifted lawn of green \nBeneath the feet, or fell, as stars \nFall, slantwise, shimmering and still \nUpon the plain, upon the hill, \n\nAnd heaving hill and plain between. \n\nSome steeds in panoply were seen, \nStrong, martial trained, with manes \nin air, \n\nAnd tassell\'d reins and mountings \nrare; \n\nSome silent people here and there, \nThat gather\xe2\x80\x99d leaves with listless will, \nOr moved adown the dappled green, \nOr look\xe2\x80\x99d away with idle gaze \nAgainst the gold and purple haze. \nYou might have heard red leaflets fall, \nThe pheasant on the farther hill, \n\nA single, lonely, locust trill, \n\nOr sliding sable cricket call \n\nFrom out the grass, but that was all. \n\n\nA wanderer of many lands \nWas I, a weary Ishmaelite, \n\nThat knew the sign of lifted hands; \nHad seen the Crescent-mosques, had \nseen \n\nThe Druid oaks of Aberdeen\xe2\x80\x94 \nRecross\xe2\x80\x99d the hilly seas, and saw r \nThe sable pines of Mackinaw, \n\nAnd lakes that lifted cold and white. \n\nI saw the sweet Miami, saw \nThe swift Ohio bent and roll\'d \nBetween his woody walls of gold, \nThe Wabash banks of gray pawpaw, \nThe Mississippi\'s ash; at morn \nOf autumn, when the oak is red, \n\nSaw slanting pyramids of corn, \n\nThe level fields of spotted swine, \n\nThe crooked lanes of lowing kine, \nAnd in the burning bushes saw \nThe face of God, with bended head. \n\nBut when I saw her face, I said, \n\n1 \xe2\x80\x98 Earth has no fruits so fairly red \nAs these that swing above my head; \nNo purpled leaf, no poppied land, \nLike this that lies in reach of hand/\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nAnd, soft, unto myself I said: \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 O soul, inured to rue and rime, \n\nTo barren toil and bitter bread, \n\nTo biting rime, to bitter rue, \n\n\n14 \n\n\n\n\n\n210 &n 3 nbian \n\nEarth is not Nazareth; be good. \n\nO sacred Indian-summer time \nOf scarlet fruits, of fragrant wood, \n\nOf purpled clouds, of curling haze\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nO days of golden dreams, and days \nOf banish\xe2\x80\x99d, vanish\xe2\x80\x99d tawny men, \n\nOf martial songs of manly deeds\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBe fair today, and bear me true.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nWe mounted, turn\xe2\x80\x99d the sudden steeds \nToward the yellow hills and flew. \n\nMy faith, but she rode fair, and she \nHad scarlet berries in her hair, \n\nAnd on her hands white starry stones. \nThe satellites of many thrones \nFall down before her gracious air \nI n that full season. Fair to see \nAre pearly shells, red, virgin gold, \n\nAnd yellow fruits, and sun-down seas, \nAnd babes sun-brown; but all of \nthese \n\nAnd all fair things of sea besides, \nBefore the matchless, manifold \nAccomplishments of her who rides \nWith autumn summer in her hair, \n\nAnd knows her steed and holds her \nfair \n\nAnd stately in her stormy seat, \n\nThey lie like playthings at her feet. \n\nBy heaven! she was more than fair, \nAnd more than good, and matchless \nwise, \n\nWith all the lovelight in her eyes, \n\nAnd all the midnight in her hair. \n\nThrough leafy avenues and lanes, \nAnd lo! we climb\xe2\x80\x99d the yellow hills, \nWith russet leaves about the brows \nThat reach\xe2\x80\x99d from over-reaching \ntrees. \n\n\nSummer \n\nWith purpled briars to the knees \nOf steeds that fretted foamy thews \nWe turn\xe2\x80\x99d to look a time below \nBeneath the ancient arch of boughs, \nThat bent above us as a bow \nOf promise, bound in many hues. \n\nI reach\xe2\x80\x99d my hand. I could refuse \nAll fruits but this, the touch of her \nAt such a time. But lo! she lean\xe2\x80\x99d \nWith lifted face and soul, and leant \nAs leans devoutest worshipper, \nBeyond the branches scarlet screen\xe2\x80\x99d \nAnd look\xe2\x80\x99d above me and beyond, \n\nSo fix\xe2\x80\x99d and silent, still and fond, \n\nShe seem\xe2\x80\x99d the while she look\xe2\x80\x99d to \nlose \n\nHer very soul in such intent. \n\nShe look\xe2\x80\x99d on other things, but I, \n\nI saw nor scarlet leaf nor sky; \n\nI look\xe2\x80\x99d on her, and only her. \n\nAfar the city lay in smokes \nOf battle, and the martial strokes \nOf Progress thunder\xe2\x80\x99d through the \nland \n\nAnd struck against the yellow trees, \nAnd roll\xe2\x80\x99d in hollow echoes on \nLike sounding limits of the seas \nThat smite the shelly shores at \ndawn. \n\nBeyond, below, on either hand \nThere reach\xe2\x80\x99d a lake in belt of pine, \nA very dream; a distant dawn \nAsleep in all the autumn shine, \n\nSome like one of another land \nThat I once laid a hand upon, \n\nAnd loved too well, and named as \nmine. \n\n\n\n&n 3 nbtan Summer \n\n\n211 \n\n\nShe sometimes touch\xe2\x80\x99d with dimpl\xe2\x80\x99d \nhand \n\nThe drifting mane with dreamy air, \nShe sometimes push\xe2\x80\x99d aback her hair; \nBut still she lean\xe2\x80\x99d and look\xe2\x80\x99d afar, \nAs silent as the statues stand,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor what? For falling leaf? For \nstar \n\nThat runs before the bride of \ndeath? . . . \n\nThe elements were still; a breath \nStirr\xe2\x80\x99d not, the level western sun \nPour\xe2\x80\x99d in his arrows every one; \nSpill\xe2\x80\x99d all his wealth of purpled red \nOn velvet poplar leaf below, \n\nOn arching chestnut overhead \nIn all the hues of heaven\xe2\x80\x99s bow. \n\nShe sat the upper hill, and high. \n\nI spurr\xe2\x80\x99d my black steed to her \nside; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe bow of promise, lo!\xe2\x80\x9d I cried, \nAnd lifted up my eyes to hers \nWith all the fervid love that stirs \nThe blood of men beneath the sun, \nAnd reach\xe2\x80\x99d my hand, as one undone, \nIn suppliance to hers above: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe bow of promise! give me love! \n\nI reach a hand, I rise or fall, \nHenceforth from this: put forth a \nhand \n\nFrom your high place and let me \nstand\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nStand soul and body, white and tall! \nWhy, I would live for you, would die \nTomorrow, but to live today, \n\nGive me but love, and let me live \nTo die before you. I can pray \nTo only you, because I know, \n\nIf you but give what I bestow, \n\nThat God has nothing left to give.\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 \n\n\nChrist! still her stately head was \nraised, \n\nAnd still she silent sat and gazed \nBeyond the trees, beyond the town, \nTo where the dimpled waters slept, \nNor splendid eyes once bended down \nTo eyes that lifted up and wept. \n\nShe spake not, nor subdued her \nhead \n\nTo note a hand or heed a word; \n\nAnd then I question\xe2\x80\x99d if she heard \nMy life-tale on that leafy hill, \n\nOr any fervid word I said, \n\nAnd spoke with bold, vehement will. \n\n* \n\nShe moved, and from her bridle \nhand \n\nShe slowly drew the dainty glove, \nThen gazed again upon the land. \n\nThe dimpled hand, a snowy dove \nAlit, and moved along the mane \nOf glossy skeins; then, overbold, \n\nIt fell across the mane, and lay \nBefore my eyes a sweet bouquet \nOf cluster\xe2\x80\x99d kisses, white as snow. \n\nI should have seized it reaching so, \nBut something bade me back,\xe2\x80\x94a \nban; \n\nAround the third fair finger ran \nA shining, hateful hoop of gold. \n\nAy, then I turn\xe2\x80\x99d, I look\xe2\x80\x99d away, \n\nI sudden felt forlorn and chill; \n\nI whistled, like, for want to say, \n\nAnd then I said, with bended head, \n\xe2\x80\x9cAnother\xe2\x80\x99s ship from other shores, \nWith richer freight, with fairer stores, \nShall come to her some day instead \xe2\x80\x9d; \nThen turn\xe2\x80\x99d about,\xe2\x80\x94and all was \nstill. \n\n\n\n212 \n\n\nSn Snluan Summer \n\n\nYea, you had chafed at this, and \ncried, \n\nAnd laugh\xe2\x80\x99d with bloodless lips, and \nsaid \n\nSome bitter things to sate your pride, \nAnd toss\xe2\x80\x99d aloft a lordly head, \n\nAnd acted well some wilful lie, \n\nAnd, most like, cursed yourself\xe2\x80\x94but \nI . . . \n\nWell, you be crucified, and you \nBe broken up with lances through \nThe soul, then you may turn to find \nSome ladder-rounds in keenest rods, \nSome solace in the bitter rind, \n\nSome favor with the gods irate\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe everlasting anger\xe2\x80\x99d gods\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd ask not overmuch of fate. \n\nI was not born, was never bless\xe2\x80\x99d, \nWith cunning ways, nor wit, nor skill \nIn woman\xe2\x80\x99s ways, nor words of love, \nNor fashion\xe2\x80\x99d suppliance of will. \n\nA very clown, I think, had guess\xe2\x80\x99d \nHow out of place and plain I seem\xe2\x80\x99d; \nI, I, the idol-worshiper, \n\nWho saw nor maple leaves nor sky \nBut took some touch and hue of her. \n\nI am a pagan, heathen, lo! \n\nA savage man, of savage lands; \n\nToo quick to love, too slow to know \nThe sign that tame love understands. \n\n\nSome heedless hoofs went sounding \ndown \n\nThe broken way. The woods were \nbrown, \n\nAnd homely now; some idle talk \nOf folk and town; a broken walk; \n\n\nBut sounding feet made song no more \nFor me along that leafy shore. \n\nThe sun caught up his gathered \nsheaves; \n\nA squirrel caught a nut and ran * \n\nA rabbit rustled in the leaves, \n\nA whirling bat, black-wing\xe2\x80\x99d and tan, \nBlew swift between us; sullen night \nFell down upon us; mottled kine, \nWith lifted heads, went lowing down \nThe rocky ridge toward the town, \nAnd all the woods grew dark as wine. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 * \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nYea, bless\xe2\x80\x99d Ohio\xe2\x80\x99s banks are fair; \n\nA sunny clime and good to touch, \n\nFor tamer men of gentler mien, \n\nBut as for me, another scene. \n\nA land below the Alps I know, \n\nSet well with grapes and girt with \nmuch \n\nOf woodland beauty; I shall share \nMy rides by night below the light \nOf Mauna Loa, ride below \nThe steep and starry Hebron height; \nShall lift my hands in many lands, \nSee South Sea palm, see Northland \nfir, \n\nSee white-winged swans, see red- \nbill\xe2\x80\x99d doves; \n\nSee many lands and many loves, \n\nBut never more the face of her. \n\nAnd what her name or now the \nplace \n\nOf her who makes my Mecca\xe2\x80\x99s prayer, \nConcerns you not; not any trace \nOf entrance to my temple\xe2\x80\x99s shrine \nRemains. The memory is mine, \n\nAnd none shall pass the portals thera \n\n\n\nJfrom ika to \xc2\xa7?ea \n\n\n213 \n\n\nI see the gold and purple gleam \nOf autumn leaves, a reach of seas, \n\nA silent rider like a dream \nMoves by, a mist of mysteries, \n\nAnd these are mine, and only these, \nYet they be more in my esteem, \nThan silver\xe2\x80\x99d sails on corall\xe2\x80\x99d seas. \n\nThe present! take it, hold it thine, \nBut that one hour out from all \n\n\nThe years that are, or yet shall \nfall, \n\nI pluck it out, I name it mine; \n\nThat hour bound in sunny sheaves, \nWith tassell\xe2\x80\x99d shocks of golden shine, \nThat hour wound in scarlet leaves, \n\nIs mine. I stretch a hand and \nswear \n\nAn oath that breaks into a prayer; \nBy heaven, it is wholly mine! \n\n\nFROM SEA TO SEA \n\n\nLo! here sit we by the sun-down seas \n\nAnd the White Sierras. The sweet \nsea-breeze \n\nIs about us here; and a sky so fair \n\nIs bending above , so cloudless , blue, \n\nThat you gaze and you gaze and you \ndream , and you \n\nSee God and the portals of heaven there. \n\nShake hands! kiss hands in haste to \nthe sea, \n\nWhere the sun comes in, and mount \nwith me \n\nThe matchless steed of the strong \nNew World, \n\nAs he champs and chafes with a \nstrength untold,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd away to the West where the \nwaves are curl\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAs they kiss white palms to the capes \nof gold! \n\nA girth of brass and a breast of \nsteel, \n\nA breath of flame and a flaming mane, \n\nAn iron hoof and a steel-clad heel, \n\n\nA Mexican bit and a massive chain \n\nWell tried and wrought in an iron \nrein; \n\nAnd away! away! with a shout and \nyell \n\nThat had stricken a legion of old with \nfear, \n\nThey had started the dead from their \ngraves whilere, \n\nAnd startled the damn\xe2\x80\x99d in hell as \nwell. \n\nStand up! stand out! where the \nwind comes in \n\nAnd the wealth of the sea pours over \nyou, \n\nAs its health floods up to the face like \nwine, \n\nAnd a breath blows up from the \nDelaware \n\nAnd the Susquehanna. We feel the \nmight \n\nOf armies in us; the blood leaps \nthrough \n\nThe frame with a fresh and a keen \ndelight \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n214 \n\n\nJfrom \xc2\xa3\xc2\xa7>ea to ibea \n\n\nAs the Alleghanies have kiss\xe2\x80\x99d the \nhair, \n\nWith a kiss blown far through the \nrush and din, \n\nBy the chestnut burrs and through \nboughs of pine. \n\nO seas in a land! O lakes of mine! \n\nBy the love I bear and the songs I \nbring \n\nBe glad with me! lift your waves and \nsing \n\nA song in the reeds that surround \nyour isles!\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA song of joy for this sun that smiles, \n\nFor this land I love and this age and \nsign; \n\nFor the peace that is and the perils \npass\xe2\x80\x99d; \n\nFor the hope that is and the rest at \nlast! \n\nO heart of the world\xe2\x80\x99s heart! \nWest! my West! \n\nLook up! look out! There are fields \nof kine, \n\nThere are clover-fields that are red as \nwine; \n\nAnd a world of kine in the fields take \nrest, \n\nAs they ruminate in the shade of trees \n\nThat are white with blossoms or \nbrown with bees. \n\nThere are emerald seas of corn and \ncane; \n\nThere are isles of oak on the harvest \nplain, \n\nWhere brawn men bend to the bend\xc2\xac \ning grain; \n\n\nThere are temples of God and tovvns \nnew born, \n\nAnd beautiful homes of beautiful \nbrides; \n\nAnd the hearts of oak and the hands \nof horn \n\nHave fashion\xe2\x80\x99d all these and a world \nbesides . . . \n\nA rush of rivers and a brush of \ntrees, \n\nA breath blown far from the Mexican \n\nseas, \n\nAnd over the great heart-vein of \nearth! \n\n... By the South-Sun-land of the \nCherokee, \n\nBy the scalp-lock-lodge of the tall \nPawnee, \n\nAnd up La Platte. What a weary \ndearth \n\nOf the homes of men! What a wild \ndelight \n\nOf space! of room! What a sense of \nseas, \n\nWhere the seas are not! What a \nsalt-like breeze! \n\nWhat dust and taste of quick alkali! \n\n. . . Then hills! green, brown, then \nblack like night, \n\nAll fierce and defiant against the sky! \n\nAt last! at last! O steed new-born, \n\nBorn strong of the will of the strong \nNew World, \n\nWe shoot to the summit, with the \nshafts of morn, \n\nOn the mount of Thunder, where \nclouds are curl\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nBelow in a splendor of the sun-clad \n\nseas. \n\n\n\nJfrom is>ea to H>ea \n\n\n215 \n\n\nA kiss of welcome on the warm west \nbreeze \n\nBlows up with a smell of the fragrant \npine, \n\nAnd a faint, sweet fragrance from \nthe far-off seas \n\nComes in through the gates of the \ngreat South Pass, \n\nAnd thrills the soul like a flow of wine. \n\nThe hare leaps low in the storm-bent \ngrass, \n\nThe mountain ram from his cliff looks \nback, \n\nThe brown deer hies to the tamarack; \n\nAnd afar to the South with a sound of \nthe main, \n\nRoll buffalo herds to the limitless \nplain. . . . \n\nOn, on, o\xe2\x80\x99er the summit; and \nonward again, \n\nAnd down like the sea-dove the billow \nenshrouds, \n\nAnd down like the swallow that dips \nto the sea, \n\nWe dart and we dash and we quiver \nand we \n\nAre blowing to heaven white billows \nof clouds. \n\nThou \xe2\x80\x9cCity of Saints!\xe2\x80\x9d O antique \nmen, \n\nAnd men of the Desert as the men of \nold! \n\nStand up! be glad! When the truths \nare told, \n\nWhen Time has utter\xe2\x80\x99d his truths \nand when \n\nHis hand has lifted the things to fame \n\nFrom the mass of things to be known \nno more, \n\n\nA monument set in the desert sand, \nA pyramid rear\xe2\x80\x99d on an inland shore, \nAnd their architects shall have place \nand name. \n\nThe Humboldt desert and the \nalkaline land, \n\nAnd the seas of sage and of arid sand \nThat stretch away till the strain\'d \neye carries \n\nThe soul where the infinite spaces fill, \nAre far in the rear, and the fierce \nSierras \n\nAre under our feet, and the hearts \nbeat high \n\nAnd the blood comes quick; but the \nlips are still \n\nWith awe and wonder, and all the will \nIs bow\xe2\x80\x99d with a grandeur that frets \nthe sky. \n\nA flash of lakes through the \nfragrant trees, \n\nA song of birds and a sound of bees \nAbove in the boughs of the sugar- \npine. \n\nThe pick-ax stroke in the placer mine, \nThe boom of blasts in the gold-ribbed \nhills, \n\nThe grizzly\xe2\x80\x99s growl in the gorge below \nAre dying away, and the sound of rills \nFrom the far-off shimmering crest of \nsnow, \n\nThe laurel green and the ivied oak, \n\nA yellow stream and a cabin\xe2\x80\x99s smoke, \nThe brown bent hills and the shep\xc2\xac \nherd\xe2\x80\x99s call, \n\nThe hills of vine and of fruits, and all \nThe sweets of Eden are here, and we \nLook out and afar to a limitless \nsea. \n\n\n\n\n\n216 \n\n\nie in tfje 30 esert \n\n\nWe have lived an age in a half \nmoon-wane! \n\nWe have seen a world! We have \nchased the sun \n\nFrom sea to sea; but the task is done. \nWe here descend to the great white \nmain\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nTo the King of Seas, with its temples \nbare \n\nAnd a tropic breath on the brow and \nhair. \n\nTHE SHIP IN \n\nA wild, wide land of mysteries, \n\nOf sea-salt lakes and dried up seas, \n\nA nd lonely wells and pools; a land \nThat seems so like dead Palestine, \n\nSave that its wastes have no confine \nTill push\'d agamst the levell\'d skies. \n\nA land from out whose depths shall rise \nThe new-time prophets. Yea, the land \nFrom out whose awful depths shall \ncome, \n\nA lowly man, with dusty feet, \n\nA man fresh from his Maker\'s hand, \n\nA singer singing oversweet, \n\nA charmer charming very wise; \n\nAnd then all men shall not he dumb. \nNay, not be dumb; for he shall say, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Take heed, for I prepare the way \nFor weary feet." Lo! from this land \nOf Jordan streams and dead sea sand, \nThe Christ shall come when next the \nrace \n\nOf man shall look upon His face. \n\nI \n\nA man in middle Aridzone \nStood by the desert\xe2\x80\x99s edge alone, \n\n\nWe are hush\xe2\x80\x99d with wonder, we \nstand apart, \n\nWe stand in silence; the heaving heart \nFills full of heaven, and then the \nknees \n\nGo down in worship on the golden \nsands. \n\nWith faces seaward, and with folded \nhands \n\nWe gaze on the boundless, white \nBalboa seas. \n\nTHE DESERT \n\nAnd long he look\xe2\x80\x99d, and lean\xe2\x80\x99d and \npeer\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAnd twirl\xe2\x80\x99d and twirl\xe2\x80\x99d his twist\xe2\x80\x99d \nbeard, \n\nBeneath a black and slouchy hat\xe2\x80\x94 \nNay, nay, the tale is not of that. \n\nA skin-clad trapper, toe-a-tip, \nStood on a mountain top; and he \nLook\xe2\x80\x99d long, and still, and eagerly. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c It looks so like some lonesome ship \nThat sails this ghostly, lonely sea,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThis dried-up desert sea,\xe2\x80\x9d said he, \n\xe2\x80\x9cThese tawny sands of buried \nseas\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAvaunt! this tale is not of these! \n\nA chief from out the desert\xe2\x80\x99s rim \nRode swift as twilight swallows swim, \nAnd O! his supple steed was fleet! \nAbout his breast flapped panther \nskins, \n\nAbout his eager flying feet \nFlapp\xe2\x80\x99d beaded, braided moccasins: \nHe stopp\xe2\x80\x99d, stock still, as still as \nstone, \n\n\n\n\n217 \n\n\n\xc2\xae|!c iblnp in tljc desert \n\n\nHe loan\'d, he look\xe2\x80\x99d, there glisten\xe2\x80\x99d \nbright, \n\nFrom out the yellow, yielding sand, \n\nA golden cup with jewell\xe2\x80\x99d rim. \n\nHe lean\xe2\x80\x99d him low, he reach\xe2\x80\x99d a \nhand, \n\nHe caught it up, he gallop\xe2\x80\x99d on, \n\nHe turn\xe2\x80\x99d his head, he saw a sight\xe2\x80\x94 \nHis panther-skins flew to the wind, \nHe rode into the rim of night; \n\nThe dark, the desert lay behind; \n\nThe tawny Ishmaelite was gone. \n\nHe reach\xe2\x80\x99d the town, and there \nheld up \n\nAbove his head the jewell\xe2\x80\x99d cup. \n\nHe put two fingers to his lip, \n\nHe whisper\xe2\x80\x99d wild, he stood a-tip, \nAnd lean\xe2\x80\x99d the while with lifted hand, \nAnd said, \xe2\x80\x9cA ship lies yonder dead,\xe2\x80\x9d \nAnd said, \xe2\x80\x9cSuch things lie sown in \nsand \n\nIn yon far desert dead and brown, \nBeyond where wave-wash\xe2\x80\x99d walls \nlook down, \n\nAs thick as stars set overhead.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x99Tis from that desert ship,\xe2\x80\x9d they \nsaid, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c That sails with neither sail nor \nbreeze \n\nThe lonely bed of dried-up seas,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA galleon that sank below \nWhite seas ere Red men drew the \nbow.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nBy Arizona\xe2\x80\x99s sea of sand \nSome bearded miners, gray and old, \nAnd resolute in search of gold, \n\nSat down to tap the savage land. \n\n\nA miner stood beside the mine, \n\nHe pull\xe2\x80\x99d his beard, then looked away \nAcross the level sea of sand, \n\nBeneath his broad and hairy hand, \n\nA hand as hard as knots of pine. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIt looks so like a sea,\xe2\x80\x9d said he. \n\nHe pull\xe2\x80\x99d his beard, and he did say, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c It looks just like a dried-up sea.\xe2\x80\x9d \nAgain he pull\xe2\x80\x99d that beard of his, \n\nBut said no other thing than this. \n\nA stalwart miner dealt a stroke, \nAnd struck a buried beam of oak. \n\nThe miner twisted, twirl\xe2\x80\x99d his beard, \nLean\xe2\x80\x99d on his pick-ax as he spoke: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x99Tis that same long-lost ship,\xe2\x80\x9d he \nsaid, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Some laden ship of Solomon \nThat sail\xe2\x80\x99d these lonesome seas upon \nIn search of Ophir\xe2\x80\x99s mine, ah me! \nThat sail\xe2\x80\x99d this dried-up desert sea.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nII \n\nNow this the tale. Along the wide \nMissouri\xe2\x80\x99s stream some silent braves, \nThat stole along the farther side \nThrough sweeping wood that swept \nthe waves \n\nLike long arms reach\xe2\x80\x99d across the \ntide, \n\nKept watch and every foe defied. \n\nA low, black boat that hugg\xe2\x80\x99d the \nshores, \n\nAn ugly boat, an ugly crew, \nThick-lipp\xe2\x80\x99d and woolly-headed \nslaves, \n\nThat bow\xe2\x80\x99d, and bent the white-ash \noars, \n\nThat cleft the murky waters through, \n\n\n\n218 \n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e S>i)ip in tfje \xc2\xa9egert \n\n\nSlow climb\xe2\x80\x99d the swift Missouri\xe2\x80\x99s \nwaves. \n\nA grand old Neptune in the prow, \nGray-hair\xe2\x80\x99d, and white with touch of \ntime, \n\nYet strong as in his middle prime, \nStood up, turn\xe2\x80\x99d suddenly, look\xe2\x80\x99d \nback \n\nAlong his low boat\xe2\x80\x99s wrinkled track, \nThen drew his mantle tight, and now \nHe sat all silently. Beside \nThe grim old sea-king sat his bride, \n\nA sun land blossom, rudely torn \nFrom tropic forests to be worn \nAbove as stern a breast as e\xe2\x80\x99er \nStood king at sea, or anywhere. \n\nAnother boat with other crew \nCame swift and cautious in her track, \nAnd now shot shoreward, now shot \nback, \n\nAnd now sat rocking fro and to, \n\nBut never once lost sight of her. \n\nTall, sunburnt, southern men were \nthese \n\nFrom isles of blue Caribbean seas, \nAnd one, that woman\xe2\x80\x99s worshiper, \nWho look\xe2\x80\x99d on her, and loved but her. \n\nAnd one, that one, was wild as seas \nThat wash the far, dark Oregon. \n\nAnd one, that one, had eyes to teach \nThe art of love, and tongue to preach \nLife\xe2\x80\x99s hard and sober homilies, \n\nWhile he stood leaning, urging on. \n\nIll \n\nPursuer and pursued. And who \nAre these that make the sable crew; \n\n\nThese mighty Titans, black and nude, \nWho dare this Red man\xe2\x80\x99s solitude? \n\nAnd who is he that leads them here, \nAnd breaks the hush of wave and \nwood? \n\nComes he for evil or for good? \n\nBrave Jesuit or bold buccaneer? \n\nNay, these be idle themes. Let \npass. \n\nThese be but men. We may forget \nThe wild sea-king, the tawny brave, \nThe frowning wold, the woody shore, \nThe tall-built, sunburnt man of Mars. \nBut what and who was she, the fair? \nThe fairest face that ever yet \nLook\xe2\x80\x99d in a wave as in a glass; \n\nThat look\xe2\x80\x99d, as look the still, far \nstars, \n\nSo woman-like, into the wave \nTo contemplate their beauty there? \n\nI only saw her, heard the sound \nOf murky waters gurgling round \nIn counter-currents from the shore, \nBut heard the long, strong stroke of \noar \n\nAgainst the water gray and vast; \n\nI only saw her as she pass\xe2\x80\x99d\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA great, sad beauty, in whose eyes \nLay all the peace of Paradise. \n\nO you had loved her sitting there, \nHalf hidden in her loosen\xe2\x80\x99d hair; \n\nYea, loved her for her large dark eyes, \nHer push\xe2\x80\x99d out mouth, her mute sur\xc2\xac \nprise\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHer mouth! \xe2\x80\x99twas Egypt\xe2\x80\x99s mouth of \nold, \n\nPush\xe2\x80\x99d out and pouting full and bold \n\n\n\ni&fnp in tfje Betfert \n\n\n219 \n\n\nWith simple beauty where she sat. \nWhy, you had said, on seeing her, \nThis creature comes from out the dim, \nFar centuries, beyond the rim \nOf time\xe2\x80\x99s remotest reach or stir; \n\nAnd he who wrought Semiramis \nAnd shaped the Sibyls, seeing this, \nHad kneeled and made a shrine \nthereat, \n\nAnd all his life had worshipp\xe2\x80\x99d her. \n\nIV \n\nThe black men bow\xe2\x80\x99d, the long oars \nbent, \n\nThey struck as if for sweet life\xe2\x80\x99s sake, \nAnd one look\xe2\x80\x99d back, but no man \nspake, \n\nAnd all wills bent to one intent. \n\nOn, through the golden fringe of day \nInto the deep, dark night, away \nAnd up the wave \xe2\x80\x99mid walls of wood \nThey cleft, they climb\xe2\x80\x99d, they bow\xe2\x80\x99d, \nthey bent, \n\nBut one stood tall, and restless stood, \nAnd one sat still all night, all day, \nAnd gazed in helpless wonderment. \n\nHer hair pour\xe2\x80\x99d down like darkling \nwine, \n\nThe black men lean\xe2\x80\x99d a sullen line, \nThe bent oars kept a steady song, \nAnd all the beams of bright sunshine \nThat touch\xe2\x80\x99d the waters wild and \nstrong, \n\nf ell drifting down and out of sight \nLike fallen leaves, and it was night. \n\nAnd night and day, and many days \nThey climb\xe2\x80\x99d the sullen, dark gray \ntide. \n\n\nAnd she sat silent at his side, \n\nAnd he sat turning many ways; \n\nSat watching for his wily foe. \n\nAt last he baffled him. And yet \nHis brow gloom\xe2\x80\x99d dark, his lips were \nset; \n\nHe lean\xe2\x80\x99d, he peer\xe2\x80\x99d through boughs, \nas though \n\nFrom heart of forests deep and dim \nGrim shapes might come confronting \nhim. \n\nA stern, uncommon man was he, \nBroad-shoulder\xe2\x80\x99d, as of Gothic form, \nStrong-built, and hoary like a sea; \n\nA high sea broken up by storm. \n\nHis face was brown and over-wrought \nBy seams and shadows born of \nthought, \n\nNot over-gentle. And his eyes, \n\nBold, restless, resolute and deep, \n\nToo deep to flow like shallow fount \nOf common men where waters \nmount;\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFierce, lumined eyes, where flames \nmight rise \n\nInstead of flood, and flash and \nsweep\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nStrange eyes, that look\'d unsatisfied \nWith all things fair or otherwise; \n\nAs if his inmost soul had cried \nAll time for something yet unseen, \nSome long-desired thing denied. \n\nV \n\nBelow the overhanging boughs \nThe oars lay idle at the last; \n\nYet long he look\xe2\x80\x99d for hostile prows \nFrom out the wood and down the \nstream. \n\n\n\n220 \n\n\nWs>t S>f)ip ttt tfjc \xc2\xa9esert \n\n\nThey came not, and he came to dream \nPursuit abandon\xe2\x80\x99d, danger past. \n\nHe fell\xe2\x80\x99d the oak, he built a home \nOf new-hewn wood with busy hand, \nAnd said, \xe2\x80\x9cMy wanderings are told,\xe2\x80\x9d \nAnd said, \xe2\x80\x9cNo more by sea, by land, \nvShall I break rest, or drift, or roam, \nFor I am worn, and I grow old.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAnd there, beside that surging tide, \nWhere gray waves meet, and wheel, \nand strike, \n\nThe man sat down as satisfied \nTo sit and rest unto the end; \n\nAs if the strong man here had foand \nA sort of brother in this sea,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis surging, sounding majesty, \n\nOf troubled water, so profound, \n\nSo sullen, strong, and lion-like, \n\nSo lawless in its every round. \n\nHast seen Missouri cleave the wood \nIn sounding whirlpools to the sea? \nWhat soul hath known such majesty? \nWhat man stood by and understood? \n\nVI \n\nNow long the long oars idle lay. \nThe cabin\xe2\x80\x99s smoke came forth and \ncurl\'d \n\nRight lazily from river brake, \n\nAnd Time went by the other way. \nAnd who was she, the strong man\xe2\x80\x99s \npride, \n\nThis one fair woman of his world? \n\nA captive? Bride, or not a bride? \nHer eyes, men say, grew sad and dim \nWith watching from the river\xe2\x80\x99s rim, \nAs waiting for some face denied. \n\n\nYea, who was she? none ever knew. \nThe great, strong river swept around \nThe cabin nestled in its bend, \n\nB ut kept its secrets. Wild birds flew \nIn bevies by. The black men found \nDiversion in the chase; and wide \nOld Morgan ranged the wood, nor \nfriend \n\nNor foeman ever sought his side, \n\nOr shared his forests deep and dim, \nOr cross\'d his path or question\xe2\x80\x99d him. \n\nHe stood as one who found and \nnamed \n\nThe middle world. What visions \nflamed \n\nAthwart the west! What prophe\xc2\xac \ncies \n\nWere his, the gray old man, that day \nWho stood alone and look\xe2\x80\x99d away,\xe2\x80\x94 \nAwest from out the w r aving trees, \nAgainst the utter sundown seas. \n\nAlone ofttime beside the stream \nHe stood and gazed as in a dream,\xe2\x80\x94 \nAs if he knew a life unknown \nTo those who knew him thus alone. \nHis eyes were gray and overborne \nBy shaggy brows, his strength was \nshorn, \n\nYet still he ever gazed awest, \n\nAs one that would not, could not rest. \n\nAnd had he fled with bloody hand? \nOr had he loved some Helen fair, \n\nAnd battling lost both land and \ntowm? \n\nSay, did he see his walls go down, \nThen choose from all his treasures \nthere \n\nThis one, and seek some other land? \n\n\n\n\ng>f)tp tn tfjc Betfert \n\n\n221 \n\n\nVII \n\nThe squirrels chatter\xe2\x80\x99d in the \nleaves, \n\nThe turkeys call\xe2\x80\x99d from pawpaw \nwood, \n\nThe deer with lifted nostrils stood, \n\xe2\x80\x99Mid climbing blossoms sweet with \nbee, \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Neath snow-white rose of Cherokee. \n\nThen frosts hung ices on the eaves, \nThen cushion snows possess\xe2\x80\x99d the \nground, \n\nAnd so the seasons kept their round; \nYet still old Morgan went and came \nFrom cabin door through forest dim, \nThrough wold of snows, through \nwood of flame, \n\nThrough golden Indian-summer days, \nHung red with soft September haze, \nAnd no man cross\xe2\x80\x99d or questioned \nhim. \n\nNay, there was that in his stern air \nThat held e\xe2\x80\x99en these rude men aloof; \nNone came to share the broad-built \nroof \n\nThat rose so fortress-like beside \nThe angry, rushing, sullen tide, \n\nAnd only black men gather\xe2\x80\x99d there, \nThe old man\xe2\x80\x99s slaves in dull content, \nBlack, silent, and obedient. \n\nThen men push\xe2\x80\x99d westward through \nhis wood, \n\nHis wild beasts fled, and now he stood \nConfronting men. He had endear\xe2\x80\x99d \nNo man, but still he went and came \nApart, and shook his beard and strode \nHis ways alone, and bore his load, \n\n\nIf load it were, apart, alone. \n\nThen men grew busy with a name \nThat no man loved, that many fear\xe2\x80\x99d, \nAnd rude men stoop\xe2\x80\x99d, and cast a \nstone, \n\nAs at some statue overthrown. \n\nSome said, a stolen bride was she, \nAnd that her lover from the sea \nLay waiting for his chosen wife, \n\nAnd that a day of reckoning \nLay waiting for this grizzled king. \n\nSome said that looking from her \nplace \n\nA love would sometimes light her \nface, \n\nAs if sweet recollections stirr\xe2\x80\x99d \nLike far, sweet songs that come to us, \nSo soft, so sweet, they are not heard, \nSo far, so faint, they fill the air, \n\nA fragrance falling anywhere. \n\nSo, wasting all her summer years \nThat utter\xe2\x80\x99d only through her tears, \nThe seasons went, and still she stood \nForever watching down the wood. \n\nYet in her heart there held a strife \nWith all this wasting of sweet life, \nThat none who have not lived\xe2\x80\x94and \ndied\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHeld up the two hands crucified \nBetween two ways\xe2\x80\x94can understand. \n\nMen went and came, and still she \nstood \n\nIn silence watching down the wood\xe2\x80\x94 \nAdown the wood beyond the land, \nHer hollow face upon her hand, \n\n\n\n\n\n222 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje l=>fnp in tfje SJestett \n\n\nHer black, abundant hair all down \nAbout her loose, ungather\xe2\x80\x99d gown. \n\nAnd what her thought? her life \nunsaid? \n\nWas it of love? of hate? of him, \n\nThe tall, dark Southerner? Her \nhead \n\nBow\xe2\x80\x99d down. The day fell dim \nUpon her eyes. She bowed, she \nslept. \n\nShe waken\xe2\x80\x99d then, and waking wept. \nVIII \n\nThe black-eyed bushy squirrels ran \nLike shadows scattered through the \nboughs; \n\nThe gallant robin chirp\xe2\x80\x99d his vows, \nThe far-off pheasant thrumm\xe2\x80\x99d his \nfan, \n\nA thousand blackbirds kept on wing \nIn walnut-top, and it was Spring. \n\nOld Morgan sat his cabin door, \nAnd one sat watching as of yore, \n\nBut why turn\xe2\x80\x99d Morgan\xe2\x80\x99s face as \nwhite \n\nAs his white beard? A bird aflight, \nA squirrel peering through the trees, \nSaw some one silent steal away \nLike darkness from the face of day, \nSaw two black eyes look back, and \nthese \n\nSaw her hand beckon through the \ntrees. \n\nAy! they have come, the sun- \nbrown\xe2\x80\x99d men, \n\nTo beard old Morgan in his den. \n\nIt matters little who they are, \n\n\nThese silent men from isles afar; \n\nAnd truly no one cares or knows \nWhat be their merit or demand; \n\nIt is enough for this rude land\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAt least, it is enough for those, \n\nThe loud of tongue and rude of \nhand\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo know that they are Morgan\xe2\x80\x99s foes. \n\nProud Morgan! More than tongue \ncan tell \n\nHe loved that woman watching there, \nThat stood in her dark storm of hair, \nThat stood and dream\xe2\x80\x99d as in a spell. \nAnd look\xe2\x80\x99d so fix\xe2\x80\x99d and far aw^ay; \nAnd who that loveth woman well, \n\nIs wholly bad? be whom he may. \n\nIX \n\nAy! we have seen these Southern \nmen, \n\nThese sun-browned men from island \nshore, \n\nIn this same land, and long before. \nThey do not seem so lithe as then, \nThey do not look so tall, and they \nSeem not so many as of old. \n\nBut that same resolute and bold \nExpression of unbridled will, \n\nThat even Time must half obey, \n\nIs with them and is of them still. \n\nThey do not counsel the decree \nOf court or council, where they drew \nTheir breath, nor law nor order knew, \nSave but the strong hand of the \nstrong; \n\nWhere each stood up, avenged his \nwrong, \n\nOr sought his death all silently. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaelje in Mje \xc2\xa9esert \n\n\nThey watch along the wave and \nwood, \n\nThey heed, but haste not. Their \nestate, \n\nWhate\xe2\x80\x99er it be, can bide and wait, \n\nBe it open ill or hidden good. \n\nNo law for them! For they have \nstood \n\nWith steel, and writ their rights in \nblood; \n\nAnd now, whatever\xe2\x80\x99t is they seek, \nWhatever be their dark demand, \nWhy, they will make it, hand to hand, \nTake time and patience: Greek to \nGreek* \n\nX \n\nLike blown and snowy wintry pine, \nOld Morgan stoop\xe2\x80\x99d his head and \npass\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nWithin his cabin door. He cast \nA great arm out to men, made sign, \nThen turn\xe2\x80\x99d to Sybal; stood beside \nA time, then turn\xe2\x80\x99d and strode the \nfloor, \n\nStopp\xe2\x80\x99d short, breathed sharp, threw \nwide the door, \n\nThen gazed beyond the murky tide, \nPast where the forky peaks divide. \n\nHe took his beard in his right hand, \nThen slowly shook his grizzled head \nAnd trembled, but no word he said. \nHis thought was something more than \npain; \n\nUpon the seas, upon the land \nHe knew he should not rest again. \n\nHe turn\xe2\x80\x99d to her; and then once \nmore \n\n\n223 \n\nQuick turn\xe2\x80\x99d, and through the oaken \ndoor \n\nHe sudden pointed to the west. \n\nHis eye resumed its old command, \nThe conversation of his hand \nIt was enough; she knew the rest. \n\nHe turn\xe2\x80\x99d, he stoop\xe2\x80\x99d, and \nsmooth\xe2\x80\x99d her hair, \n\nAs if to smooth away the care \nFrom his great heart, with his left \nhand. \n\nHis right hand hitch\xe2\x80\x99d the pistol \n\xe2\x80\x99round \n\nThat dangled at his belt. The sound \nOf steel to him was melody \nMore sweet than any song of sea. \n\nHe touch\xe2\x80\x99d his pistol, push\xe2\x80\x99d his lips, \nThen tapp\xe2\x80\x99d it with his finger tips, \nAnd toy\xe2\x80\x99d with it as harper\'s hand \nSeeks out the chords when he is sad \nAnd purposeless. At last he had \nResolved. In haste he touch\xe2\x80\x99d her \nhair, \n\nMade sign she should arise\xe2\x80\x94prepare \nFor some long journey, then again \nHe look\xe2\x80\x99d awest toward the plain; \nAgainst the land of boundless space, \nThe land of silences, the land \nOf shoreless deserts sown with sand, \nWhere Desolation\xe2\x80\x99s dwelling is; \n\nThe land where, wondering, you say, \nWhat dried-up shoreless sea is this? \nWhere, wandering, from day to day \nYou say, To-morrow sure we come \nTo rest in some cool resting place, \nAnd yet you journey on through \nspace \n\nWhile seasons pass, and are struck \ndumb \n\nWith marvel at the distances. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n224 \n\n\n\xc2\xae{je m tfjc \xc2\xa9esert \n\n\nYea, he would go. Go utterly \nAway, and from all living kind; \nPierce through the distances, and find \nNew lands. He had outlived his race. \nHe stood like some eternal tree \nThat tops remote Yosemite, \n\nAnd cannot fall. He turn\xe2\x80\x99d his face \nAgain and contemplated space. \n\nAnd then he raised his hand to vex \nHis beard, stood still, and there fell \ndown \n\nGreat drops from some unfrequent \nspring, \n\nAnd streak\xe2\x80\x99d his channeled cheeks \nsunbrown, \n\nAnd ran uncheck\xe2\x80\x99d, as one who recks \nNor joy, nor tears, nor anything. \n\nAnd then, his broad breast heaving \ndeep, \n\nLike some dark sea in troubled sleep, \nBlown round with groaning ships and \nwrecks, \n\nHe sudden roused himself, and stood \nWith all the strength of his stern \nmood, \n\nThen call\xe2\x80\x99d his men, and bade them \ngo \n\nAnd bring black steeds with banner\xe2\x80\x99d \nnecks, \n\nAnd strong, like burly buffalo. \n\nXI \n\nThe bronzen, stolid, still, black men \nTheir black-maned horses silent drew \nThrough solemn wood. One mid\xc2\xac \nnight when \n\nThe curl\xe2\x80\x99d moon tipp\xe2\x80\x99d her horn, and \nthrew \n\n\nA black oak\xe2\x80\x99s shadow slant across \nA low mound hid in leaves and moss, \nOld Morgan cautious came and drew \nFrom out the ground, as from a grave, \nGreat bags, all copper-bound and old, \nAnd fill\xe2\x80\x99d, men say, with pirates\xe2\x80\x99 gold. \nAnd then they, silent as a dream, \n\nIn long black shadow cross\xe2\x80\x99d the \nstream. \n\nXII \n\nAnd all was life at mom, but one, \nThe tall old sea-king, grim and gray, \nLook\xe2\x80\x99d back to where his cabin lay, \nAnd seem\xe2\x80\x99d to hesitate. He rose \nAt last, as from his dream\xe2\x80\x99s repose, \nFrom rest that counterfeited rest, \nAnd set his blown beard to the west; \nAnd rode against the setting sun, \n\nFar up the levels vast and dun. \n\nHis steeds were steady, strong and \nfleet, \n\nThe best in all the wide west land, \nTheir manes were in the air, their feet \nSeem\xe2\x80\x99d scarce to touch the flying \nsand. \n\nThey rode like men gone mad, they \nfled \n\nAll day and many days they ran, \n\nAnd in the rear a gray old man \nKept watch, and ever turn\xe2\x80\x99d his head \nHalf eager and half angry, back \nAlong their dusty desert track. \n\nAnd she look\xe2\x80\x99d back, but no man \nspoke, \n\nThey rode, they swallowed up the \nplain; \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaet)f i\xc2\xa3>fjip tu tfje \xc2\xa9egert \n\n\n225 \n\n\nThe sun sank low, he look\xe2\x80\x99d again, \nWith lifted hand and shaded eyes. \nThen far, afar, he saw uprise, \n\nAs if from giant\xe2\x80\x99s stride or stroke, \nDun dust, like puffs of battle-smoke. \n\nHe turn\xe2\x80\x99d, his left hand clutched \nthe rein, \n\nHe struck hard west his high right \nhand, \n\nHis limbs were like the limbs of oak; \nAll knew too well the man\xe2\x80\x99s com\xc2\xac \nmand. \n\nOr* t>n they spurred, they plunged \nagain, \n\nAnd one look\xe2\x80\x99d back, but no man \nspoke. \n\nThey climb\xe2\x80\x99d the rock-built breasts \nof earth, \n\nThe Titan-fronted, blowy steeps \nThat cradled Time. Where freedom \nkeeps \n\nHer flag of bright, blown stars un\xc2\xac \nfurl\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nThey climbed and climbed. They \nsaw the birth \n\nOf sudden dawn upon the world; \nAgain they gazed; they saw the face \nOf God, and named it boundless \nspace. \n\nAnd they descended and did roam \nThrough levell\xe2\x80\x99d distances set round \nBy room. They saw the Silences \nMove by and beckon; saw the forms, \nThe very beards, of burly storms, \nAnd heard them talk like sounding \nseas. \n\nOn unnamed heights, bleak-blown \nand brown, \n\n\nAnd torn-like battlements of Mars, \nThey saw the darknesses come down, \nLike curtains loosen\xe2\x80\x99d from the dome \nOf God\xe2\x80\x99s cathedral, built of stars. \n\nThey pitch\xe2\x80\x99d the tent where rivers \nrun \n\nAll foaming to the west, and rush \nAs if to drown the falling sun. \n\nThey saw the snowy mountains roll\xe2\x80\x99d, \nAnd heaved along the nameless lands \nLike mighty billows; saw the gold \nOf awful sunsets; felt the hush \nOf heaven when the day sat down, \nAnd drew about his mantle brown, \nAnd hid his face in dusky hands. \n\nThe long and lonesome nights! the \ntent \n\nThat nestled soft in sweep of grass, \nThe hills against the firmament \nWhere scarce the moving moon \ncould pass; \n\nThe cautious camp, the smother\xe2\x80\x99d \nlight, \n\nThe silent sentinel at night! \n\nThe wild beasts howling from the \nhill; \n\nThe savage prowling swift and still, \nAnd bended as a bow is bent. \n\nThe arrow sent; the arrow spent \nAnd buried in its bloody place; \n\nThe dead man lying on his face! \n\nThe clouds of dust, their cloud by \nday; \n\nTheir pillar of unfailing fire \nThe far North Star. And high, and \nhigher, \n\n\n15 \n\n\n\n\n226 \n\n\n\xc2\xaeije is>fjip in tfje \xc2\xa9efiert \n\n\nThey climb\xe2\x80\x99d so high it seemed \neftsoon \n\nThat they must face the falling moon, \nThat like some flame-lit ruin lay \nHigh built before their weary way. \n\nThey learn\xe2\x80\x99d to read the sign of \nstorms, \n\nThe moon\xe2\x80\x99s wide circles, sunset bars, \nAnd storm-provoking blood and \nflame; \n\nAnd, like the Chaldean shepherds, \ncame \n\nAt night to name the moving stars. \nIn heaven\xe2\x80\x99s face they pictured forms \nOf beasts, of fishes of the sea. \n\nThey watch\xe2\x80\x99d the Great Bear wearily \nRise up and drag his clinking chain \nOf stars around the starry main. \n\nXIII \n\nAnd why did these worn, sun-burnt \nmen \n\nLet Morgan gain the plain, and then \nPursue him ever where he fled? \n\nSome say their leader sought but her; \nUnlike each swarthy follower. \n\nSome say they sought his gold alone, \nAnd fear\xe2\x80\x99d to make their quarrel \nknown \n\nLest it should keep its secret bed; \nSome say they thought to best prevail \nAnd conquer with united hands \nAlone upon the lonesome sands; \nSome say they had as much to dread; \nSome say\xe2\x80\x94but I must tell my tale. \n\nAnd still old Morgan sought the \nwest; \n\nThe sea, the utmost sea, and rest. \n\n\nHe climb\xe2\x80\x99d, descended, climb\xe2\x80\x99d again, \nUntil pursuit seemed all in vain; \nUntil they left him all alone, \n\nAs unpursued and as unknown, \n\nAs some lost ship upon the main. \n\nO there was grandeur in his air, \n\nAn old-time splendor in his eye, \nWhen he had climb\xe2\x80\x99d at last the high \nAnd rock-built bastions of the plain, \nThrown back his beard and blown \nwhite hair, \n\nAnd halting turn\xe2\x80\x99d to look again. \n\nDismounting in his lofty place, \n\nHe look\xe2\x80\x99d far down the fading plain \nFor his pursuers, but in vain. \n\nYea, he was glad. Across his face \nA careless smile was seen to play, \nThe first for many a stormy day. \n\nHe turn\xe2\x80\x99d to Sybal, dark, yet fair \nAs some sad twilight; touched her \nhair, \n\nStoop\xe2\x80\x99d low, and kiss\xe2\x80\x99d her gently \nthere, \n\nThen silent held her to his breast; \nThen waved command to his black \nmen, \n\nLook\xe2\x80\x99d east, then mounted slow and \nthen \n\nLed leisurely against the west. \n\nAnd why should he who dared to \ndie, \n\nWho more than once with hissing \nbreath \n\nHad set his teeth and pray\xe2\x80\x99d for \n\ndeath? \n\nWhy fled these men, or wherefore fly \nBefore them now? why not defy? \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xa3H)tp tn tfje Zlksett \n\n\n227 \n\n\nHis midnight men were strong and \ntrue, \n\nAnd not unused to strife, and knew \nThe masonry of steel right well, \n\nAnd all such signs that lead to hell. \n\nIt might have been his youth had \nwrought \n\nSome wrongs his years would now \nrepair, \n\nThat made him fly and still forbear; \nIt might have been he only sought \nTo lead them to some fatal snare, \nAnd let them die by piecemeal there. \n\nI only know it was not fear \nOf any man or any thing \nThat death in any shape might bring. \nIt might have been some lofty sense \nOf his own truth and innocence, \n\nAnd virtues lofty as severe\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNay, nay! what room for reasons \nhere? \n\nAnd now they pierced a fringe of \ntrees \n\nThat bound a mountain\'s brow like \nbay. \n\nSweet through the fragrant boughs a \nbreeze \n\nBlew salt-flood freshness. Far away, \nFrom mountain brow to desert base \nLay chaos, space; unbounded space. \n\nThe black men cried, \xe2\x80\x9cThe sea!\xe2\x80\x9d \nThey bow\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nBlack, woolly heads in hard black \nhands. \n\nThey wept for joy. They laugh\xe2\x80\x99d, \nthey broke \n\nThe silence of an age, and spoke \n\n\nOf rest at last; and, grouped in bands, \nThey threw their long black arms \nabout \n\nEach other\xe2\x80\x99s necks, and laugh\xe2\x80\x99d \naloud, \n\nThen wept again with laugh and \nshout. \n\nYet Morgan spake no word, but led \nHis band with oft-averted head \nRight through the cooling trees, till \nhe \n\nStood out upon the lofty brow \nAnd mighty mountain wall. And \nnow \n\nThe men who shouted, \xe2\x80\x9c Lo, the sea! \xe2\x80\x9d \nRode in the sun; sad, silently, \n\nRode in the sun, and look\xe2\x80\x99d below. \n\nThey look\xe2\x80\x99d but once, then look\xe2\x80\x99d \naway, \n\nThen look\xe2\x80\x99d each other in the face. \nThey could not lift their brows, nor \nsay, \n\nBut held their heads, nor spake, for \nlo! \n\nNor sea, nor voice of sea, nor breath \nOf sea, but only sand and death, \n\nThe dread mirage, the fiend of space! \n\nXIV \n\nOld Morgan eyed his men, look\xe2\x80\x99d \nback \n\nAgainst the groves of tamarack, \n\nThen tapp\xe2\x80\x99d his stirrup foot, and \nstray\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nHis broad left hand along the mane \nOf his strong steed, and careless \nplay\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nHis fingers through the silken skein. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n228 \n\n\n\xc2\xaejjc \xc2\xa3H)tp in ttjc Bescrt \n\n\nAnd then he spurr\xe2\x80\x99d him to her \nside, \n\nAnd reach\xe2\x80\x99d his hand and leaning \nwide, \n\nHe smiling push\xe2\x80\x99d her falling hair \nBack from her brow, and kiss\xe2\x80\x99d her \nthere. \n\nYea, touch\xe2\x80\x99d her softly, as if she \nHad been some priceless, tender \nflower; \n\nYet touched her as one taking leave \nOf his one love in lofty tower \nBefore descending to the sea \nOf battle on his battle eve. \n\nA distant shout! quick oaths! \nalarms! \n\nThe black men start, turn suddenly, \nStand in the stirrup, clutch their \narms, \n\nAnd bare bright arms all instantly. \nBut he, he slowly turns, and he \nLooks all his full soul in her face. \n\nHe does not shout, he does not say, \nBut sits serenely in his place \nA time, then slowly turns, looks back \nBetween the trim-boughed tamarack, \nAnd up the winding mountain way, \nTo where the long, strong grasses lay, \nAnd there they came, hot on his \ntrack! \n\nHe raised his glass in his two hands, \nThen in his left hand let it fall, \n\nThen seem\xe2\x80\x99d to count his fingers o\xe2\x80\x99er, \nThen reached his glass, waved his \ncommands, \n\nThen tapped his stirrup as before, \nStood in the stirrup stern and tall, \nThen ran a hand along the mane \nHalf-nervous like, and that was all. \n\n\nAnd then he turn\xe2\x80\x99d and smiled \nhalf sad, \n\nHalf desperate, then hitch\xe2\x80\x99d his steel; \nThen all his stormy presence had, \n\nAs if he kept once more his keel, \n\nOn pirate seas where breakers reel. \n\nAt last he tossed his iron hand \nAbove the deep, steep desert space, \nAbove the burning seas of sand, \n\nAnd look\xe2\x80\x99d his black men in the face. \nThey spake not, nor look\xe2\x80\x99d back \nagain, \n\nThey struck the heel, they clutched \nthe rein, \n\nAnd down the darkling plunging steep \nThey dropp\xe2\x80\x99d into the dried-up deep. \n\nBelow! It seem\xe2\x80\x99d a league below, \nThe black men rode, and she rode \nwell, \n\nAgainst the gleaming, sheening haze \nThat shone like some vast sea \nablaze\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat seem\xe2\x80\x99d to gleam, to glint, to \nglow, \n\nAs if it mark\xe2\x80\x99d the shores of hell. \n\nThen Morgan reined alone, look\xe2\x80\x99d \nback \n\nFrom off the high wall wdiere he stood, \nAnd watch\xe2\x80\x99d his fierce approaching \nfoe. \n\nHe saw him creep along his track, \nSaw him descending from the wood. \nAnd smiled to see how worn and slow. \n\nAnd Morgan heard his oath and \nshout, . \n\nAnd Morgan turned his head once \nmore, \n\n\n\n229 \n\n\nTElje \xc2\xa3\xc2\xa7>i)tp in tlje \xc2\xa9esert \n\n\nAnd wheel\xe2\x80\x99d his stout steed short \nabout, \n\nThen seem\xe2\x80\x99d to count their numbers \no\xe2\x80\x99er. \n\nAnd then his right hand touch\xe2\x80\x99d his \nsteel, \n\nAnd then he tapp\xe2\x80\x99d his iron heel, \nAnd seemed to fight with thought. \nAt last \n\nAs if the final die was cast, \n\nAnd cast as carelessly as one \nWould toss a white coin in the sun, \nHe touch\xe2\x80\x99d his rein once more, and \nthen \n\nHis right hand laid with idle heed \nAlong the toss\xe2\x80\x99d mane of his steed. \n\nPursuer and pursued! who knows \nThe why he left the breezy pine, \n\nThe fragrant tamarack and vine, \n\nRed rose and precious yellow rose! \nNay Vasques held the vantage ground \nAbove him by the wooded steep, \n\nAnd right nor left no passage lay, \nAnd there was left him but that \nway,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe way through blood, or to the \ndeep \n\nAnd lonesome deserts far profound, \nThat knew not sight of man, nor \nsound. \n\nHot Vasques reined upon the rim, \nHigh, bold, and fierce with crag and \nspire. \n\nHe saw a far gray eagle swim, \n\nHe saw a black hawk wheel, retire, \nAnd shun that desert\xe2\x80\x99s burning \nbreath \n\nAs shunning something more than \ndeath. \n\n\nAh, then he paused, turn\xe2\x80\x99d, shook \nhis head. \n\n"And shall we turn aside,\xe2\x80\x9d he said, \n"Or dare this Death?\xe2\x80\x9d The men \nstood still \n\nAs leaning on his sterner will. \n\nAnd then he stopp\xe2\x80\x99d and turn\xe2\x80\x99d again, \nAnd held his broad hand to his brow, \nAnd look\xe2\x80\x99d intent and eagerly. \n\nThe far white levels of the plain \nFlash\xe2\x80\x99d back like billows. Even now \nHe thought he saw rise up \xe2\x80\x99mid sea, \n\xe2\x80\x99Mid space, \xe2\x80\x99mid wastes, \xe2\x80\x99mid noth\xc2\xac \ningness \n\nA ship becalm\'d as in distress. \n\nThe dim sign pass\xe2\x80\x99d as suddenly, \nAnd then his eager eyes grew dazed,\xe2\x80\x94 \nHe brought his two hands to his face. \nAgain he raised his head, and gazed \nWith flashing eyes and visage fierce \nFar out, and resolute to pierce \nThe far, far, faint receding reach \nOf space and touch its farther beach. \nHe saw but space, unbounded space; \nEternal space and nothingness. \n\nThen all wax\xe2\x80\x99d anger\xe2\x80\x99d as they \ngazed \n\nFar out upon the shoreless land, \n\nAnd clench\xe2\x80\x99d their doubled hands and \nraised \n\nTheir long bare arms, but utter\xe2\x80\x99d not. \nAt last one rode from out the band, \nAnd raised his arm, push\xe2\x80\x99d back his \nsleeve, \n\nPush\xe2\x80\x99d bare his arm, rode up and \ndown, \n\nWith hat push\xe2\x80\x99d back. Then flush\xe2\x80\x99d \nand hot \n\nHe shot sharp oaths like cannon shot. \n\n\n\n\nWje in tfje BeSert \n\n\n230 \n\nThen Vasques was resolved; his \nform \n\nSeem\xe2\x80\x99d like a pine blown rampt with \nstorm. \n\nHe clutch\xe2\x80\x99d his rein, drove spur, and \nthen \n\nTurn\xe2\x80\x99d sharp and savage to his men, \nAnd then led boldly down the way \nTo night that knows not night or day. \n\nXV \n\nHow broken plunged the steep \ndescent! \n\nHow barren! Desolate, and rent \nBy earthquake\xe2\x80\x99s shock, the land lay \ndead, \n\nWith dust and ashes on its head. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas as some old world over\xc2\xac \nthrown \n\nWhere Theseus fought and Sappho \ndream\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nIn aeons ere they touch\xe2\x80\x99d this land, \nAnd found their proud souls foot and \nhand \n\nBound to the flesh and stung w T ith \npain. \n\nAn ugly skeleton it seem\xe2\x80\x99d \nOf its old self. The fiery rain \nOf red volcanoes here had sowm \nThe desolation of the plain. \n\nAy, vanquish\xe2\x80\x99d quite and overthrown, \nAnd torn with thunder-stroke, and \nstrown \n\nWith cinders, lo! the dead earth lay \nAs waiting for the judgment day. \nWhy, tamer men had turn\xe2\x80\x99d and \nsaid, \n\nOn seeing this, with start and dread, \n\n\nAnd whisper\xe2\x80\x99d each with gather\xe2\x80\x99d \nbreath, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWe come on the abode of death.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThey wound below a savage bluff \nThat lifted, from its sea-mark\xe2\x80\x99d base, \nGreat walls with characters cut rough \nAnd deep by some long-perish\xe2\x80\x99d race; \nAnd great, strange beasts unnamed, \nunknown, \n\nStood hewn and limn\xe2\x80\x99d upon the \nstone. \n\nA mournful land as land can be \nBeneath their feet in ashes lay, \nBeside that dread and dried-up sea; \nA city older than that gray \nAnd sand sown tower builded when \nConfusion cursed the tongues of men. \n\nBeneath, before, a city lay \nThat in her majesty had shamed \nThe wolf-nursed conqueror of old; \nBelow, before, and far away, \n\nThere reach\xe2\x80\x99d the white arm of a bay, \nA broad bay shrunk to sand and \nstone, \n\nWhere ships had rode and breakers \nroll\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nWhen Babylon was yet unnamed, \nAnd Nimrod\xe2\x80\x99s hunting-fields un\xc2\xac \nknown. \n\nWhere sceptered kings had sat at \nfeast, \n\nSome serpents slid from out the grass \nThat grew in tufts by shatter\xe2\x80\x99d stone, \nThen hid beneath some broken mass \nThat time had eaten as a bone \nIs eaten by some savage beast. \n\n\n/ \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e \xc2\xa7s >\\jip tn tfje \xc2\xaee\xc2\xa3ert \n\n\n231 \n\n\nA dull-eyed rattlesnake that lay \nAll loathsome, yellow-skinn\xe2\x80\x99d, and \nslept \n\nCoil\xe2\x80\x99d tight as pine-knot, in the sun, \nWith flat head through the center \nrun, \n\nStruck blindly back, then rattling \ncrept \n\nFlat-bellied down the dusty \nway ... \n\n\'Twas all the dead land had to say. \n\nTwo pink-eyed hawks, wide-wing\'d \nand gray, \n\nScream\xe2\x80\x99d savagely, and, circling \nhigh, \n\nAnd screaming still in mad dismay, \nGrew dim and died against the \nsky . . . \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas all the heavens had to say. \n\nSome low-built junipers at last, \nThe last that o\xe2\x80\x99er the desert look\xe2\x80\x99d, \nWhere dumb owls sat with bent bills \nhook\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nBeneath their wings awaiting night, \nRose up, then faded from the sight. \n\nWhat dim ghosts hover on this rim: \nWhat stately-manner\xe2\x80\x99d shadows \nswim \n\nAlong these gleaming wastes of sands \n.And shoreless limits of dead lands? \n\nDread Azteckee! Dead Azteckee! \nWhite place of ghosts, give up thy \ndead; \n\nGive back to Time thy buried hosts 1 \nThe new world\xe2\x80\x99s tawny Ishmaelite, \nThe roving tent-born Shoshonee, \n\n\nHath shunned thy shores of death, at \nnight \n\nBecause thou art so white, so dread, \nBecause thou art so ghostly white, \nAnd named thy shores "the place of \nghosts." \n\nThy white, uncertain sands are \nwhite \n\nWith bones of thy unburied dead, \nThat will not perish from the sight. \nThey drown, but perish not\xe2\x80\x94ah me! \nWhat dread unsightly sights are \nspread \n\nAlong this lonesome, dried-up sea? \n\nOld, hoar, and dried-up sea! so old \nSo strown with wealth, so sown with \ngold! \n\nYea, thou art old and hoary white \nWith time, and ruin of all things; \nAnd on thy lonesome borders Night \nSits brooding as with wounded wings. \n\nThe winds that toss\xe2\x80\x99d thy waves \nand blew \n\nAcross thy breast the blowing sail, \nAnd cheer\xe2\x80\x99d the hearts of cheering \ncrew \n\nFrom farther seas, no more prevail. \nThy white-wall\xe2\x80\x99d cities all lie prone. \nWith but a pyramid, a stone, \n\nSet head and foot in sands to tell \nThe thirsting stranger where they \nfell. \n\nThe patient ox that bended low \nHis neck, and drew slow up and down \nThy thousand freights through rock- \nbuilt town \n\nIs now the free-born buffalo. \n\n\n\n\n\n232 \n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e in \n\nNo longer of the timid fold, \n\nThe mountain ram leaps free and \nbold \n\nHis high-built summit, and looks \ndown \n\nFrom battlements of buried town. \n\nThine ancient steeds know not the \nrein; \n\nThey lord the land; they come, they \ngo \n\nAt will; they laugh at man; they blow \nA cloud of black steeds o\xe2\x80\x99er the plain. \nThe winds, the waves, have drawn \naway\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe very wild man dreads to stay. \n\nXVI \n\nAway! upon the sandy seas \nThe gleaming, burning, boundless \nplain; \n\nHow solemn-like, how still, as when \nThat mighty minded Genoese \nDrew three slim ships and led his men \nFrom land they might not meet \nagain. \n\nThe black men rode in front by \ntwo, \n\nThe fair one follow\xe2\x80\x99d close, and kept \nHer face held down as if she wept; \n\nBut Morgan kept the rear, and threw \nHis flowing, swaying beard still back \nIn watch along their lonesome track. \n\nThe weary Day fell down to rest, \n\nA star upon his mantled breast, \n\nEre scarce the sun fell out of space, \nAnd Venus glimmer\xe2\x80\x99d in his place. \n\nYea, all the stars shone just as fair, \n\n\ntfre SJesert \n\nAnd constellations kept their round, \nAnd look\xe2\x80\x99d from out the great pro\xc2\xac \nfound, \n\nAnd march\xe2\x80\x99d, and countermarch\xe2\x80\x99d, \nand shone \n\nUpon that desolation there\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhy, just the same as if proud man \nStrode up and down array\xe2\x80\x99d in gold \nAnd purple as in days of old, \n\nAnd reckon\xe2\x80\x99d all of his own plan, \n\nOr made at least for man alone. \n\nYet on push\xe2\x80\x99d Morgan silently, \nAnd straight as strong ship on a sea; \nAnd ever as he rode there lay\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo right, to left, and in his way, \nStrange objects looming in the dark, \nSome like tall mast, or ark, or bark. \n\nAnd things half-hidden in the sand \nLay down before them where they \npass\xe2\x80\x99d\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA broken beam, half-buried mast, \n\nA spar or bar, such as might be \nBlown crosswise, tumbled on the \nstrand \n\nOf some sail-crowded, stormy sea. \n\nAll night by moon, by morning \nstar, \n\nThe still, black men still kept their \nway; \n\nAll night till morn, till burning day \nHard Vasques follow\xe2\x80\x99d fast and far. \n\nThe sun is high, the sands are hot \nTo touch, and all the tawny plain \nSinks white and open as they tread \nAnd trudge, with half-averted head, \nAs if to swallow them in sand. \n\nThey look, as men look back to land \n\n\n\nWi )c gHjip tn tfje 23e\xc2\xa3ert \n\n\n233 \n\n\nWhen standing out to stormy sea, \nBut still keep pace and murmur not; \nKeep stern and still as destiny. \n\nIt was a sight! A slim dog slid \nWhite-mouth\xe2\x80\x99d and still along the \nsand, \n\nThe pleading picture of distress. \n\nHe stopp\xe2\x80\x99d, leap\xe2\x80\x99d up to lick a hand, \nA hard, black hand that sudden chid \nHim back, and check\xe2\x80\x99d his tender\xc2\xac \nness. \n\nThen when the black man turn\xe2\x80\x99d his \nhead, \n\nHis poor, mute friend had fallen dead. \n\nThe very air hung white with heat, \nAnd white, and fair, and far away \nA lifted, shining snow-shaft lay \nAs if to mock their mad retreat. \n\nThe white, salt sands beneath their \nfeet \n\nDid make the black men loom as \ngrand, \n\nFrom out the lifting, heaving heat, \nAs they rode sternly on and on, \n\nAs any bronze men in the land \nThat sit their statue steeds upon. \n\nThe men were silent as men dead. \nThe sun hung centered overhead, \n\nNor seem\xe2\x80\x99d to move. It molten \nhung \n\nLike some great central burner swung \nFrom lofty beams with golden bars \nIn sacristy set round with stars. \n\nWhy, flame could hardly be more \nhot; \n\nYet on the mad pursuer came \nAcross the gleaming, yielding ground, \n\n\nRight on, as if he fed on flame. \n\nRight on until the mid-day found \nThe man within a pistol-shot. \n\nHe hail\xe2\x80\x99d, but Morgan answered \nnot; \n\nHe hail\xe2\x80\x99d, then came a feeble shot, \nAnd strangely, in that vastness there, \nIt seem\xe2\x80\x99d to scarcely fret the air, \n\nBut fell down harmless anywhere. \n\nHe fiercely hail\xe2\x80\x99d; and then there \nfell \n\nA horse. And then a man fell down, \nAnd in the sea-sand seem\xe2\x80\x99d to drown. \nThen Vasques cursed, but scarce \ncould tell \n\nThe sound of his own voice, and all \nIn mad confusion seem\xe2\x80\x99d to fall. \n\nYet on pushed Morgan, silent on, \nAnd as he rode, he lean\xe2\x80\x99d and drew \nFrom his catenas gold, and threw \nThe bright coins in the glaring sun. \nBut Vasques did not heed a whit, \n\nHe scarcely deign\xe2\x80\x99d to scowl at it. \n\nAgain lean\xe2\x80\x99d Morgan. He uprose, \nAnd held a high hand to his foes, \nAnd held two goblets up, and one \nDid shine as if itself a sun. \n\nThen leaning backward from his \nplace, \n\nHe hurl\xe2\x80\x99d them in his foeman\xe2\x80\x99s face; \nThen drew again, and so kept on, \nTill goblets, gold, and all were gone. \n\nYea, strew\xe2\x80\x99d all out upon the sands \nAs men upon a frosty morn, \n\nIn Mississippi\xe2\x80\x99s fertile lands, \n\nHurl out great yellow ears of corn, \n\nTo hungry swine with hurried hands. \n\n\n\n234 \n\n\n\xc2\xaelje \xc2\xa3M)tp in tfjc Uesert \n\n\nYet still hot Vasques urges on, \nWith flashing eye and flushing cheek. \nWhat would he have? what does he \nseek? \n\nHe does not heed the gold a whit, \n\nHe does not deign to look at it; \n\nBut now his gleaming steel is drawn, \nAnd now he leans, would hail again,\xe2\x80\x94 \nHe opes his swollen lips in vain. \n\nBut look you! See! A lifted \nhand, \n\nAnd Vasques beckons his command. \nHe cannot speak, he leans, and he \nBends low upon his saddle-bow. \n\nAnd now his blade drops to his knee, \nAnd now he falters, now comes on, \nAnd now his head is bended low; \n\nAnd now his rein, his steel, is gone; \nNow faint as any child is he; \n\nAnd now his steed sinks to the knee. \n\nThe sun hung molten in mid-space, \nLike some great star fix\xe2\x80\x99d in its place. \nFrom out the gleaming spaces rose \nA sheen of gossamer and danced, \n\nAs Morgan slow and still advanced \nBefore his far-receding foes. \n\nRight on, and on, the still, black line \nDrove straight through gleaming \nsand and shine, \n\nBy spar and beam and mast, and \nstray \n\nAnd waif of sea and cast-away. \n\nThe far peaks faded from their \nsight, \n\nThe mountain walls fell down like \nnight, \n\nAnd nothing now was to be seen \nExcept the dim sun hung in sheen / \n\n\nOf gory garments all blood-red,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe hell beneath, the hell o\'erhead. \n\nA black man tumbled from his \nsteed. \n\nHe clutch\xe2\x80\x99d in death the moving \nsands, \n\nHe caught the hot earth in his hands, \nHe gripp\xe2\x80\x99d it, held it hard and \ngrim\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe great, sad mother did not heed \nHis hold, but pass\xe2\x80\x99d right on from \nhim. \n\nXVII \n\nThe sun seem\'d broken loose at \nlast. \n\nAnd settled slowly to the west, \nHalf-hidden as he fell to rest, \n\nYet, like the flying Parthian, cast \nHis keenest arrows as he pass\xe2\x80\x99d. \n\nOn, on, the black men slowly drew \nTheir length like some great serpent \nthrough \n\nThe sands, and left a hollow\xe2\x80\x99d groove: \nThey moved, they scarcely seem\xe2\x80\x99d to \nmove. \n\nHow patient in their muffled tread! \nHow like the dead march of the dead! \n\nAt last the slow, black line was \ncheck\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAn instant only; now again \nIt moved, it falter\xe2\x80\x99d now, and now \nIt settled in its sandy bed, \n\nAnd steeds stood rooted to the plain. \nThen all stood still, and men some\xc2\xac \nhow \n\nLook\xe2\x80\x99d down and with averted head, \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaeije g>f)ip in tfje Besert \n\n\n235 \n\n\nLook\xe2\x80\x99d down, nor dared look up, nor \nreck\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nOf anything, of ill or good, \n\nBut bow\xe2\x80\x99d and stricken still, they \nstood. \n\nLike some brave band that dared \nthe fierce \n\nAnd bristled steel of gather\xe2\x80\x99d host, \nThese daring men had dared to pierce \nThis awful vastness, dead and gray. \nAnd now at last brought well at bay \nThey stood,\xe2\x80\x94but each stood to his \npost. \n\nThen one dismounted, waved a \nhand, \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas Morgan\xe2\x80\x99s stern and still com\xc2\xac \nmand. \n\nThere fell a clank, like loosen\xe2\x80\x99d chain, \nAs men dismounting loosed the rein. \n\nThen every steed stood loosed and \nfree; \n\nAnd some stepp\xe2\x80\x99d slow and mute \naside, \n\nAnd some sank to the sands and died; \nAnd some stood still as shadows be. \n\nOld Morgan turn\xe2\x80\x99d and raised his \nhand \n\nAnd laid it level with his eyes, \n\nAnd looked far back along the land. \nHe saw a dark dust still uprise, \n\nStill surely tend to where he lay. \n\nHe did not curse, he did not say\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe did not even look surprise. \n\nNay, he was over-gentle now; \n\nHe wiped a time his Titan brow, \n\nThen sought dark Sybal in her place, \n\n\nPut out his arms, put down his face \nAnd look\xe2\x80\x99d in hers. She reach\xe2\x80\x99d her \nhands, \n\nShe lean\xe2\x80\x99d, she fell upon his breast; \nHe reach\xe2\x80\x99d his arms around; she lay \nAs lies a bird in leafy nest. \n\nAnd he look\xe2\x80\x99d out across the sands \nAnd bearing her, he strode away. \n\nSome black men settled down to \nrest, \n\nBut none made murmur or request. \nThe dead were dead, and that were \nbest; \n\nThe living, leaning, follow\xe2\x80\x99d him, \n\nA long dark line, a shadow dim. \n\nThe day through high mid-heaven \nrode \n\nAcross the sky, the dim, red day; \nAnd on, the war-like day-god strode \nWith shoulder\xe2\x80\x99d shield away, away. \nThe savage, warlike day bent low, \n\nAs reapers bend in gathering grain, \nAs archer bending bends yew bow, \nAnd flush\xe2\x80\x99d and fretted as in pain. \n\nThen down his shoulder slid his \nshield, \n\nSo huge, so awful, so blood-red \nAnd batter\xe2\x80\x99d as from battle-field: \n\nIt settled, sunk to his left hand, \n\nSunk down and down, it touch\xe2\x80\x99d the \nsand; \n\nThen day along the land lay dead, \nWithout one candle, foot or head. \n\nAnd now the moon wheel\xe2\x80\x99d white \nand vast, \n\nA round, unbroken, marbled moon, \n\n\n\n\n\n236 \xc2\xaef)c in tfje 23e\xc2\xa3crt \n\n\nAnd touch\xe2\x80\x99d the far, bright buttes of \nsnow, \n\nThen climb\xe2\x80\x99d their shoulders over \nsoon; \n\nAnd there she seem\xe2\x80\x99d to sit at last, \nTo hang, to hover there, to grow, \nGrow grander than vast peaks of snow. \n\nShe sat the battlements of time; \nShe shone in mail of frost and rime \nA time, and then rose up and stood \nIn heaven in sad widowhood. \n\nThe faded moon fell wearily, \n\nAnd then the sun right suddenly \nRose up full arm\xe2\x80\x99d, and rushing came \nAcross the land like flood of flame. \n\nAnd now it seemed that hills up\xc2\xac \nrose, \n\nHigh push\xe2\x80\x99d against the arching \nskies, \n\nAs if to meet the sudden sun\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nRose sharp from out the sultry dun, \nAnd seem\xe2\x80\x99d to hold the free repose \nOf lands where flow\xe2\x80\x99ry summits rise, \nIn unfenced fields of Paradise. \n\nThe black men look\xe2\x80\x99d up from the \nsands \n\nAgainst the dim, uncertain skies, \n\nAs men that disbelieved their eyes, \nAnd would have laugh\xe2\x80\x99d; they wept \ninstead, \n\nWith shoulders heaved, with bowing \nhead \n\nHid down between the two black \nhands. \n\nThey stood and gazed. Lo! like \nthe call \n\n\nOf spring-time promises, the trees \nLean\xe2\x80\x99d from their lifted mountain \nwall, \n\nAnd stood clear cut against the skies, \nAs if they grew in pistol-shot; \n\nYet all the mountains answer\xe2\x80\x99d not \nAnd yet there came no cooling breeze, \nNor soothing sense of wind-wet trees. \n\nAt last old Morgan, looking \nthrough \n\nHis shaded fingers, let them go, \n\nAnd let his load fall down as dead. \nHe groan\xe2\x80\x99d, he clutch\xe2\x80\x99d his beard of \nsnow \n\nAs was his wont, then bowing low, \nTook up his life, and moaning said, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLord Christ! \xe2\x80\x99tis the mirage, and we \nStand blinded in a burning sea.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXVIII \n\nAgain they move, but where or how \nIt recks them little, nothing now. \n\nYet Morgan leads them as before, \nBut totters now; he bends, and he \nIs like a broken ship a-sea,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA ship that knows not any shore, \n\nNor rudder, nor shall anchor more. \n\nSome leaning shadows crooning \ncrept \n\nThrough desolation, crown\xe2\x80\x99d in dust. \nAnd had the mad pursuer kept \nHis path, and cherish\xe2\x80\x99d his pursuit? \nThere lay no choice. Advance, he \nmust: \n\nAdvance, and eat his ashen fruit. \n\nAgain the still moon rose and stood \nAbove the dim, dark belt of wood, \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefjc \xc2\xa3H)tp tn ttje iDcScrl \n\n\n237 \n\n\nAbove the buttes, above the snow, \nAnd bent a sad, sweet face below. \n\nShe reach\xe2\x80\x99d along the level plain \nHer long, white fingers. Then again \nShe reach\xe2\x80\x99d, she touch\xe2\x80\x99d the snowy \nsands. \n\nThen reach\xe2\x80\x99d far out until she \ntouch\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nA heap that lay with doubled hands, \nReach\xe2\x80\x99d from its sable self, and \nclutch\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nWith patient death. O tenderly \nThat black, that dead and hollow \nface \n\nWas kiss\xe2\x80\x99d that night. . . . What \nif I say \n\nThe long, white moonbeams reach\xc2\xac \ning there, \n\nCaressing idle hands of clay, \n\nAnd resting on the wrinkled hair \nAnd great lips push\xe2\x80\x99d in sullen pout, \nWere God\xe2\x80\x99s own fingers reaching out \nFrom heaven to that lonesome place? \n\nXIX \n\nBy waif and stray and cast-away, \nSuch as are seen in seas withdrawn, \nOld Morgan led in silence on; \n\nAnd sometimes lifting up his head, \nTo guide his footsteps as he led, \n\nHe deem\xe2\x80\x99d he saw a great ship lay \nHer keel along the sea-wash\xe2\x80\x99d sand, \nAs with her captain\xe2\x80\x99s old command. \n\nThe stars were seal\xe2\x80\x99d; and then a \nhaze \n\nOf gossamer fill\xe2\x80\x99d all the west, \n\nSo like in Indian summer days, \n\nAnd veil\xe2\x80\x99d all things. And then the \nmoon \n\n\nGrew pale and faint, and far. She \ndied, \n\nAnd now nor star nor any sign \nFell out of heaven. Oversoon \nA black man fell. Then at his side \nSome one sat down to watch, to rest\xe2\x80\x94 \nTo rest, to watch, or what you will, \nThe man sits resting, watching still. \n\nXX \n\nThe day glared through the eastern \nrim \n\nOf rocky peaks, as prison bars, \n\nWith light as dim as distant stars. \nThe sultry sunbeams filter\xe2\x80\x99d down \nThrough misty phantoms weird and \ndim, \n\nThrough shifting shapes bat-wing\xe2\x80\x99d \nand brown. \n\nLike some vast ruin wrapp\xe2\x80\x99d in \nflame \n\nThe sun fell down before them now. \nBehind them wheel\xe2\x80\x99d white peaks of \nsnow, \n\nAs they proceeded. Gray and grim \nAnd awful objects went and came \nBefore them all. They pierced at \nlast \n\nThe desert\xe2\x80\x99s middle depths, and lo! \nThere loom\xe2\x80\x99d from out the desert \nvast \n\nA lonely ship, well-built and trim, \nAnd perfect all in hull and mast. \n\nNo storm had stain\xe2\x80\x99d it any whit, \nNo seasons set their teeth in it. \n\nHer masts were white as ghosts, and \ntall; \n\nHer decks were as of yesterday. \n\n\n\n238 \n\n\n\xc2\xaef>c in tfje Besert \n\n\nThe rains, the elements, and all \nThe moving things that bring decay \nBy fair green lands or fairer seas, \nHad touch\xe2\x80\x99d not here for centuries. \nLo! date had lost all reckoning, \n\nAnd time had long forgotten all \nIn this lost land, and no new thing \nOr old could anywise befall, \n\nFor Time went by the other way. \n\nWhat dreams of gold or conquest \ndrew \n\nThe oak-built sea-king to these seas, \nEre earth, old earth, unsatisfied, \n\nRose up and shook man in disgust \nFrom off her wearied breast, and \nthrew \n\nHis high-built cities down, and dried \nThese unnamed ship-sown seas to \ndust? \n\nWho trod these decks? What cap\xc2\xac \ntain knew \n\nThe straits that led to lands like \nthese? \n\nBlew south-sea breeze or north-sea \nbreeze? \n\nWhat spiced-winds whistled through \nthis sail? \n\nWhat banners stream\xe2\x80\x99d above these \nseas? \n\nAnd what strange seaman answer\xe2\x80\x99d \nback \n\nTo other sea-king\xe2\x80\x99s beck and hail, \nThat blew across his foamy track? \n\nSought Jason here the golden \nfleece? \n\nCame Trojan ship or ships of Greece?, \nCame decks dark-mann\xe2\x80\x99d from sul\xc2\xac \ntry Ind, \n\n\nWoo\xe2\x80\x99d here by spacious wooing \nwind ? \n\nSo like a grand, sweet woman, when \nA great love moves her soul to men? \n\nCame here strong ships of Solomon \nIn quest of Ophir by Cathay? . . . \nSit down and dream of seas with\xc2\xac \ndrawn, \n\nAnd every sea-breath drawn away. \nSit down, sit down! What is the \ngood \n\nThat we go on still fashioning \nGreat iron ships or walls of wood, \nHigh masts of oak, or anything? \n\nLo! all things moving must go by. \nThe seas lie dead. Behold, this land \nSits desolate in dust beside \nHis snow-white, seamless shroud of \nsand; \n\nThe very clouds have wept and \ndied, \n\nAnd only God is in the sky. \n\nXXI \n\nThe sands lay heaved, as heaved by \nwaves, \n\nAs fashioned in a thousand graves: \nAnd wrecks of storm blown here and \nthere, \n\nAnd dead men scatter\xe2\x80\x99d every\xc2\xac \nwhere; \n\nAnd strangely clad they seem\xe2\x80\x99d to \nbe \n\nJust as they sank in that dread sea. \n\nThe mermaid with her golden hair \nHad clung about a wreck\xe2\x80\x99s beam \nthere, \n\n\n\nCfje in tbe Besert \n\n\n239 \n\n\nAnd sung her song of sweet despair \nThe time she saw the seas with\xc2\xac \ndrawn \n\nAnd all her pride and glory gone: \nHad sung her melancholy dirge \nAbove the last receding surge, \n\nAnd, looking down the rippled tide, \nHad sung, and with her song had \ndied. \n\nThe monsters of the sea lay bound \nIn strange contortions. Coil\xe2\x80\x99d \naround \n\nA mast half heaved above the sand \nThe great sea-serpent\xe2\x80\x99s folds were \n\nfound, \n\nAs solid as ship\xe2\x80\x99s iron band; \n\nAnd basking in the burning sun \nThere rose the great whale\xe2\x80\x99s \nskeleton. \n\nA thousand sea things stretch\xe2\x80\x99d \nacross \n\nTheir weary and bewilder\xe2\x80\x99d way: \nGreat unnamed monsters wrinkled \nlay \n\nWith sunken eyes and shrunken \nform. \n\nThe strong sea-horse that rode the \nstorm \n\nWith mane as light and white as \nfloss, \n\nLay tangled in his mane of moss. \n\nAnd anchor, hull, and cast-away, \nAnd all things that the miser deep \nDoth in his darkling locker keep, \n\nTo right and left around them lay. \nYea, golden coin and golden cup, \n\nAnd golden cruse, and golden plate, \nAnd all that great seas swallow up, \n\n\nRight in their dreadful pathway lay. \nThe hoary sea made white with \ntime, \n\nAnd wrinkled cross with many a \ncrime, \n\nWith all his treasured thefts lay \nthere, \n\nHis sins, his very soul laid bare, \n\nAs if it were the Judgment Day. \n\nXXII \n\nAnd now the tawny night fell \nsoon, \n\nAnd there was neither star nor \nmoon; \n\nAnd yet it seem\xe2\x80\x99d it was not night. \nThere fell a phosphorescent light, \nThere rose from white sands and dead \nmen \n\nA soft light, white and strange as \nwhen \n\nThe Spirit of Jehovah moved \nUpon the water\xe2\x80\x99s conscious face, \n\nAnd made it His abiding place. \n\nRemote, around the lonesome \nship, \n\nOld Morgan moved, but knew it \nnot, \n\nFor neither star nor moon fell \ndown. . . . \n\nI trow that was a lonesome spot \nHe found, where boat and ship did \ndip \n\nIn sands like some half-sunken \ntown. \n\nAt last before the leader lay \nA form that in the night did seem \nA slain Goliath. As in a dream, \n\n\n\n\n240 \n\n\n\xc2\xaeIje in tfje Sesed \n\n\nHe drew aside in his slow pace, \n\nAnd look\xe2\x80\x99d. He saw a sable face) \n\nA friend that fell that very day, \nThrown straight across his wearied \nway. \n\nHe falter\xe2\x80\x99d now. His iron heart, \nThat never yet refused its part, \nBegan to fail him; and his strength \nShook at his knees, as shakes the \nwind \n\nA shatter\xe2\x80\x99d ship. His shatter\xe2\x80\x99d \nmind \n\nRanged up and down the land. At \nlength \n\nHe turn\xe2\x80\x99d, as ships turn, tempest \ntoss\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nFor now he knew that he was lost! \nHe sought in vain the moon, the \nstars, \n\nIn vain the battle-star of Mars. \n\nAgain he moved. And now again \nHe paused, he peer\xe2\x80\x99d along the \nplain, \n\nAnother form before him lay. \n\nHe stood, and statue-white he stood, \nHe trembled like a stormy wood,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt was a foeman brawn and gray. \n\nHe lifted up his head again, \n\nAgain he search\xe2\x80\x99d the great pro\xc2\xac \nfound \n\nFor moon, for star, but sought in \nvain. \n\nHe kept his circle round and round \nThe great ship lifting from the sand, \nAnd pointing heavenward like a \nhand. \n\nAnd still he crept along the plain, \nYet where his foeman dead again \n\n\nLay in his way he moved around, \nAnd soft as if on sacred ground, \n\nAnd did not touch him anywhere. \n\nIt might have been he had a dread, \nIn his half-crazed and fever\xe2\x80\x99d brain. \nHis fallen foe might rise again \nIf he should dare to touch him there. \n\nHe circled round the lonesome \nship \n\nLike some wild beast within a wall, \nThat keeps his paces round and \nround. \n\nThe very stillness had a sound; \n\nHe saw strange somethings rise and \ndip; \n\nHe felt the weirdness like a pall \nCome down and cover him. It \nseem\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nTo take a form, take many forms, \n\nTo talk to him, to reach out arms; \nYet on he kept, and silent kept, \n\nAnd as he lead he lean\xe2\x80\x99d and slept, \nAnd as he slept he talk\xe2\x80\x99d and \ndream\xe2\x80\x99d. \n\nTwo shadows follow\xe2\x80\x99d, stopp\xe2\x80\x99d, \nand stood \n\nBewilder\xe2\x80\x99d, wander\xe2\x80\x99d back again, \nCame on and then fell to the sand, \nAnd sinking died. Then other men \nDid wag their woolly heads and \nlaugh, \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Then bend their necks and seem to \nquaff \n\nOf cooling waves that careless flow \nWhere woods and long, strong grasses \ngrow. \n\nYet on. wound Morgan, leaning \nlow, \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e \xc2\xa3\xc2\xa7>fnp in ityt Bcsert \n\n\n241 \n\n\nWith her upon his breast, and slow \nAs hand upon a dial plate. \n\nHe did not turn his course or quail, \nHe did not falter, did not fail, \n\nTurn right or left or hesitate. \n\nSome far-off sounds had lost their \nway, \n\nAnd seem\xe2\x80\x99d to call to him and pray \nFor help, as if they were affright. \n\nIt was not day, it seem\xe2\x80\x99d not night, \nBut that dim land that lies between \nThe mournful, faithful face of night, \nAnd loud and gold-bedazzled day; \n\nA night that was not felt but seen. \n\nThere seem\xe2\x80\x99d not now the ghost of \nsound, \n\nHe stepp\xe2\x80\x99d as soft as step the dead; \nYet on he lead in solemn tread, \nBewilder\xe2\x80\x99d, blinded, round and \nround, \n\nAbout the great black ship that rose \nTall-masted as that ship that blows \nHer ghost below lost Panama,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe tallest mast man ever saw. \n\nTwo leaning shadows follow\xe2\x80\x99d \nhim: \n\nTheir eyes were red, their teeth shone \nwhite, \n\nTheir limbs did lift as shadows \nswim. \n\nThen one went left and one went \nright, \n\nAnd in the night pass\xe2\x80\x99d out of \nsight; \n\nPass\xe2\x80\x99d through the portals black, \nunknown, \n\nAnd Morgan totter\xe2\x80\x99d on alone. \n\n16 \n\n\nAnd why he still survived the \nrest, \n\nWhy still he had the strength to stir, \nWhy still he stood like gnarled oak \nThat buffets storm and tempest \nstroke, \n\nOne cannot say, save but for her, \nThat helpless being on his breast. \n\nShe did not speak, she did not \nstir; \n\nIn rippled currents over her, \n\nHer black, abundant hair pour\xe2\x80\x99d \ndown \n\nLike mantle or some sable gown. \nThat sad, sweet dreamer; she who \nknew \n\nNot anything of earth at all. \n\nNor cared to know its bane or bliss; \nThat dove that did not touch the \nland, \n\nThat knew, yet did not understand. \nAnd this may be because she drew \nHer all of life right from the hand \nOf God, and did not choose to learn \nThe things that make up man\xe2\x80\x99s \nconcern. \n\nAh! there be souls none under\xc2\xac \nstand ; \n\nLike clouds, they cannot touch the \nland. \n\nUnanchored ships, they blow and \nblow, \n\nSail to and fro, and then go dow T n \nIn unknown seas that none shall \nknow, \n\nWithout one ripple of renown. \n\nCall these not fools; the test of \nworth \n\n\n\n\n242 \n\n\nS\xe2\x80\x99tHP in tfje \xc2\xa9eScct \n\n\nIs not the hold you have of earth. \nAy, there be gentlest souls sea- \nblown \n\nThat know not any harbor known. \nNow it may be the reason is, \n\nThey touch on fairer shores than this. \n\nAt last he touch\xe2\x80\x99d a fallen group, \nDead fellows tumbled in the sands, \nDead foemen, gather\xe2\x80\x99d to their dead. \nAnd eager now the man did stoop, \nLay down his load and reach his \nhands, \n\nAnd stretch his form and look stead\xc2\xac \nfast \n\nAnd frightful, and as one aghast. \n\nHe lean\xe2\x80\x99d, and then he raised his \nhead, \n\nAnd look\xe2\x80\x99d for Vasques, but in vain \nHe peer\xe2\x80\x99d along the deadly plain. \n\nNow, from the night another face, \nThe last that follow\xe2\x80\x99d through the \ndeep, \n\nComes on, falls dead within a pace. \nYet Vasques still survives! But \nwhere? \n\nHis last bold follower lies there, \nThrown straight across old Morgan\xe2\x80\x99s \ntrack, \n\nAs if to check him, bid him back. \n\nHe stands, he does not dare to stir, \nHe watches by his charge asleep, \n\nHe fears for her: but only her. \n\nThe man who ever mock\xe2\x80\x99d at death, \nHe only dares to draw his breath. \n\nXXIII \n\nBeyond, and still as black despair, \nA man rose up, stood dark and tall, \n\n\nStretch\xe2\x80\x99d out his neck, reach\xe2\x80\x99d forth, \nlet fall \n\nDark oaths, and Death stood waiting \nthere. \n\nA tawny dead man stretch\xe2\x80\x99d \nbetween, \n\nAnd Vasques set his foot thereon. \n\nThe stars were seal\xe2\x80\x99d, the moon was \ngone, \n\nThe very darkness cast a shade. \n\nThe scene was rather heard than \nseen, \n\nThe rattle of a single blade. . . . \n\nA right foot rested on the dead, \n\nA black hand reach\xe2\x80\x99d and clutch\xe2\x80\x99d a \nbeard, \n\nThen neither pray\xe2\x80\x99d, nor dream\'d of \nhope. \n\nA fierce face reach\xe2\x80\x99d, a black face \npeer\xe2\x80\x99d. . . . \n\nNo bat went whirling overhead, \n\nNo star fell out of Ethiope. \n\nThe dead man lay between them \nthere, \n\nThe two men glared as tigers \nglare,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe black man held him by the \nbeard. \n\nHe wound his hand, he held him fast, \n\nAnd tighter held, as if he fear\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nThe man might \xe2\x80\x99scape him at the \nlast. \n\nWhiles Morgan did not speak or \nstir, \n\nBut stood in silent watch with her. \n\nNot long. ... A light blade \nlifted, thrust, \n\n\n\n\njc \xc2\xa3?>l)tp in t?je Besert \n\n\n243 \n\n\nA blade that leapt and swept about, \nSo wizard-like, like wand in spell, \n\nSo like a serpent\xe2\x80\x99s tongue thrust \nout. . . . \n\nThrust twice, thrust thrice, thrust as \nhe fell, \n\nThrust through until it touched the \ndust. \n\nYet ever as he thrust and smote, \n\nA black hand like an iron band \nDid tighten round a gasping throat. \nHe fell, but did not loose his hand; \nThe two lay dead upon the sand. \n\nLo! up and from the fallen forms \nTwo ghosts came, dark as gathered \nstorms; \n\nTwo gray ghosts stood, then looking \nback; \n\nWith hands all empty, and hands \nclutch\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nStrode on in silence. Then they \ntouch\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAlong the lonesome, chartless track, \nWhere dim Plutonian darkness fell, \nThen touch\xe2\x80\x99d the outer rim of hell; \nAnd looking back their great despair \nSat sadly down, as resting there. \n\nXXIV \n\nAs if there was a strength in \ndeath \n\nThe battle seem\xe2\x80\x99d to nerve the man \nTo superhuman strength. He rose, \nHeld up his head, began to scan \nThe heavens and to take his breath \nRight strong and lustily. He now \nResumed his part, and with his eye \nFix\xe2\x80\x99d on a star that filter\xe2\x80\x99d through \n\n\nThe farther west, push\xe2\x80\x99d bare his \nbrow, \n\nAnd kept his course with head held \nhigh, \n\nAs if he strode his deck and drew \nHis keel below some lofty light \nThat watch\xe2\x80\x99d the rocky reef at \nnight. \n\nHow lone he was, how patient she \nUpon that lonesome sandy sea! \n\nIt were a sad, unpleasant sight \nTo follow them through all the \nnight, \n\nUntil the time they lifted hand, \n\nAnd touch\xe2\x80\x99d at last a water\xe2\x80\x99d land. \n\n\nThe turkeys walk\xe2\x80\x99d the tangled \ngrass, \n\nAnd scarcely turn\xe2\x80\x99d to let them pass. \nThere was no sign of man, nor sign \nOf savage beast. \xe2\x80\x99Twas so divine, \n\nIt seem\xe2\x80\x99d as if the bended skies \nWere rounded for this Paradise. \n\nThe large-eyed antelope came down \nFrom off their windy hills, and blew \nTheir whistles as they wander\xe2\x80\x99d \nthrough \n\nThe open groves of water\xe2\x80\x99d wood; \nThey came as light as if on wing, \nAnd reached their noses wet and \nbrown \n\nAnd stamp\xe2\x80\x99d their little feet and \nstood \n\nClose up before them, wondering. \n\nWhat if this were that Eden old, \nThey found in this heart of the \nnew \n\n\n\n244 \n\n\nWife \xc2\xa3?f)ip in tfje jOesert \n\n\nAnd unnamed westmost world of \ngold, \n\nWhere date and history had birth, \nAnd man began first wandering \nTo go the girdle of the earth, \n\nAnd find the beautiful and true? \n\nIt lies a little isle mid land, \n\nAn island in a sea of sand; \n\nWith reedy waters and the balm \nOf an eternal summer air; \n\nSome blowy pines toss here and \nthere; \n\nAnd there are grasses long and \nstrong, \n\nAnd tropic fruits that never fail: \n\nThe Manzanita pulp, the palm, \n\nThe prickly pear, with all the song \nOf summer birds. And there the \nquail \n\nMakes nest, and you may hear her \ncall \n\nAll day from out the chaparral. \n\nA land where white man never \ntrod, \n\nAnd Morgan seems some demi-god, \nThat haunts the red man\xe2\x80\x99s spirit \nland. \n\nA land where never red man\xe2\x80\x99s hand \nIs lifted up in strife at all, \n\nBut holds it sacred unto those \nWho bravely fell before their foes, \nAnd rarely dares its desert wall. \n\nHere breaks nor sound of strife nor \nsign; \n\nRare times a chieftain comes this \nway, \n\nAlone, and battle-scarr\xe2\x80\x99d and gray, \nAnd then he bends devout before \n\n\nThe maid who keeps the cabin-door, \nAnd deems her something all divine. \n\nWithin the island\xe2\x80\x99s heart \xe2\x80\x99tis said, \nTall trees are bending down with \nbread, \n\nAnd that a fountain pure as Truth, \nAnd deep and mossy-bound and fair, \nIs bubbling from the forest there,\xe2\x80\x94 \nPerchance the fabled fount of youth! \nAn isle where skies are ever fair, \nWhere men keep never date nor day, \nWhere Time has thrown his glass \naway. \n\nThis isle is all their own. No more \nThe flight by day, the watch by \nnight. \n\nDark Sybal twines about the door \nThe scarlet blooms, the blossoms \nwhite \n\nAnd winds red berries in her hair, \nAnd never knows the name of care. \n\nShe has a thousand birds; they \nblow \n\nIn rainbow clouds, in clouds of \nsnow; \n\nThe birds take berries from her hand; \nThey come and go at her command. \n\nShe has a thousand pretty birds, \nThat sing her summer songs all day; \nSmall, black-hoof\xe2\x80\x99d antelope in herds, \nAnd squirrels bushy-tail\xe2\x80\x99d and gray, \nWith round and sparkling eyes of \npink, \n\nAnd cunning-faced as you can think. \n\nShe has a thousand busy birds: \n\nAnd is she happy in her isle, \n\n\n\nTO)e \xc2\xa3\xc2\xa7>ea of Jfire \n\n\n245 \n\n\nWith all her feather\xe2\x80\x99d friends and \nherds? \n\nFor when has Morgan seen her \nsmile? \n\nShe has a thousand cunning birds, \n\nThey would build nestings in her hair, \n\nShe has brown antelope in herds; \n\nShe never knows the name of care; \n\nWhy, then, is she not happy there? \n\nAll patiently she bears her part; \n\nShe has a thousand birdlings there, \n\nThese birds they would build in her \nhair; \n\nBut not one bird builds in her heart. \n\nTHE SEA \n\nIn a land so jar that you wonder \nwhether \n\nIf God would know it should you fall \ndown dead; \n\nIn a land so far through the soft, warm \nweather \n\nThat the sun sinks red as a warrior \nsped ,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere the sea and the sky seem closing \ntogether, \n\nSeem closing together as a hook that is \nread; \n\n\xe2\x80\x99 Tis the half-finished worldl Yon foot\xc2\xac \nfall retreating ,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt might he the Maker disturbed at \nhis task. \n\nBut the footfall of God, or the far pheas\xc2\xac \nant heating, \n\nIt is one and the same, whatever the \nmask \n\n\nShe has a thousand birds; yet \nshe \n\nWould give ten thousand cheerfully, \n\nAll bright of plume and clear of \ntongue, \n\nAnd sweet as ever trilled or sung, \n\nFor one small flutter\xe2\x80\x99d bird to come \n\nAnd build within her heart, though \ndumb. \n\nShe has a thousand birds; yet \none \n\nIs lost, and, lo! she is undone. \n\nShe sighs sometimes. She looks \naway, \n\nAnd yet she does not weep or say. \n\nOF FIRE \n\nIt may wear unto man. The woods \nkeep repeating \n\nThe old sacred sermons, whatever \nyou ask. \n\nIt is man in his garden, scarce wakened \nas yet \n\nFrom the sleep that fell on him when \nwoman was made. \n\nThe new-finished garden is plastic and \nwet \n\nFrom the hand that has fashioned its \nunpeopled shade; \n\nAnd the wonder still looks from the fair \nwoman\'s eyes \n\nAs she shines through the wood like, \nthe light from the skies. \n\nAnd a ship now and then for this far \nOphir yore \n\n\n\n\n246 \xc2\xaef)c \xc2\xa3l>ea \n\nDraws in from the sea. It lies close \nto the hank; \n\nThen a dull, muffled sound on the \nslow shuffled plank \n\n.ds they load the black ship; hut you \nhear nothing more, \n\nAnd the dark, dewy vines, and the \ntall, somber wood \n\nLike twilight drop over the deep, \nsweeping flood. \n\nThe black masts are tangled with \nbranches that cross, \n\nThe rich fragrant gums fall from \nbranches to deck, \n\nJ \'he thin ropes are swinging with \nstreamers of moss \n\nThat mantle all things like the \nshreds of a wreck; \n\nThe long mosses swing, there is never a \nbreath: \n\nThe river rolls still as the river of death. \n\nI \n\nIn the beginning,\xe2\x80\x94ay, before \nThe six-days\xe2\x80\x99 labors were well o\xe2\x80\x99er; \nYea, while the world lay incomplete, \nEre God had opened quite the door \nOf this strange land for strong men\xe2\x80\x99s \nfeet,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThere lay against that westmost sea, \n\nA weird, wild land of mystery. \n\nA far white wall, like fallen moon, \nGirt out the world. The forest lay \nSo deep you scarcely saw the day, \n\nSave in the high-held middle noon: \n\nIt lay a land of sleep and dreams, \n\n\nof jfixe \n\nAnd clouds drew through like shore\xc2\xac \nless streams \n\nThat stretch to where no man may \nsay. \n\nMen reached it only from the sea, \nBy black-built ships, that seemed to \ncreep \n\nAlong the shore suspiciously, \n\nLike unnamed monsters of the deep. \nIt was the weirdest land, I ween, \nThat mortal eye has ever seen. \n\nA dim, dark land of bird and \nbeast, \n\nBlack shaggy beasts with cloven \nclaw,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA land that scarce knew prayer or \npriest, \n\nOr law of man, or Nature\xe2\x80\x99s law; \nWhere no fixed line drew sharp \ndispute \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twixt savage man and sullen brute. \n\nII \n\nIt hath a history most fit \nFor cunning hand to fashion on; \n\nNo chronicler hath mentioned it; \n\nNo buccaneer set foot upon. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis of an outlawed Spanish Don,\xe2\x80\x94 \nA cruel man, with pirate\xe2\x80\x99s gold \nThat loaded down his deep ship\xe2\x80\x99s \nhold. \n\nA deep ship\xe2\x80\x99s hold of plundered \ngold! \n\nThe golden cruse, the golden cross, \nFrom many a church of Mexico, \nFrom Panama\xe2\x80\x99s mad overthrow, \nFrom many a ransomed city\xe2\x80\x99s loss, \n\n\n\n\n247 \n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e \xc2\xa7s>ca of Jfirt \n\n\nFrom many a follower fierce and \nbold, \n\nAnd many a foeman stark and cold. \n\nHe found this wild, lost land. He \ndrew \n\nHis ship to shore. His ruthless \ncrew, \n\nLike Romulus, laid lawless hand \n\nOn meek brown maidens of the land, \n\nAnd in their bloody forays bore \n\nRed firebrands along the shore. \n\nIll \n\nThe red men rose at night. They \ncame, \n\nA firm, unflinching wall of flame; \n\nThey swept, as sweeps some fateful \nsea \n\nO\xe2\x80\x99er land of sand and level shore \n\nThat howls in far, fierce agony. \n\nThe red men swept that deep, dark \nshore \n\nAs threshers sweep a threshing floor. \n\nAnd yet beside the slain Don\xe2\x80\x99s \ndoor \n\nThey left his daughter, as they fled: \n\nThey spared her life because she \nbore \n\nTheir Chieftain\xe2\x80\x99s blood and name. \nThe red \n\nAnd blood-stained hidden hoards of \ngold \n\nThey hollowed from the stout ship\xe2\x80\x99s \nhold, \n\nAnd bore in many a slim canoe\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo where? The good priest only \nknew. \n\n\nIV \n\nThe course of life is like the sea; \nMen come and go; tides rise and fall; \nAnd that is all of history. \n\nThe tide flows in, flows out today\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd that is all that man may say; \nMan is, man was,\xe2\x80\x94and that is all. \n\nRevenge at last came like a \ntide,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas sweeping, deep and terrible; \nThe Christian found the land, and \ncame \n\nTo take possession in Christ\xe2\x80\x99s name. \nFor every white man that had died \nI think a thousand red men fell,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA Christian custom; and the land \nLay lifeless as some burned-out \nbrand. \n\nV \n\nEre while the slain Don\xe2\x80\x99s daughter \ngrew \n\nA glorious thing, a flower of spring, \n\nA something more than mortals \nknew; \n\nA mystery of grace and face,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA silent mystery that stood \nAn empress in that sea-set wood, \nSupreme, imperial in her place. \n\nIt might have been men\xe2\x80\x99s lust for \ngold,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor all men knew that lawless crew \nLeft hoards of gold in that ship\xe2\x80\x99s \nhold, \n\nThat drew ships hence, and silent \ndrew \n\n\n\n\n248 \xc2\xaeijt is>ea \n\nStrange Jasons there to love or \ndare; \n\nI never knew, nor need I care. \n\nI say it might have been this gold \nThat ever drew and strangely drew \nStrong men of land, strange men of \nsea \n\nTo seek this shore of mystery \nWith all its wondrous tales untold; \n\nThe gold or her, which of the two? \n\nIt matters not to me, nor you. \n\nBut this I know, that as for me, \nBetween that face and the hard fate \nThat kept me ever from my own, \n\nAs some wronged monarch from his \nthrone, \n\nAll heaped-up gold of land or sea \nHad never weighed one feather\xe2\x80\x99s \nweight. \n\nHer home was on the wooded \nheight,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA woody home, a priest at prayer, \n\nA perfume in the fervid air, \n\nAnd angels watching her at night. \n\nI can but think upon the skies \nThat bound that other Paradise. \n\nVI \n\nBelow a star-built arch, as grand \nAs ever bended heaven spanned, \n\nTall trees like mighty columns \ngrew\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey loomed as if to pierce the blue, \nThey reached, as reaching heaven \nthrough. \n\n\nof jfixt \n\nThe shadowed stream rolled far \nbelow, \n\nWhere men moved noiseless to and \nfro \n\nAs in some vast cathedral, when \nThe calm of prayer comes to men, \nAnd benedictions bless them so. \n\nWhat wooded sea-banks, wild and \nsteep! \n\nWhat trackless wood! what snowy \ncone \n\nThat lifted from this wood alone! \nWhat wild, wide river, dark and \ndeep! \n\nWhat ships against the shore asleep! \n\nVII \n\nAn Indian woman cautious crept \nAbout the land the while it slept, \nThe relic of her perished race. \n\nShe wore rich, rudely-fashioned \nbands \n\nOf gold above her bony hands; \n\nShe hissed hot curses on the place! \n\nVIII \n\nGo seek the red man\xe2\x80\x99s last retreat! \nWhat lonesome lands! what haunted \nlands! \n\nRed mouths of beasts, red men\xe2\x80\x99s red \nhands; \n\nRed prophet-priests, in mute defeat. \nFrom Incan temples overthrown \nTo lorn Alaska\xe2\x80\x99s isles of bone \nThe red man lives and dies alone. \n\nHis boundaries in blood are writ! \nHis land is ghostland! That is his, \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xa3S>ea of jftrc \n\n\n249 \n\n\nWhatever we may claim of this; \nBeware how you shall enter it! \n\nHe stands God\xe2\x80\x99s guardian of ghost- \nlands; \n\nYea, this same wrapped half-prophet \nstands \n\nAll nude and voiceless, nearer to \nThe dread, lone God than I or you. \n\nIX \n\nThis bronzed child, by that river\xe2\x80\x99s \nbrink, \n\nStood fair to see as you can think, \n\nAs tall as tall reeds at her feet, \n\nAs fresh as flowers in her hair; \n\nAs sweet as flowers over-sweet, \n\nAs fair as vision more than fair! \n\nHow beautiful she was! How wild! \nHow pure as water-plant, this \nchild,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis one wild child of Nature here \nGrown tall in shadows. \n\nAnd how near \nTo God, where no man stood between \nHer eyes and scenes no man hath \nseen,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis maiden that so mutely stood, \nThe one lone woman of that wood. \n\nStop still, my friend, and do not \nstir, \n\nShut close your page and think of \nher. \n\nThe birds sang sweeter for her face; \nHer 1 ifted eyes were like a grace \nTo seamen of that solitude, \n\nHowever rough, however rude. \n\n\nThe rippled river of her hair, \nFlowed in such wondrous waves, \nsomehow \n\nFlowed down divided by her brow,\xe2\x80\x94 \nIt mantled her within its care, \n\nAnd flooded all her form below, \n\nIn its uncommon fold and flow. \n\nA perfume and an incense lay \nBefore her, as an incense sweet \nBefore blithe mowers of sweet May \nIn early morn. Her certain feet \nEmbarked on no uncertain way. \n\nCome, think how perfect before \nmen, \n\nHow sweet as sweet magnolia bloom \nEmbalmed in dews of morning, \nwhen \n\nRich sunlight leaps from midnight \ngloom \n\nResolved to kiss, and swift to kiss \nEre yet morn wakens man to bliss. \n\nX \n\nThe days swept on. Her perfect \nyear \n\nWas with her now. The sweet \nperfume \n\nOf womanhood in holy bloom, \n\nAs when red harvest blooms appear, \nPossessed her soul. The priest did \npray \n\nThat saints alone should pass that \nway. \n\nA red bird built beneath her roof, \nBrown squirrels crossed her cabin \nsill, \n\nAnd welcome came or went at will. \n\n\n\n\n250 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje i?ea of Jfire \n\n\nA hermit spider wove his web \nAbove her door and plied his trade, \nWith none to fright or make afraid. \n\nThe silly elk, the spotted fawn, \nAnd all dumb beasts that came to \ndrink, \n\nThat stealthy stole upon the brink \nBy coming night or going dawn, \n\nOn seeing her familiar face \nWould fearless stop and stand in place. \n\nShe was so kind, the beasts of \nnight \n\nGave her the road as if her right; \nThe panther crouching overhead \nIn sheen of moss would hear her \ntread, \n\nAnd bend his eyes, but never stir \nLest he by chance might frighten her. \n\nYet in her splendid strength, her \neyes, \n\nThere lay the lightning of the skies; \nThe love-hate of the lioness, \n\nTo kill the instant or caress: \n\nA pent-up soul that sometimes grew \nImpatient; why, she hardly knew. \n\nAt last she sighed, uprose, and \nthrew \n\nHer strong arms out as if to hand \nHer love, sun-born and all complete \nAt birth, to some brave lover\xe2\x80\x99s feet \nOn some far, fair, and unseen land, \n\nAs knowing not quite what to do! \n\nXI \n\nHow beautiful she was; Why, she \nWas inspiration! She was born \n\n\nTo walk God\xe2\x80\x99s sunlit hills at morn, \nNor waste her by this wood-dark sea. \nWhat wonder, then, her soul\xe2\x80\x99s white \nwings \n\nBeat at its bars, like living things! \n\nOnce more she sighed! She wan\xc2\xac \ndered through \n\nThe sea-bound wood, then stopped \nand drew \n\nHer hand above her face, and swept \nThe lonesome sea, and all day kept \nHer face to sea, as if she knew \nSome day, some near or distant \nday, \n\nHer destiny should come that way. \n\nXII \n\nHow proud she was! How darkly \nfair! \n\nHow full of faith, of love, of strength! \nHer calm, proud eyes! Her great \nhair\xe2\x80\x99s length,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHer long, strong, tumbled, careless \nhair, \n\nHalf curled and knotted any\xc2\xac \nwhere,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBy brow or breast, or cheek or chin, \nFor love to trip and tangle in! \n\nXIII \n\nAt last a tall strange sail was \nseen: \n\nIt came so slow, so wearily, \n\nCame creeping cautious up the sea, \n\nAs if it crept from out between \nThe half-closed sea and sky that lay \nTight wedged together, far away. \n\n\n\n251 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje ika \n\nShe watched it, wooed it. She did \npray \n\nIt might not pass her by but bring \nSome love, some hate, some any\xc2\xac \nthing, \n\nTo break the awful loneliness \nThat like a nightly nightmare lay \nUpon her proud and pent-up soul \nUntil it barely brooked control. \n\nXIV \n\nThe ship crept silent up the sea, \n\nAnd came\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYou cannot understand \nHow fair she was, how sudden she \nHad sprung, full grown, to woman\xc2\xac \nhood. \n\nHow gracious, yet how proud and \ngrand; \n\nHow glorified, yet fresh and free, \n\nHow human, yet how more than \ngood. \n\nXV \n\nThe ship stole slowly, slowly on,\xe2\x80\x94 \nShould you in Californian field \nIn ample flower-time behold \nThe soft south rose lift like a shield; \nAgainst the sudden sun at dawn \nA double handful of heaped gold, \n\nWhy you, perhaps, might understand \nHow splendid and how queenly she \nUprose beside that wood-set sea. \n\nThe \'torm-worn ship scarce seemed \nto creep \n\nFrom wave to wave. It scarce could \nkeep\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nof Jftre \n\nHow still this fair girl stood, how \nfair! \n\nHow tall her presence as she stood \nBetween that vast sea and west \nwood! \n\nHow large and liberal her soul, \n\nHow confident, how purely chare, \nHow trusting; how untried the whole \nGreat heart, grand faith, that \nblossomed there. \n\nXVI \n\nAy, she was as Madonna to \nThe tawny, lawless, faithful few \nWho touched her hand and knew her \nsoul: \n\nShe drew them, drew them as the \npole \n\nPoints all things to itself. \n\nShe drew \n\nMen upward as a moon of spring \nHigh wheeling, vast and bosom-full, \nHalf clad in clouds and white as wool, \nDraws all the strong seas following. \n\nYet still she moved as sad, as \nlone \n\nAs that same moon that leans above, \nAnd seems to search high heaven \nthrough \n\nFor some strong, all sufficient love, \nFor one brave love to be her own, \n\nBe all her own and ever true. \n\nOh, I once knew a sad, sweet \ndove \n\nThat died for such sufficient love, \nSuch high, white love with wings to \nsoar, \n\n\n\n252 \n\n\n\xc2\xaeJje \xc2\xa3S>ea of Jfirc \n\n\nThat looks love level in the face, \n\nNor wearies love with leaning o\xe2\x80\x99er \nTo lift love level to her place. \n\nXVII \n\nHow slow before the sleeping \nbreeze, \n\nThat stranger ship from under seas! \nHow like to Dido by her sea, \n\nWhen reaching arms imploringly,\xe2\x80\x94 \nHer large, round, rich, impassioned \narms, \n\nTossed forth from all her storied \ncharms\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis one lone maiden leaning stood \nAbove that sea, beneath that wood! \n\nThe ship crept strangely up the \nseas; \n\nHer shrouds seemed shreds, her masts \nseemed trees,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nStrange tattered trees of toughest \nbough \n\nThat knew no cease of storm till \nnow. \n\nThe maiden pitied her; she prayed \nHer crew might come, nor feel \nafraid; \n\nShe prayed the winds might come,\xe2\x80\x94 \nthey came, \n\nAs birds that answer to a name. \n\nThe maiden held her blowing \nhair \n\nThat bound her beauteous self \nabout; \n\nThe sea-winds housed within her \nhair; \n\nShe let it go, it blew in rout \nAbout her bosom full and bare. \n\n\nHer round, full arms were free as \nair, \n\nHer high hands clasped as clasped in \nprayer. \n\nXVIII \n\nThe breeze grew bold, the battered \nship \n\nBegan to flap her weary wings; \n\nThe tall, torn masts began to dip \n\nAnd walk the wave like living things. \n\nShe rounded in, moved up the stream, \n\nShe moved like some majestic dream. \n\nThe captain kept her deck. He \nstood \n\nA Hercules among his men; \n\nAnd now he watched the sea, and \nthen \n\nHe peered as if to pierce the wood. \n\nHe now looked back, as if pursued, \n\nNow swept the sea with glass as \nthough \n\nHe fled, or feared some prowling foe. \n\nSlow sailing up the river\xe2\x80\x99s mouth, \n\nSlow tacking north, slow tacking \nsouth, \n\nHe touched the overhanging wood; \n\nHe kept his deck, his tall black \nmast \n\nTouched tree-top mosses as he \npassed; \n\nHe touched the steep shore where she \nstood. \n\nXIX \n\nHer hands still clasped as if in \nprayer, \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e S>ea of Jftre \n\n\n253 \n\n\nSweet prayer set to silentness; \n\nHer sun-browned throat uplifted, \nbare \n\nAnd beautiful. \n\nHer eager face \nIllumed with love and tenderness, \nAnd all her presence gave such grace, \nThat she seemed more than mortal, \nfair. \n\nXX \n\nHe saw. He could not speak. \nNo more \n\nWith lifted glass he swept the sea; \nNo more he watched the wild new \nshore. \n\nNow foes might come, now friends \nmight flee; \n\nHe could not speak, he would not \nstir,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe saw but her, he feared but her. \n\nThe black ship ground against the \nshore \n\nWith creak and groan and rusty \nclank, \n\nAnd tore the mellow blossomed bank; \nShe ground against the bank as one \nWith long and weary journeys done, \nThat will not rise to jonrney more. \n\nYet still tall Jason silent stood \nAnd gazed against that sea-washed \nwood, \n\nAs one whose soul is anywhere. \n\nAll seemed so fair, so wondrous fair! \nAt last aroused, he stepped to land \nLike some Columbus; then laid \nhand \n\n\nOn lands and fruits, and rested \nthere. \n\nXXI \n\nHe found all fairer than fair \nmorn \n\nIn sylvan land, where waters run \nWith downward leap against the \nsun, \n\nAnd full-grown sudden May is born. \nHe found her taller than tall corn \nTiptoe in tassel; found her sweet \nAs vale where bees of Hybla meet. \n\nAn unblown rose, an unread \nbook; \n\nA wonder in her wondrous eyes; \n\nA large, religious, steadfast look \nOf faith, of trust,\xe2\x80\x94the look of one \nNew fashioned in fair Paradise. \n\nHe read this book\xe2\x80\x94read on and \non \n\nFrom title page to colophon: \n\nAs in cool woods, some summer day, \nYou find delight in some sweet lay, \nAnd so entranced read on and on \nFrom title page to colophon. \n\nXXII \n\nAnd who was he that rested \nthere,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis giant of a grander day, \n\nThis Theseus of a nobler Greece, \n\nThis Jason of the golden fleece? \n\nAye, who was he? And who were \nthey \n\nThat came to seek the hidden gold \n\n\n\n\n254 \n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e ibea of Jftre \n\n\nLong hollowed from the pirate\xe2\x80\x99s \nhold? \n\nI do not know. You need not care. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nThey loved, this maiden and this \nman, \n\nAnd that is all I surely know,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe rest is as the winds that blow, \nHe bowed as brave men bow to fate, \nYet proud and resolute and bold; \n\nShe shy at first, and coyly cold, \n\nHeld back and tried to hesitate,\xe2\x80\x94 \nHalf frightened at this love that ran \nHard gallop till her hot heart beat \nLike sounding of swift courser\xe2\x80\x99s \nfeet. \n\nXXIII \n\nTwo strong streams of a land must \nrun \n\nTogether surely as the sun \nSucceeds the moon. Who shall \ngainsay \n\nThe gods that reign, that wisely \nreign? \n\nLove is, love was, shall be again. \n\nLike death, inevitable it is; \nPerchance, like death, the dawn of \nbliss. \n\nLet us, then, love the perfect day, \nThe twelve o\xe2\x80\x99clock of life, and stop \nThe two hands pointing to the top, \nAnd hold them tightly while we may. \n\nXXIV \n\nHow beautiful is love! The walks \nBy wooded ways; the silent talks \n\n\nBeneath the broad and fragrant \nbough. \n\nThe dark deep wood, the dense black \ndell, \n\nWhere scarce a single gold beam \nfell \n\nFrom out the sun. \n\nThey rested now \nOn mossy trunk. They wandered \nthen \n\nWhere never fell the feet of men. \nThen longer walks, then deeper \nwoods, \n\nThen sweeter talks, sufficient sweet, \nIn denser, deeper solitudes,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDear careless ways for careless \nfeet; \n\nSweet talks of paradise for two, \n\nAnd only two to watch or woo. \n\nShe rarely spake. All seemed a \ndream \n\nShe would not waken from. She lay \nAll night but waiting for the day, \nWhen she might see his face, and \ndeem \n\nThis man, with all his perils passed, \nHad found sweet Lotus-land at last. \n\nXXV \n\nThe year waxed fervid, and the \nsun \n\nFell central down. The forest lay \nA-quiver in the heat. The sea \nBelow the steep bank seemed to run \nA molten sea of gold. \n\nAway \n\nAgainst the gray and rock-built \nisles \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaej)e \xc2\xa3?ea of Jftre \n\n\n255 \n\n\nThat broke the molten watery miles \n\nWhere lonesome sea-cows called all \nday, \n\nThe sudden sun smote angrily. \n\nTherefore the need of deeper \ndeeps, \n\nOf denser shade for man and maid, \n\nOf higher heights, of cooler steeps, \n\nWhere all day long the sea-wind \nstayed. \n\nThey sought the rock-reared steep. \nThe breeze \n\nSwept twenty thousand miles of \nseas ; \n\nHad twenty thousand things to say, \n\nOf love, of lovers of Cathay, \n\nTo lovers \xe2\x80\x99mid these mossy trees. \n\nXXVI \n\nTo left, to right, below the \nheight, \n\nBelow the wood by wave and \nstream, \n\nPlumed pampas grass did wave and \ngleam \n\nAnd bend their lordly plumes, and \nrun \n\nAnd shake, as if in very fright \n\nBefore sharp lances of the sun. \n\nThey saw the tide-bound, battered \nship \n\nCreep close below against the bank; \n\nThey saw it cringe and shrink; it \nshrank \n\nAs shrinks some huge black beast \nwith fear, \n\n\nWhen some uncommon dread is \nnear. \n\nThey heard the melting resin drip, \n\nAs drip the last brave blood-drops \nwhen \n\nRed battle waxes hot with men. \n\nXXVII \n\nYet what to her were burning seas, \n\nOr what to him was forest flame? \n\nThey loved; they loved the glorious \ntrees; \n\nThe gleaming tides might rise or \nfall,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey loved the whispering winds that \ncame \n\nFrom sea-lost spice-set isles un\xc2\xac \nknown, \n\nWith breath not warmer than their \nown; \n\nThey loved, they loved,\xe2\x80\x94and that \nwas all. \n\nXXVIII \n\nFull noon! Above, the ancient \nmoss \n\nFrom mighty boughs swang slow \nacross, \n\nAs when some priest slow chants a \nprayer \n\nAnd swings sweet smoke and per\xc2\xac \nfumed air \n\nFrom censer swinging\xe2\x80\x94anywhere. \n\nHe spake of love, of boundless \nlove,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf love that knew no other land, \n\nOr face, or place, or anything; \n\nOf love that like the wearied dove \n\n\n\n\n256 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje S>ea of Jfirc \n\n\nCould light nowhere, but kept the \nwing \n\nTill she alone put forth her hand \nAnd so received it in her ark \nFrom seas that shake against the \ndark! \n\nHer proud breast heaved, her pure, \nbare breast \n\nRose like the waves in their unrest \nWhen counter storms possess the \nseas. \n\nHer mouth, her arch, uplifted \nmouth, \n\nHer ardent mouth that thirsted so,\xe2\x80\x94 \nNo glowing love song of the South \nCan say; no man can say or know \nSuch truth as lies beneath such \ntrees. \n\nHer face still lifted up. And \nshe \n\nDisdained the cup of passion he \nHard pressed her panting lips to \ntouch. \n\nShe dashed it by, uprose, and she \nCaught fast her breath. She \ntrembled much, \n\nThen sudden rose full height, and \nstood \n\nAn empress in high womanhood: \n\nShe stood a tower, tall as when \nProud Roman mothers suckled men \nOf old-time truth and taught them \nsuch. \n\nXXIX \n\nHer soul surged vast as space is. \nShe \n\nWas trembling as a courser when \n\n\nHis thin flank quivers, and his feet \nTouch velvet on the turf, and he \nIs all afoam, alert and fleet \nAs sunlight glancing on the sea, \n\nAnd full of triumph before men. \n\nAt last she bended some her face, \nHalf leaned, then put him back a \n\npace, \n\nAnd met his eyes. \n\nCalm, silently \n\nHer eyes looked deep into his \neyes,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs maidens search some mossy well \nAnd peer in hope by chance to tell \nBy image there what future lies \nBefore them, and what face shall be \nThe pole-star of their destiny. \n\nPure Nature\xe2\x80\x99s lover! Loving him \nWith love that made all pathways \ndim \n\nAnd difficult where he was not,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThen marvel not at forms forgot. \n\nAnd who shall chide? Doth priest \nknow aught \n\nOf sign, or holy unction brought \nFrom over seas, that ever can \nMake man love maid or maid love \nman \n\nOne whit the more, one bit the less, \nFor all his mummeries to bless? \n\nYea, all his blessings or his ban? \n\nThe winds breathed warm asAraby; \nShe leaned upon his breast, she lay \nA wide-winged swan with folded \nwing. \n\nHe drowned his hot face in her \nhair, \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaebe ibea of Jfire \n\n\n257 \n\n\nHe heard her great heart rise and \nsing; \n\nHe felt her bosom swell. \n\nThe air \n\nSwooned sweet with perfume of her \nform. \n\nHer breast was warm, her breath was \nwarm, \n\nAnd warm her warm and perfumed \nmouth \n\nAs summer journeys through the \nsouth. \n\nXXX \n\nThe argent sea surged steep below, \n\nSurged languid in such tropic glow; \n\nAnd two great hearts kept surging \nso! \n\nThe fervid kiss of heaven lay \n\nPrecipitate on wood and sea. \n\nTwo great souls glowed with \necstasy, \n\nThe sea glowed scarce as warm as \n\nthey. \n\nXXXI \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas love\xe2\x80\x99s warm amber after\xc2\xac \nnoon. \n\nTwo far-off pheasants thrummed a \ntune, \n\nA cricket clanged a restful air. \n\nThe dreamful billows beat a rune \n\nLike heart regrets. \n\nA round her head \n\nThere shone a halo. Men have said \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas from a dash of Titian red \n\nThat flooded all her storm of hair \n\nIn gold and glory. But they knew, \n\n\nYea, all men know there ever grew \n\nA halo roimd about her head \n\nLike sunlight scarcely vanished. \n\nXXXII \n\nHow still she was! She only \nknew \n\nHis love. She saw no life beyond. \n\nShe loved with love that only lives \n\nOutside itself and selfishness,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA love that glows in its excess; \n\nA love that melts pure gold, and \ngives \n\nThenceforth to all who come to \nwoo \n\nNo coins but this face stamped \nthereon,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAy, this one image stamped upon \n\nPure gold, with some dim date long \ngone. r \n\nXXXIII \n\nThey kept the headland high; the \nship \n\nBelow began to chafe her chain, \n\nTo groan as some great beast in \npain: \n\nWhile white fear leapt from lip to \nlip: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe woods on fire! The woods in \nflame! \n\nCome down and save us in God\xe2\x80\x99s \nname!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHe heard! he did not speak or \nstir,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe thought of her, of only her, \n\n\n17 \n\n\n\n\n258 \n\n\ntKfje g>ea of Jfire \n\n\nWhile flames behind, before them \nlay \n\nTo hold the stoutest heart at bay! \n\nStrange sounds were heard far up \nthe flood, \n\nStrange, savage sounds that chilled \nthe blood! \n\nThen sudden, from the dense, dark \nwood \n\nAbove, about them where they stood \n\nStrange, hairy beasts came peering \nout; \n\nAnd now was thrust a long black \nsnout, \n\nAnd now a tusky mouth. It was \n\nA sight to make the stoutest pause. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cCut loose the ship!\xe2\x80\x9d the black \nmate cried; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cCut loose the ship!\xe2\x80\x9d the crew \nreplied. \n\nThey drove into the sea. It lay \n\nAs light as ever middle day. \n\nAnd then a half-blind bitch that \nsat \n\nAll slobber-mouthed, and monkish \ncowled \n\nWith great, broad, floppy, leathern \nears \n\nAmid the men, rose up and howled, \n\nAnd doleful howled her plaintive \nfears, \n\nWhile all looked mute aghast thereat. \n\nIt was the grimmest eve, I think, \n\nThat ever hung on Hades\xe2\x80\x99 brink. \n\nGreat broad-winged bats possessed \nthe air, \n\nBats whirling blindly everywhere; \n\nIt was such troubled twilight eve \n\nAs never mortal would believe. \n\n\nXXXIV \n\nSome say the crazed hag lit the \nwood \n\nIn circle where the lovers stood; \nSome say the gray priest feared the \ncrew \n\nMight find at last the hoard of gold \nLong hidden from the black ship\xe2\x80\x99s \nhold,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI doubt me if men ever knew. \n\nBut such mad, howling, flame-lit \nshore \n\nNo mortal ever knew before. \n\nHuge beasts above that shining \n\nsea, \n\nWild, hideous beasts with shaggy \nhair, \n\nWith red mouths lifting in the air, \n\nAll piteous howled, and plain\xc2\xac \ntively,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe wildest sounds, the weirdest \nsight \n\nThat ever shook the walls of night. \n\nHow lorn they howled, with lifted \nhead, \n\nTo dim and distant isles that lay \nWedged tight along a line of red, \nCaught in the closing gates of day \n\xe2\x80\x99Twixt sky and sea and far away,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt was the saddest sound to hear \nThat ever struck on human ear. \n\nThey doleful called; and answered \nthey \n\nThe plaintiff sea-cows far away,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe great sea-cows that called from \nisles, \n\nAway across red flaming miles, \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e \xc2\xa3bea of jftre \n\n\n259 \n\n\nWith dripping mouths and lolling \ntongue, \n\nAs if they called for captured \nyoung,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nXXXV \n\nThe sun, outdone, lay down. He \nlay \n\nIn seas of blood. He sinking drew \n\nThe gates of sunset sudden to, \n\nAnd they in shattered fragments lay. \n\nThen night came, moving in mad \nflame; \n\nThen full night, lighted as he came, \n\nAs lighted by high summer sun \n\nDescending through the burning \nblue. \n\nIt was a gold and amber hue, \n\nAye, all hues blended into one. \n\nThe moon came on, came leaning \nlow. \n\nThe moon spilled splendor where she \ncame, \n\nAnd filled the world with yellow \nflame \n\nAlong the far sea-isles ag\' ^w; \n\nShe fell along that amber flood, \n\nA silver flame in seas of blood. \n\nIt was the strangest moon, ah me! \n\nThat ever settled on God\xe2\x80\x99s sea. \n\n\nXXXVI \n\nSlim snakes slid down from fern \nand grass, \n\nFrom wood, from fen, from any\xc2\xac \nwhere ; \n\nYou could not step, you could not \npass, \n\nAnd you would hesitate to stir, \n\nLest in some sudden, hurried tread \nYour foot struck some unbruised \nhead: \n\nIt seemed like some infernal \ndream; \n\nThey slid in streams into the stream; \nThey curved and sinuous curved \nacross, \n\nLike living streams of living moss,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThere is no art of man can make \nA ripple like a swimming snake! \n\nXXXVII \n\nEncompassed, lorn, the lovers \nstood, \n\nAbandoned there, death in the air! \nThat beetling steep, that blazing \nwood\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nRed flame! red flame, and every\xc2\xac \nwhere! \n\nYet he was born to strive, to bear \nThe front of battle. He would die \nIn noble effort, and defy \nThe grizzled visage of despair. \n\nHe threw his two strong arms \nfull length \n\nAs if to surely test their strength; \nThen tore his vestments, textile \nthings \n\n\nThe huge sea-cows that called the \nwhiles \n\nTheir great wide mouths were mouth\xc2\xac \ning moss; \n\nAnd still they doleful called across \nFrom isles beyond the watery miles. \nNo sound can half so doleful be \nAs sea-cows calling from the sea. \n\n\n\n\n260 \n\n\nWte H>ea of Jfire \n\n\nThat could but tempt the demon \nwings \n\nOf flame that girt them round \nabout, \n\nThen threw his garments to the air \nAs one that laughed at death, at \ndoubt, \n\nAnd like a god stood thewed and \nbare. \n\nShe did not hesitate; she knew \nThe need of action; swift she threw \nHer burning vestments by, and \nbound \n\nHer wondrous wealth of hair that \nfell \n\nAn all-concealing cloud around \nHer glorious presence, as he came \nTo seize and bear her through the \nflame,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAn Orpheus out of burning hell! \n\nHe leaned above her, wound his \narm \n\nAbout her splendor, while the noon \nOf flood tide, manhood, flushed his \nface, \n\nAnd high flames leapt the high head\xc2\xac \nland !\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey stood as twin-hewn statues \nstand, \n\nHigh lifted in some storied place. \n\nHe clasped her close, he spoke of \ndeath,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf death and love in the same \nbreath. \n\nHe clasped her close; her bosom lay \nLike ship safe anchored in some bay, \nWhere never rage or rack of main \nMight even shake her anchor chain. \n\n\nXXXVIII \n\nThe flames! They could not stand \nor stay; \n\nBeyond, the beetling steep, the sea! \n\nBut at his feet a narrow way, \n\nA short steep path, pitched suddenly \n\nSafe open to the river\xe2\x80\x99s beach, \n\nWhere lay a small white isle in \nreach,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA small, white, rippled isle of sand \n\nWhere yet the two might safely land. \n\nAnd there, through smoke and \nflame, behold \n\nThe priest stood safe, yet all \nappalled! \n\nHe reached the cross; he cried, he \ncalled; \n\nHe waved his high-held cross of \ngold. \n\nHe called and called, he bade them \nfly \n\nThrough flames to him, nor bide and \ndie! \n\nHer lover saw; he saw, and knew \n\nHis giant strength could bear her \nthrough. \n\nAnd yet he would not start or stir. \n\nHe clasped her close as death can \nhold, \n\nOr dying miser clasp his gold,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis hold became a part of her. \n\nHe would not give her up! He \nwould \n\nNot bear her waveward though he \ncould! \n\nThat height was heaven; the wave \nwas hell. \n\n\n\n261 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje ibea \n\nHe clasped her close,\xe2\x80\x94what else had \ndone \n\nThe manliest man beneath the sun? \nWas it not well? was it not well? \n\nO man, be glad! be grandly glad, \nAnd king-like walk thy ways of \ndeath! \n\nFor more than years of bliss you \nhad \n\nThat one brief time you breathed her \nbreath, \n\nYea, more than years upon a throne \nThat one brief time you held her \nfast, \n\nSoul surged to soul, vehement, \nvast,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTrue breast to breast, and all your \nown. \n\nLive me one day, one narrow night, \nOne second of supreme delight \nLike that, and I will blow like chaff \nThe hollow years aside, and laugh \nA loud trimphant laugh, and I, \nKing-like and crowned, will gladly \ndie. \n\nOh, but to wrap my love with \nflame! \n\nWith flame within, with flame \nwithout! \n\nOh, but to die like this, nor doubt\xe2\x80\x94 \nTo die and know her still the same! \n\nTo know that down the ghostly ~hore \nSnow-white she walks for ever more! \n\nXXXIX \n\nHe poised her, held her high in \nair,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nof Jfire \n\nHis great strong limbs, his great arm\xe2\x80\x99s \nlength!\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen turned his knotted shoulders \nbare \n\nAs birth-time in his splendid strength, \nAnd strode with lordly, kingly stride \nTo where the high and wood-hung \nedge \n\nLooked down, far down upon the \nmolten tide. \n\nThe flames leaped with him to the \nledge, \n\nThe flames leapt leering at his side. \nXL \n\nHe leaned above the ledge. Below \nHe saw the black ship grope and \ncruise,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA midge below, a mile below. \n\nHis limbs were knotted as the thews \nOf Hercules in his death-throe. \n\nThe flame! the flame! the envious \nflame! \n\nShe wound her arms, she wound her \nhair \n\nAbout his tall form, grand and \nbare, \n\nTo stay the fierce flame where it \ncame. \n\nThe black ship, like some moonlit \nwreck, \n\nBelow along the burning sea \nGroped on and on all silently, \n\nWith silent pigmies on her deck. \n\nThat midge-like ship, far, far \nbelow; \n\n\n\n262 \n\n\n\xc2\xaeJje H>ea of Jfire \n\n\nThat mirage lifting from the hill! \n\nHis flame-lit form began to grow,\xe2\x80\x94 \nTo glow and grow more grandly \nstill. \n\nThe ship so small, that form so tall, \nIt grew to tower over all. \n\nA tall Colossus, bronze and gold, \nAs if that flame-lit form were he \nWho once bestrode the Rhodian sea, \nAnd ruled the watery world of old: \nAs if the lost Colossus stood \nAbove that burning sea of wood. \n\nAnd she! that shapely form up\xc2\xac \nheld, \n\nHeld high as if to touch the sky, \nWhat airy shape, how shapely \nhigh,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat goddess of the seas of eld! \n\nHer hand upheld, her high right \nhand, \n\nAs if she would forget the land; \n\nAs if to gather stars, and heap \nThe stars like torches there to light \nHer hero\xe2\x80\x99s path across the deep \nTo some far isle that fearful night. \n\nXLI \n\nThe envious flame, one moment \nleapt \n\nEnraged to see such majesty, \n\nSuch scorn of death; such kingly \nscorn . . . \n\nThen like some lightning-riven tree \n\n\nThey sank down in that flame\xe2\x80\x94and \nslept. \n\nThen all was hushed above that steep \n\nSo still that they might sleep and \nsleep, \n\nAs when a Summer\xe2\x80\x99s day is born. \n\nAt last! from out the embers leapt \n\nTwo shafts of light above the \nnight,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTwo wings of flame that lifting \nswept \n\nIn steady, calm, and upward \nflight; \n\nTwo wings of flame against the \nwhite \n\nFar-lifting, tranquil, snowy cone; \n\nTwo wings of love, two wings of \nlight, \n\nFar, far above that troubled night, \n\nAs mounting, mounting to God\xe2\x80\x99s \nthrone. \n\nXLII \n\nAnd all night long that upward \nlight \n\nLit up the sea-cow\xe2\x80\x99s bed below: \n\nThe far sea-cows still calling so \n\nIt seemed as they must call all \nnight. \n\nAll night! there was no night. Nay, \nnay, \n\nThere was no night. The night that \nlay \n\nBetween that awful eve and day,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat nameless night was burned \naway. \n\n\n\n\n8 i?ons of tfje g>outfj \n\n\n263 \n\n\nA SONG OF \n\nPart I \n\nRhyme on, rhyme on, in reedy flow, \n0 river, rhymer ever sweet! \n\nThe story of thy land is meet; \n\nThe stars stand listening to know. \n\nRhyme on, 0 river of the earth! \n\nGray father of the dreadful seas, \n\nRhyme on! the world upon its knees \nInvokes thy songs , thy wealth, thy \nworth. \n\nRhyme on! the reed is at thy mouth, \nO kingly minstrel, mighty stream! \n\nThy Crescent City, like a dream, \nHangs in the heaven of my South. \n\nRhyme on, rhyme on! these broken \nstrings \n\nSing sweetest in this warm south \nwind; \n\nI sit thy willow banks and bind \nA broken harp that fitful sings. \n\n1 \n\nAnd where is my silent, sweet \nblossom-sown town? \n\nAnd where is her glory, and what has \nshe done? \n\nBy her Mexican seas in the path of \nthe sun, \n\nSit you down; in her crescent of seas, \nsit you down. \n\nAye, glory enough by her Mexican \nseas! \n\n\nTHE SOUTH \n\nAye, story enough in that battle-tom \ntown, \n\nHidden down in her crescent of seas, \nhidden down \n\nIn her mantle and sheen of magnolia- \nwhite trees. \n\nBut mine is the story of souls; of a \nsoul \n\nThat barter\xe2\x80\x99d God\xe2\x80\x99s limitless kingdom \nfor gold,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSold stars and all space for a thing he \ndid hold \n\nIn his palm for a day; and then hid \nwith the mole: \n\nSad soul of a rose-land, of moss- \nmantled oak\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGray, Druid-old oaks; and the moss \nthat sways \n\nAnd swings in the wind is the battle- \nsmoke \n\nOf duelists dead, in her storied days: \n\nSad soul of a love-land, of church- \nbells and chimes; \n\nA love-land of altars and orange- \nflowers; \n\nAnd that is the reason for all these \nrhymes\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat church-bells are ringing through \nall these hours! \n\nThis sun-land has churches, has \npriests at prayer, \n\nWhite nuns, that are white as the far \nnorth snow: \n\nThey go where duty may bid them \ngo \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n\n264 8 \xc2\xa3j>o\xc2\xabs of \n\nThey dare when the angel of death is \nthere. \n\nThis love-land has ladies, so fair, \nso fair, \n\nIn their Creole quarter, with great \nblack eyes\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSo fair that the Mayor must keep \nthem there \n\nLest troubles, like troubles of Troy, \narise. \n\nThis sun-land has ladies with eyes \nheld down, \n\nHeld down, because if they lifted \nthem, \n\nWhy, you would be lost in that old \nFrench town, \n\nThough even you held to God\xe2\x80\x99s gar\xc2\xac \nment hem. \n\nThis love-land has ladies so fair, so \nfair, \n\nThat they bend their eyes to the holy \nbook, \n\nLest you should forget yourself, your \nprayer, \n\nAnd never more cease to look and to \nlook. \n\nAnd these are the ladies that no \nmen see, \n\nAnd this is the reason men see them \nnot; \n\nBetter their modest, sweet mystery\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBetter by far than red battle-shot. \n\nAnd so, in this curious old town of \ntiles, \n\nThe proud French quarter of days \nlong gone, \n\n\ntlje H>outfj \n\nIn castles of Spain and tumble-down \npiles, \n\nThese wonderful ladies live on atid on. \n\nI sit in the church where they come \nand go; \n\nI dream of glory that has long since \ngone; \n\nOf the low raised high, of the high \nbrought low \n\nAs in battle-torn days of Napoleon. \n\nThese brass-plaited places, so rich, \nso poor! \n\nOne quaint old church at the edge of \nthe town \n\nHas white tombs laid to the very \nchurch door\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhite leaves in the story of life \nturn\xe2\x80\x99d down: \n\nWhite leaves in the story of life are \nthese, \n\nThe low, white slabs in the long, \nstrong grass, \n\nWhere glory has emptied her hour\xc2\xac \nglass, \n\nAnd dreams with the dreamers \nbeneath the trees. \n\nI dream with the dreamers beneath \nthe sod, \n\nWhere souls pass by to the great \nwhite throne; \n\nI count each tomb as a mute mile\xc2\xac \nstone \n\nFor weary, sweet souls on their way \nto God. \n\nI sit all day by the vast, strong \nstream, \n\nX \n\n\n\n& \xc2\xa3s>ong of \n\n\'Mid low white slabs in the long, \nstrong grass, \n\nWhere time has forgotten for aye to \npass, \n\nTo dream, and ever to dream and to \ndream. \n\nThis quaint old church, with its \ndead to the door, \n\nBy the cypress swamp at the edge of \nthe town, \n\nSo restful it seems that you want to \nsit down \n\nAnd rest you, and rest you for ever\xc2\xac \nmore. \n\nIll \n\nThe azure curtain of God\xe2\x80\x99s house \n\nDraws back, and hangs star-pinned \nto space; \n\nI hear the low, large moon arouse, \n\nAnd slowly lift her languid face. \n\nI see her shoulder up the east, \n\nLow-necked, and large as woman\xc2\xac \nhood\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLow-necked, as for some ample \nfeast \n\nOf gods, within yon orange-wood. \n\nShe spreads white palms, she \nwhispers peace,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSweet peace on earth forevermore; \n\nSweet peace for two beneath the \ntrees, \n\nSweet peace for one within the door. \n\nThe bent stream, as God\xe2\x80\x99s \nscimitar, \n\n\ntfje 265 \n\nFlashed in the sun, sweeps on and \non, \n\nTill sheathed, like some great sword \nnew-drawn, \n\nIn seas beneath the Carib\xe2\x80\x99s star. \n\nThe high moon climbs the sapphire \nhill, \n\nThe lone sweet lady prays within; \n\nThe crickets keep such clang and \ndin\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey are so loud, earth is so still! \n\nAnd two men glare in silence \nthere! \n\nThe bitter, jealous hate of each \n\nHas grown too deep for deed or \nspeech\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe lone sweet lady \\ eeps her \nprayer. \n\nThe vast moon high through \nheaven\xe2\x80\x99s field \n\nIn circling chariot is rolled; \n\nThe golden stars are spun and \nreeled, \n\nAnd woven into cloth of gold. \n\nThe white magnolia fills the night \n\nWith perfume, as the proud moon \nfills \n\nThe glad earth with her ample light \n\nFrom out her awful sapphire hills. \n\nWhite orange-blossoms fill the \nboughs \n\nAbove, about the old church-door; \n\nThey wait the bride, the bridal \nvows,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey never hung so fair before. \n\n\n\n266 \n\n\n3 gxmg of \n\nThe two men glare as dark as sin! \nAnd yet all seem so fair, so white, \n\nYou would not reckon it was night,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe while the lady prays within. \n\nIV \n\nShe prays so very long and late,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe two men, weary, waiting there,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe great magnolia at the gate \nBends drowsily above her prayer. \n\nThe cypress in his cloak of moss, \nThat watches on in silent gloom, \n\nHas leaned and shaped a shadow cross \nAbove the namelss, lowly tomb. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2*\xc2\xab\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nWhat can she pray for? What her \nsin? \n\nWhat folly of a maid so fair? \n\nWhat shadows bind the wondrous \nhair \n\nOf one who prays so long within? \n\nThe palm-trees guard in regiment, \nStand right and left without the gate; \nThe myrtle-moss trees wait and wait; \nThe tall magnolia leans intent. \n\nThe cypress-trees, on gnarled old \nknees, \n\nFar out the dank and marshy deep \nWhere slimy monsters groan and \ncreep, \n\nKneel with her in their marshy seas. \n\nWhat can her sin be? Who shall \nknow? \n\nThe night flies by,\xe2\x80\x94a bird on \nwing; \n\n\ntf)e ikmtf) \n\nThe men no longer to and fro \nStride up and down, or anything. \n\nFor one, so weary and so old, \n\nHas hardly strength to stride or stir; \nHe can but hold his bags of gold,\xe2\x80\x94 \nBut hug his gold and wait for her. \n\nThe two stand still,\xe2\x80\x94stand face to \nface. \n\nThe moon slides on, the midnight air \nIs perfumed as a house of prayer,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe maiden keeps her holy place. \n\nTwo men! And one is gray, but \n\none \n\nScarce lifts a full-grown face as yet; \nWith light foot on life\xe2\x80\x99s threshold \nset,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIs he the other\xe2\x80\x99s sun-born son? \n\nAnd one is of the land of snow, \n\nAnd one is of the land of sun; \n\nA black-eyed, burning youth is one, \nBut one has pulses cold and slow: \n\nAye, cold and slow from clime of \nsnow \n\nWhere Nature\xe2\x80\x99s bosom, icy bound, \nHolds all her forces, hard, profound, \nHolds close where all the South lets \ngo. \n\nBlame not the sun, blame not the \nsnows,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s great schoolhouse for all is \nclime; \n\nThe great school teacher, Father \nTime, \n\nAnd each has borne as best he \nknows. \n\n\n\n\n& ^ong of ttje ikmtfj \n\n\n267 \n\n\nAt last the elder speaks,\xe2\x80\x94he cries, \nHe speaks as if his heart would break; \nHe speaks out as a man that dies,\xe2\x80\x94 \nAs dying for some lost love\xe2\x80\x99s sake: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cCome, take this bag of gold, and \ngo! \n\nCome, take one bag! See, I have two! \nOh, why stand silent, staring so, \nWhen I would share my gold with \nyou? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cCome, take this gold! See how I \npray! \n\nSee how I bribe, and beg, and buy,\xe2\x80\x94 \nAye, buy! and beg, as you, too, may \nSome day before you come to die. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c God! take this gold, I beg, I pray! \nI beg as one who thirsting cries \nFor but one drop of drink, and dies \nIn some lone, loveless desert way. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou hesitate? Still hesitate? \nStand silent still and mock my pain? \nStill mock to see me wait and wait, \nAnd wait her love, as earth waits \nrain? \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nV \n\nO broken ship! O starless shore! \nO black and everlasting night\' \nWhere love comes never any more \nTo light man\xe2\x80\x99s way with heaven\xe2\x80\x99s \nlight. \n\nA godless man with bags of gold \nI think a most unholy sight; \n\nAh, who so desolate at night, \n\nAmid death\xe2\x80\x99s sleepers still and cold? \n\n\nA godless man on holy ground \nI think a most unholy sight. \n\nI hear death trailing, like a hound, \nHard after him, and swift to bite. \n\nVI \n\nThe vast moon settles to the west; \nYet still two men beside that tomb, \nAnd one would sit thereon to rest,\xe2\x80\x94 \nAye, rest below, if there were room. \n\nVII \n\nWhat is this rest of death, sweet \nfriend? \n\nWhat is the rising up, and where? \n\nI say, death is a lengthened prayer, \n\nA longer night, a larger end. \n\nHear you the lesson I once learned: \nI died; I sailed a million miles \nThrough dreamful, flowery, restful \nisles,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nShe was not there, and I returned. \n\nI say the shores of death and sleep \nAre one; that when we, wearied, come \nTo Lethe\xe2\x80\x99s waters, and lie dumb, \n\xe2\x80\x99Tis death, not sleep, holds us to keep. \n\nYea, we lie dead for need of rest, \nAnd so the soul drifts out and o\xe2\x80\x99er \nThe vast still waters to the shore \nBeyond, in pleasant, tranquil quest: \n\nIt sails straight on, forgetting pain, \nPast isles of peace, to perfect rest,\xe2\x80\x94 \nNow were it best abide, or best \nReturn and take up life again? \n\n\n\n268 \n\n\nS i\xc2\xa3>ong of tfje g\xe2\x80\x99outf) \n\n\nAnd that is all of death there is, \nBelieve me. If you find your love \nIn that far land, then, like the dove, \nPluck olive boughs, nor back to this. \n\nBut if you find your love not there; \nOr if your feet feel sure, and you \nHave still allotted work to do,\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhy, then haste back to toil and care. \n\nDeath is no mystery. \xe2\x80\x99Tis plain \nIf death be mystery, then sleep \nIs mystery thrice strangely deep,\xe2\x80\x94 \nFor oh, this coming back again! \n\nAusterest ferryman of souls! \n\nI see the gleam of shining shores; \n\nI hear thy steady stroke of oars \nAbove the wildest wave that rolls. \n\nO Charon, keep thy somber ships! \n\nI come, with neither myrrh nor balm, \nNor silver piece in open palm,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nJust lone, white silence on my lips. \n\nVIII \n\nShe prays so long! she prays so late! \nWhat sin in all this flower land \nAgainst her supplicating hand \nCould have in heaven any weight? \n\nPrays she for her sweet self alone? \nPrays she for some one far away, \n\nOr some one near and dear today, \n\nOr some poor lorn, lost soul unknown? \n\nIt seems to me a selfish thing \nTo pray forever for one\xe2\x80\x99s self; \n\nIt seems to me like heaping pelf, \n\nIn heaven by hard reckoning. \n\n\nWhy, I would rather stoop and bear \nMy load of sin, and bear it well \nAnd bravely down to your hard hell, \nThan pray and pray a selfish prayer! \n\nIX \n\nThe swift chameleon in the gloom\xe2\x80\x94 \nThis gray mom silence so profound!\xe2\x80\x94 \nForsakes its bough, glides to the \nground, \n\nThen up, and lies acrosss the tomb. \n\nIt erst was green as olive-leaf; \n\nIt then grew gray as myrtle moss \nThe time it slid the tomb across; \n\nAnd now \'t is marble-white as grief. \n\nThe little creature\xe2\x80\x99s hues are gone \nHere in the gray and ghostly light; \n\nIt lies so pale, so panting white,\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhite as the tomb it lies upon. \n\nThe two still by that nameless \ntomb! \n\nAnd both so still! You might have \nsaid, \n\nThese two men, they are also dead, \nAnd only waiting here for room. \n\nHow still beneath the orange- \nbough ! \n\nHow tall was one, how bowed was \none! \n\nThe one was as a journey done, \n\nThe other as beginning now. \n\nAnd one was young,\xe2\x80\x94young with \nthat youth \n\nEternal that belongs to truth; \n\n\n\n3 \xc2\xa3S>ong of tfje ^>out|) \n\n\n269 \n\n\nAnd one was old,\xe2\x80\x94old with the years \nThat follow fast on doubts and fears. \n\nAnd yet the habit of command \nWas his, in every stubborn part; \n\nNo common knave was he at heart, \nNor his the common coward\xe2\x80\x99s hand. \n\nHe looked the young man in the \nface, \n\nSo full of hate, so frank of hate; \n\nThe other, standing in his place, \nStared back as straight and hard as \nfate. \n\nAnd now he sudden turned away, \nAnd now he paced the path, and now \nCame back beneath the orange bough, \nPale-browed, with lips as cold as clay. \n\nAs mute as shadows on a wall, \n\nAs silent still, as dark as they, \n\nBefore that stranger, bent and gray, \nThe youth stood scornful, proud and \ntall. \n\nHe stood a clean palmetto tree \nWith Spanish daggers guarding it; \nNor deed, nor word, to him seemed fit \nWhile she prayed on so silently. \n\nHe slew his rival with his eyes\xe2\x80\x94 \nHis eyes were daggers piercing deep, \nSo deep that blood began to creep \nFrom their deep wounds and drop \nwordwise. \n\nHis eyes so black, so bright, that \nthey \n\nMight raise the dead, the living slay, \n\n\nIf but the dead, the living bore \nSuch hearts as heroes had of yore. \n\nTwo deadly arrows barbed in black, \nAnd feathered, too, with raven\xe2\x80\x99s \nwing; \n\nTwo arrows that could silent sting, \nAnd with a death-wound answer back. \n\nHow fierce he was! how deadly still \nIn that mesmeric, searching stare \nTurned on the pleading stranger there \nThat drew to him, despite his will! \n\nSo like a bird down-fluttering, \nDown, down, beneath a snake\xe2\x80\x99s \nbright eyes, \n\nHe stood, a fascinated thing, \n\nThat hopeless, unresisting, dies. \n\nHe raised a hard hand as before, \nReached out the gold, and offered it \nWith hand that shook as ague-fit,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe while the youth but scorned the \nmore. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou will not touch it? In God\xe2\x80\x99s \nname, \n\nWho are you, and what are you, then? \nCome, take this gold, and be of men,\xe2\x80\x94 \nA human form with human aim. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea, take this gold,\xe2\x80\x94she must be \nmine! \n\nShe shall be mine! I do not fear \nYour scowl, your scorn, your soul \naustere, \n\nThe living, dead, or your dark sign. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I saw her as she entered there; \n\nI saw her, and uncovered stood; \n\n\n\n270 \n\n\n& g>ong of tfjc S>outf) \n\n\nThe perfume of her womanhood \nWas holy incense on the air. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShe left behind sweet sanctity, \nReligion went the way she went; \n\nI cried I would repent, repent! \n\nShe passed on, all unheeding me. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHer soul is young, her eyes are \nbright \n\nAnd gladsome, as mine own are dim; \n\nBut oh, I felt my senses swim \n\nThe time she passed me by tonight!\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe time she passed, nor raised \nher eyes \n\nTo hear me cry I would repent, \n\nNor turned her head to hear my cries, \nBut swifter went the way she we*nt,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWent swift as youth, for all these \nyears! \n\nAnd this the strangest thing appears, \nThat lady there seems just the \nsame,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSweet Gladys\xe2\x80\x94Ah! you know her \nname? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou hear her name and start that \n\nI \n\nShould name her dear name trembling \nso? \n\nWhy, boy, when I shall come to die \nThat name shall be the last I know. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c That name shall be the last sweet \nname \n\nMy lips shall utter in this life! \n\nThat name is brighter than bright \nflame,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat lady is mine own sweet wife! \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAh, start and catch your burning \nbreath! \n\nAh, start and clutch your deadly \nknife! \n\nIf this be death, then be it death,\xe2\x80\x94 \nBut that loved lady is my wife! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea, you are stunned! your face \nis white, \n\nThat I should come confronting you, \nAs comes a lorn ghost of the night \nFrom out the past, and to pursue. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou thought me dead? You \nshake your head, \n\nYou start back horrified to know \nThat she is loved, that she is wed, \nThat you have sinned in loving so. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYet what seems strange, that lady \nthere, \n\nHoused in the holy house of prayer, \nSeems just the same for all her \ntears,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor all my absent twenty years. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea, twenty years tonight, to\xc2\xac \nnight- \n\njust twenty years this day, this hour, \nSince first I plucked that perfect \nflower, \n\nAnd not one witness of the rite. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNay, do not doubt,\xe2\x80\x94 I tell you \ntrue! \n\nHer prayers, her tears, her constancy \nAre all for me, are all for me,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd not one single thought for you! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I knew, I knew she would be here \nThis night of nights to pray for me! \n\n\n\n\n\n\n^>ong of tfje ^outfj \n\n\n271 \n\n\nAnd how could I for twenty year \n\nKnow this same night so certainly? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAh me! some thoughts that we \nwould drown, \n\nStick closer than a brother to \n\nThe conscience, and pursue, pursue, \n\nLike baying hound, to hunt us down. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd, then, that date is history; \n\nFor on that night this shore was \nshelled, \n\nAnd many a noble mansion felled, \n\nWith many a noble family. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI wore the blue; I watched the \nflight \n\nOf shells, like stars tossed through the \nair \n\nTo blow your hearth-stones\xe2\x80\x94any\xc2\xac \nwhere, \n\nThat wild, illuminated night. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNay, rage befits you not so well; \n\nWhy, you were but a babe at best; \n\nYour cradle some sharp bursted shell \n\nThat tore, maybe, your mother\xe2\x80\x99s \nbreast! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHear me! We came in honored \nwar. \n\nThe risen world was on your track! \n\nThe whole North-land was at our \nback, \n\nFrom Hudson\xe2\x80\x99s bank to the North \nStar! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd from the North to palm-set \nsea \n\nThe splendid fiery cyclone swept. \n\nYour fathers fell, your mothers wept, \n\nTheir nude babes clinging to the knee. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cA wide and desolated track: \nBehind, a path of ruin lay; \n\nBefore, some women by the way \nStood mutely gazing, clad in black. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cFrom silent women waiting there \nWhite tears came down like still, \nsmall rain ; \n\nTheir own sons of the battle-plain \nWere now but viewless ghosts of air. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTheir own dear, daring boys in \ngray,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey should not see them any more; \nOur cruel drums kept telling o\xe2\x80\x99er \nThe time their own sons went away. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThrough burning town, by burst\xc2\xac \ning shell\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYea, I remember well that night; \n\nI led through orange-lanes of light, \n\nAs through some hot outpost of hell! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThat night of rainbow shot and \nshell \n\nSent from yon surging river\xe2\x80\x99s breast \nTo waken me, no more to rest,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat night I should remember well! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThat night, amid the maimed and \ndead\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA night in history set down \nBy light of many a burning town, \n\nAnd written all across in red,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHer father dead, her brothers \ndead, \n\nHer home in flames,\xe2\x80\x94what else could \nshe \n\nBut fly all helpless here to me, \n\nA fluttered dove, that night of dread ? \n\n\n\n272 $3 i\xc2\xa3>ong of \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShort time, hot time had I to \nwoo \n\nAmid the red shells battle-chime; \n\nBut women rarely reckon time, \n\nAnd perils waken love anew. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAye, then I wore a captain\xe2\x80\x99s \nsword; \n\nAnd, too, had oftentime before \nDoffed cap at her dead father\xe2\x80\x99s door, \nAnd passed a lover\xe2\x80\x99s pleasant word. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c And then\xe2\x80\x94ah, I was comely then! \n\nI bore no load upon my back, \n\nI heard no hounds upon my track, \n\nBut stood the tallest of tall men. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHer father\xe2\x80\x99s and her mother\xe2\x80\x99s \nshrine, \n\nThis church amid the orange-wood; \nSo near and so secure it stood, \n\nIt seemed to beckon as a sign. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIts white cross seemed to beckon \nme; \n\nMy heart was strong, and it was mine \nTo throw myself upon my knee, \n\nTo beg to lead her to this shrine. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShe did consent. Through lanes \nof light \n\nI led through this church-door that \nnight\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLet fall your hand! Take back your \nface \n\nAnd stand,\xe2\x80\x94stand patient in your \nplace! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShe loved me; and she loves me \nstill. \n\nYea, she clung close to me that hour \n\n\ntije \xc2\xa7\xc2\xa3>outf) \n\nAs honey-bee to honey-flower,\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd still is mine through good or ill. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c The priest stood there. He spake \nthe prayer; \n\nHe made the holy, mystic sign, \n\nAnd she was mine, was wholly \nmine,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIs mine this moment, I can swear! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThen days, then nights of vast \ndelight,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen came a doubtful later day; \n\nThe faithful priest, nor far away, \nWatched with the dying in the fight: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe priest amid the dying, dead, \nKept duty on the battle-field,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat midnight marriage unrevealed \nKept strange thoughts running thro\xe2\x80\x99 \nmy head. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAt last a stray ball struck the \npriest; \n\nThis vestibule his chancel was; \n\nAnd now none lived to speak her \ncause, \n\nRecord, or champion her the least. \n\nHear me! I had been bred to hate \nAll priests, their mummeries and all. \nAh, it was fate,\xe2\x80\x94ah, it was fate \nThat all things tempted to my fall! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd then the dashing songs we \n\nsang \n\nThose nights when rudely reveling,\xe2\x80\x94 \nSuch songs that only soldiers sing,\xe2\x80\x94 \nUntil the very tent-poles rang! \n\n\n\n273 \n\n\n8 H>ong of \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat is the rhyme that rhymers \nsay, \n\nOf maidens born to be betrayed \nBy epaulettes and shining blade, \nWhile soldiers love and ride away? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd then my comrades spake her \nname \n\nHalf taunting, with a touch of shame; \nTaught me to hold that lily-flower \nAs some light pastime of the hour. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd then the ruin in the land, \n\nThe death, dismay, the lawlessness! \nMen gathered gold on every hand,\xe2\x80\x94 \nHeaped gold: and why should I do \nless? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c The cry for gold was in the air,\xe2\x80\x94 \nFor Creole gold, for precious things; \nThe sword kept prodding here and \nthere, \n\nThrough bolts and sacred fastenings. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c\xe2\x80\x98Get gold! get gold!\xe2\x80\x99 This was \nthe cry. \n\nAnd I loved gold. What else could I \nOr you, or any earnest one, \n\nBorn in this getting age, have done? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWith this one lesson taught from \nyouth, \n\nAnd ever taught us, to get gold,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo get and hold, and ever hold,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat else could I have done, for\xc2\xac \nsooth? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShe, seeing how I crazed for gold, \nThis girl, my wife, one late night told \nOf treasures hidden close at hand, \n\nIn her dead father\xe2\x80\x99s mellow land; \n\n\ntfje feoutf) \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOf gold she helped her brothers \nhide \n\nBeneath a broad banana-tree \nThe day the two in battle died, \n\nThe night she, dying, fled to me. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIt seemed too good; I laughed to \nscorn \n\nHer trustful tale. She answered not; \nBut meekly on the morrow morn \nThese two great bags of bright gold \nbrought. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd when she brought this gold \nto me,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nRed Creole gold, rich, rare, and old,\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen I at last had gold, sweet gold, \n\nI cried in very ecstasy. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cRed gold! rich gold! two bags of \ngold! \n\nThe two stout bags of gold she \nbrought \n\nAnd gave, with scarce a second \nthought,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhy, her two hands could scarcely \nhold! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNow I had gold! two bags of \ngold! \n\nTwo wings of gold, to fly, and fly \nThe wide world\xe2\x80\x99s girth; red gold to \nhold \n\nAgainst my heart for aye and aye! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMy country\xe2\x80\x99s lesson: \xe2\x80\x98Gold! get \ngold!\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nI learned it well in land of snow; \n\nAnd what can glow, so brightly glow, \nLong winter nights of northern cold? \n\n\n\n274 \n\n\n8 S>ons of \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAye, now at last, at last I had \nThe one thing, all fair things above, \nMy land had taught me most to love! \n\nA miser now! and I grew mad. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWith these two bags of gold my \nown, \n\nI soon began to plan some night \nFor flight, for far and sudden flight,\xe2\x80\x94 \nFor flight; and, too, for flight alone. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI feared! I feared! My heart \ngrew cold,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSome one might claim this gold of \nme! \n\nI feared her,\xe2\x80\x94feared her purity\xe2\x80\x94 \nFeared all things but my bags of gold. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI grew to hate her face, her creed, \nThat face the fairest ever yet \nThat bowed o\xe2\x80\x99er holy cross or bead, \nOr yet was in God\xe2\x80\x99s image set. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I fled,\xe2\x80\x94nay, not so knavish low, \nAs you have fancied, did I fly: \n\nI sought her at this shrine, and I \nTold her full frankly I should go. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI stood a giant in my power,\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd did she question or dispute? \n\nI stood a savage, selfish brute,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nShe bowed her head, a lily-flower. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd when I sudden turned to go, \nAnd told her I should come no more, \nShe bowed her head so low, so low, \n\nHer vast black hair fell pouring o\xe2\x80\x99er. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd that was all; her splendid face \nWas mantled from me, and her night \nOf hair half hid her from my sight, \n\nAs she fell moaning in her place. \n\n\nt(jc feoutlj \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd there, through her dark night \nof hair, \n\nShe sobbed, low moaning in her tears, \nThat she would wait, wait all the \nyears,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWould wait and pray in her despair. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Nay, did not murmur,not deny,\xe2\x80\x94 \nShe did not cross me one sweet word! \nI tifrned and fled; I thought I heard \nA night-bird\xe2\x80\x99s piercing low death- \ncry!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nPART II \n\nHow soft the moonlight of my South I \nHow sweet the South in soft moonlightl \nI want to kiss her warm, sweet mouth \nAs she lies sleeping here tonight . \n\nHow stilll I do not hear a mouse. \nI see some bursting buds appear: \n\nI hear God in his garden,\xe2\x80\x94hear \nHim trim some flowers for His house. \n\nI hear some singing stars; the mouth \nOf my vast river sings and smgs, \n\nAnd pipes on reeds of pleasant \nthings ,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf splendid promise for my South: \n\nMy great South-woman, soon to rise \nAnd tiptoe up and loose her hair: \nTiptoe, and take from out the skies \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s stars and glorious moon to wearl \n\nI \n\nThe poet shall create or kill, \n\nBid heroes live, bid braggarts die. \n\nI look against a lurid sky,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMy silent South lies proudly still. \n\n/ \n\n\n\n\n& S>ons of tije g\'outfj \n\n\n275 \n\n\nThe fading light of burning lands \nStill climbs to God\xe2\x80\x99s house overhead; \nMute women wring white, withered \nhands; \n\nTheir eyes are red, their skies are red. \n\nAnd we still boast our bitter wars! \nStill burn and boast, and boast and lie \nBut God\xe2\x80\x99s white finger spins the stars \nIn calm dominion of the sky. \n\nAnd not one ray of light the less \nComes down to bid the grasses spring; \nNo drop of dew nor anything \nShall fail for all our bitterness. \n\nIf man grows large, is God the less? \nThe moon shall rise and set the same, \nThe great sun spill his splendid flame, \nAnd clothe the world in queenliness. \n\nYea, from that very blood-soaked \nsod \n\nSome large-souled, seeing youth shall \ncome \n\nSome day, and he shall not be dumb \nBefore the awful court of God. \n\nII \n\nThe weary moon had turned away, \nThe far North Star was turning pale \nTo hear the stranger\xe2\x80\x99s boastful tale \nOf blood and flame that battle-day. \n\nAnd yet again the two men glared, \nClose face to face above that tomb; \nEach seemed as jealous of the room \nThe other, eager waiting .shared. \n\n\nAgain the man began to say,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs taking up some broken thread, \n\nAs talking to the patient dead,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe Creole was as still as they: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThat night we burned yon grass- \ngrown town,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe grasses, vines are reaching up; \nThe ruins they are reaching down, \n\nAs sun-browned soldiers when they \nsup. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I knew her,\xe2\x80\x94knew her constancy. \nShe said this night of every year \nShe here would come, and kneeling \nhere, \n\nWould pray the livelong night for me. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThis praying seems a splendid \nthing! \n\nIt drives old Time the other way; \n\nIt makes him lose all reckoning \nOf years that I have had to pay. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThis praying seems a splendid \nthing! \n\nIt makes me stronger as she prays\xe2\x80\x94 \nBut oh, those bitter, bitter days, \nWhen I became a banished thing! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI fled, took ship,\xe2\x80\x94I fled as far \nAs far ships drive tow\xe2\x80\x99rd the North \nStar: \n\nFor I did hate the South, the sun \nThat made me think what I had done. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI could not see a fair palm-tree \nIn foreign land, in pleasant place, \nBut it would whisper of her face \nAnd shake its keen, sharp blades at \nme. \n\n\n\n276 3 g>ong of Ifje gboutf) \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cEach black-eyed woman would \nrecall \n\nA lone church-door, a face, a name, \n\nA coward\xe2\x80\x99s flight, a soldier\xe2\x80\x99s shame: \n\nI fled from woman\xe2\x80\x99s face, from all. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI hugged my gold, my precious \ngold, \n\nWithin my strong, stout buckskin \nvest. \n\nI wore my bags against my breast \nSo close I felt my heart grow cold. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI did not like to see it now; \n\nI did not spend one single piece; \n\nI traveled, traveled without cease \nAs far as Russian ship could plow. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd when my own scant hoard \nwas gone, \n\nAnd I had reached the far North-land, \nI took my two stout bags in hand \nAs one pursued, and journeyed on. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAh, I was weary! I grew gray; \n\nI felt the fast years slip and reel, \n\nAs slip bright beads when maidens \nkneel \n\nAt altars when outdoor is gay. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAt last I fell prone in the road,\xe2\x80\x94 \nFell fainting with my cursed load. \n\nA skin-clad Cossack helped me bear \nMy bags, nor would one shilling share. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHe looked at me with proud dis\xc2\xac \ndain,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe looked at me as if he knew; \n\nHis black eyes burned me thro\xe2\x80\x99 and \nthro\xe2\x80\x99; \n\nHis scorn pierced like a deadly pain. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHe frightened me with honesty; \nHe made me feel so small, so base, \n\nI fled, as if a fiend kept chase,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA fiend that claimed my company! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI bore my load alone; I crept \nFar up the steep and icy way; \n\nAnd there, before a cross there lay \nA barefoot priest, who bowed and \nwept. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI threw my gold right down and \n\nsped \n\nStraight on. And oh, my heart was \nlight! \n\nA springtime bird in springtime flight \nFlies scarce more happy than I fled. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI felt somehow this monk would \ntake \n\nMy gold, my load from off my back; \nWould turn the fiend from off my \ntrack, \n\nWould take my gold for sweet Christ\xe2\x80\x99s \nsake! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI fled; I did not look behind; \n\nI fled, fled with the mountain wind. \n\nAt last, far down the mountain\xe2\x80\x99s base \nI found a pleasant resting-place. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I rested there so long, so well, \nMore grateful than all tongues can \ntell. \n\nIt was such pleasant thing to hear \nThat valley\xe2\x80\x99s voices calm and clear: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThat valley veiled in mountain \nair, \n\nWith white goats on the hills at morn; \nThat valley green with seas of corn, \n\n\n\n\n21 ^>ong of tfje iboutfj \n\n\nWith cottage-islands here and there. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI watched the mountain girls. \nThe hay \n\nThey mowed was not more sweet than \nthey; \n\nThey laid brown hands in my white \nhair; \n\nThey marveled at my face of care. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I tried to laugh; I could but weep. \n\nI made these peasants one request,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat I with them might toil or rest, \n\nAnd with them sleep the long, last \nsleep, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI begged that I might battle \nthere, \n\nIn that fair valley-land, for those \n\nWho gave me cheer, when girt with \nfoes, \n\nAnd have a country loved as fair. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhere is that spot that poets \nname \n\nOur country? name the hallowed \nland? \n\nWhere is that spot where man must \nstand \n\nOr fall when girt with sword and \nflame? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhere is that one permitted spot? \n\nWhere is the one place man must \nfight? \n\nWhere rests the one God-given right \n\nTo fight, as ever patriots fought? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I say \xe2\x80\x99tis in that holy house \n\nWhere God first set us down on earth; \n\nWhere mother welcomed us at birth, \n\n\n277 \n\nAnd bared her breasts, a happy \nspouse. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe simple plowboy from his \nfield \n\nLooks forth. He sees God\xe2\x80\x99s purple \nwall \n\nEncircling him. High over all \n\nThe vast sun wheels his shining shield. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThis King, who makes earth \nwhat it is,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nKing David bending to his toil! \n\nO Lord and master of the soil, \n\nHow envied in thy loyal bliss! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLong live the land we loved in \nyouth, \n\nThat world with blue skies bent \nabout, \n\nWhere never entered ugly doubt! \n\nLong live the simple, homely truth! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cCan true hearts love some far \nsnow-land, \n\nSome bleak Alaska bought with gold? \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s laws are old as love is old; \n\nAnd Home is something near at hand. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea, change yon river\xe2\x80\x99s course; \nestrange \n\nThe seven sweet stars; make hate \ndivide \n\nThe full moon from the flowing tide,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut this old truth ye cannot change. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I begged a land as begging bread; \n\nI begged of these brave mountaineers \n\nTo share their sorrows, share their \ntears; \n\nTo weep as they wept with their dead. \n\n\n\n\n278 HI g>ona of \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThey did consent. The mountain \ntown \n\nWas mine to love, and valley lands. \n\nThat night the barefoot monk came \ndown \n\nAnd laid my two bags in my hands! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOnion! And oh, the load I bore! \n\nWhy, once I dreamed my soul was \nlead; \n\nDreamed once it was a body dead! \n\nIt made my cold, hard bosom sore. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI dragged that body forth and \nback\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nO conscience, what a baying hound! \n\nNor frozen seas nor frosted ground \n\nCan throw this bloodhound from his \ntrack. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIn farthest Russia I lay down, \n\nA dying man, at last to rest; \n\nI felt such load upon my breast \n\nAs seamen feel, who, sinking, drown. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThat night, all chill and desper\xc2\xac \nate, \n\nI sprang up, for I could not rest; \n\nI tore the two bags from my breast, \n\nAnd dashed them in theburninggrate. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI then crept back into my bed; \n\nI tried, I begged, I prayed to sleep; \n\nBut those red, restless coins would \nkeep \n\nSlow dropping, dropping, and blood- \nred. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I heard them clink, and clink, and \nclink,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\ntfje g>outfj \n\nThey turned, they talked within that \ngrate. \n\nThey talked of her; they made me \nthink \n\nOf one who still did pray and wait. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd when the bags burned crisp \nand black, \n\nTwo coins did start, roll to the floor,\xe2\x80\x94 \nRoll out, roll on, and then roll back, \nAs if they needs must journey more. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAh, then I knew nor change nor \n\nspace, \n\nNor all the drowning years that rolled \nCould hide from me her haunting \nface, \n\nNor still that red-tongued, talking \ngold! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAgain I sprang forth frommybed! \nI shook as in an ague fit; \n\nI clutched that red gold, burning red, \nI clutched as if to strangle it. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI clutched it up\xe2\x80\x94you hear me, \nboy?\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI clutched it up with joyful tears! \n\nI clutched it close with such wild joy \nI had not felt for years and years! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSuch joy! for I should now re\xc2\xac \ntrace \n\nMy steps, should see my land, her \nface; \n\nBring back her gold this battle-day, \nAnd see her, hear her, hear her pray! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI brought it back\xe2\x80\x94you hear me, \nboy? \n\nI clutch it, hold it, hold it now; \n\n\n\n\xc2\xa3s>ong of tfje H>outl) \n\n\n279 \n\n\nRed gold, bright gold that giveth joy \nTo all, and anywhere or how; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThat giveth joy to all but me,\xe2\x80\x94 \nTo all but me, yet soon to all. \n\nIt burns my hands, it burns! but she \nShall ope my hands and let it fall. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cFor oh, I have a willing hand \nTo give these bags of gold; to see \nHer smile as once she smiled on me \nHere in this pleasant warm palm- \nland \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHe ceased, he thrust each hard- \nclenched fist,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe threw his gold hard forth again, \n\nAs one impelled by some mad pain \nHe would not or could not resist. \n\nThe Creole, scorning, turned away, \nAs if he turned from that lost thief,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe one who died without belief \nThat dark, dread crucifixion day. \n\nIll \n\nBelieve in man nor turn away. \n\nLo! man advances year by year; \nTime bears him upward, and his \nsphere \n\nOf life must broaden day by day. \n\nBelieve in man with large belief; \nThe garnered grain each harvest\xc2\xac \ntime \n\nHath promise, roundness, and full \nprime \n\nFor all the empty chaff and sheaf. \n\n\nBelieve in man with brave belief; \nTruth keeps the bottom of her well; \nAnd when the thief peeps down, the \nthief \n\nPeeps back at him perpetual. \n\nFaint not that this or that man fell; \nFor one that falls a thousand rise \nTo lift white Progress to the skies: \nTruth keeps the bottom of her well. \n\nFear not for man, nor cease to delve \nFor cool, sweet truth, with large \nbelief. \n\nLo! Christ himself chose only twelve, \nYet one of these turned out a thief. \n\nIV \n\nDown through the dark magnolia \nleaves, \n\nWhere climbs the rose of Cherokee \nAgainst the orange-blossomed tree, \n\nA loom of mom-light weaves and \nweaves,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA loom of mom-light, weaving \nclothes \n\nFrom snow-white rose of Cherokee, \nAnd bridal blooms of orange-tree, \n\nFor fairy folk housed in red rose. \n\nDown through the mournful myrtle \ncrape, \n\nThro\xe2\x80\x99 moving moss, thro\xe2\x80\x99 ghostly \ngloom, \n\nA long, white morn-beam takes a \nshape \n\nAbove a nameless, lowly tomb; \n\n\n\n280 3 \xc2\xa3S>ons of \n\nA long white finger through the \ngloom \n\nOf grasses gathered round about,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs God\xe2\x80\x99s white finger pointing out \nA name upon that nameless tomb. \n\nV \n\nHer white face bowed in her black \nhair, \n\nThe maiden prays so still within \nThat you might hear a falling pin,\xe2\x80\x94 \nAye, hear her white, unuttered \nprayer. \n\nThe moon has grown disconsolate, \nHas turned her down her walk of \nstars: \n\nWhy, she is shuttling up her bars, \n\nAs maidens shut a lover\xe2\x80\x99s gate. \n\nThe moon has grown disconsolate; \nShe will no longer watch and wait. \n\nBut two men wait; and two men will \nWait on till full morn, mute and still. \n\nStill wait and walk among the trees \nQuite careless if the moon may keep \nHer walk along her starry steep \nOr drown her in the Southern seas. \n\nThey know no moon, or set or rise \nOf sun, or anything to light \nThe earth or skies, save her dark eyes, \nThis praying, waking, watching night. \n\nThey move among the tombs apart, \nTheir eyes turn ever to that door; \nThey know the worn walks there by \nheart\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey turn and walk them o\xe2\x80\x99er and \no\xe2\x80\x99er. \n\n\ntfje H>outfj \n\nThey are not wide, these little \nwalks \n\nFor dead folk by this crescent town: \nThey lie right close when they lie \ndown, \n\nAs if they kept up quiet talks. \n\nVI \n\nThe two men keep their paths \napart; \n\nBut more and more begins to stoop \nThe man with gold, as droop and \ndroop \n\nTall plants with something at their \nheart. \n\nNow once again, with eager zest, \nHe offers gold with silent speech; \n\nThe other will not walk in reach, \n\nBut walks around, as round a pest. \n\nHis dark eyes sweep the scene \naround, \n\nHis young face drinks the fragrant \nair, \n\nHis dark eyes journey everywhere,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe other\xe2\x80\x99s cleave unto the ground. \n\nIt is a weary walk for him, \n\nFor oh, he bears such weary load! \n\nHe does not like that narrow road \nBetween the dead\xe2\x80\x94it is so dim: \n\nIt is so dark, that narrow place, \nWhere graves lie thick, like yellow \nleaves: \n\nGive us the light of Christ and \ngrace; \n\nGive light to garner in the sheaves. \n\n\n\n9 ikmg of tfje H>outfj \n\n\n281 \n\n\nGive light of love; for goldiscold,\xe2\x80\x94 \nAye, gold is cruel as a crime; \n\nIt gives no light at such sad time \nAs when man\xe2\x80\x99s feet wax weak and old. \n\nAye, gold is heavy, hard, and cold! \nAnd have I said this thing before? \nWell, I will say it o\xe2\x80\x99er and o\xe2\x80\x99er, \n\n\xe2\x80\x99T were need be said ten thousand \nfold. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGive us this day our daily \nbread,\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGet this of God; then all the rest \nIs housed in thine own earnest breast, \nIf you but lift an honest head. \n\nVII \n\nOh, I have seen men tall and fair, \nStoop down their manhood with \ndisgust,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nStoop down God\xe2\x80\x99s image to the dust, \nTo get a load of gold to bear: \n\nHave seen men selling day by day \nThe glance of manhood that God \ngave: \n\nTo sell God\xe2\x80\x99s image, as a slave \nMight sell some little pot of clay! \n\nBehold! here in this green grave\xc2\xac \nyard \n\nA man with gold enough to fill \nA coffin, as a miller\xe2\x80\x99s till; \n\nAnd yet his path is hard, so hard! \n\nHis feet keep sinking in the sand, \nAnd now so near an opened grave! \nHe seems to hear the solemn wave \nOf dread oblivion at hand. \n\n\nThe sands, they grumble so, it \nseems \n\nAs if he walks some shelving brink; \n\nHe tries to stop, he tries to think, \n\nHe tries to make believe he dreams: \n\nWhy, he was free to leave the \nland,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe silver moon was white as dawn; \n\nWhy, he had gold in either hand, \n\nHad silver ways to walk upon. \n\nAnd who should chide, or bid him \nstay? \n\nOr taunt, or threat, or bid him fly? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe world\xe2\x80\x99s for sale,\xe2\x80\x9d I hear men \nsay, \n\nAnd yet this man had gold to buy. \n\nBuy what? Buy rest? He could \nnot rest! \n\nBuy gentle sleep? He could not \nsleep, \n\nThough all these graves were wide \nand deep \n\nAs their wide mouths with the \nrequest. \n\nBuy Love, buy faith, buy snow- \nwhite truth? \n\nBuy moonlight, sunlight, present, \npast? \n\nBuy but one brimful cup of youth \n\nThat true souls drink of to the last? \n\nO God! \xe2\x80\x99twas pitiful to see \n\nThis miser so forlorn and old! \n\nO God! how poor a man may be \n\nWith nothing in this world but \ngold! \n\n\n\n\n282 \n\n\n3 ^>ong of tfje g>outf) \n\n\nVIII \n\nThe broad magnolia\xe2\x80\x99s blooms were \nwhite; \n\nHer blooms were large, as if the moon \nQuite lost her way that dreamful \nnight, \n\nAnd lodged to wait the afternoon. \n\nOh, vast white blossoms, breathing \nlove! \n\nWhite bosom of my lady dead, \n\nIn your white heaven overhead \nI look, and learn to look above. \n\nIX \n\nThe dew-wet roses wept; their \neyes \n\nAll dew, their breath as sweet as \nprayer. \n\nAnd as they wept, the dead down \nthere \n\nDid feel their tears and hear their \nsighs. \n\nThe grass uprose, as if afraid \nSome stranger foot might press too \nnear; \n\nIts every blade was like a spear, \n\nIts every spear a living blade. \n\nThe grass above that nameless \ntomb \n\nStood all arrayed, as if afraid \nSome weary pilgrim, seeking room \nAnd rest, might lay where she was laid. \n\nX \n\n\xe2\x80\x99T was morn, and yet it was not \nmorn; \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x99T was morn in heaven, not on earth: \nA star was singing of a birth,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nJust saying that a day was born. \n\nThe marsh hard by that bound the \nlake,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe great stork sea-lake, Ponchar- \ntrain, \n\nShut off from sultry Cuban main,\xe2\x80\x94 \nDrew up its legs, as half awake: \n\nDrew long, thin legs, stork-legs \nthat steep \n\nIn slime where alligators creep,\xe2\x80\x94 \nDrew long, green legs that stir the \ngrass, \n\nAs when the lost, lorn night winds \n\npass. \n\nThen from the marsh came croak- \nings low, \n\nThen louder croaked some sea-marsh \nbeast; \n\nThen, far awa)\' against the east, \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s rose of morn began to grow. \n\nFrom out the marsh against that \n\neast, \n\nA ghostly moss-swept cypress stood; \nWith ragged arms, above the wood \nIt rose, a God-forsaken beast. \n\nIt seemed so frightened where it \nrose! \n\nThe moss-hung thing, it seemed to \nwave \n\nThe worn-out garments of a grave,\xe2\x80\x94 \nTo wave and wave its old grave- \nclothes. \n\n\n\n\n& gbong of \n\nClose by, a cow rose up and lowed \nFrom out a palm-thatched milking- \nshed; \n\nA black boy on the river road \nFled sudden, as the night had fled: \n\nA nude black boy,\xe2\x80\x94a bit of night \nThat had been broken off and lost \nFrom flying night, the time it crossed \nThe soundless river in its flight. \n\nA bit of darkness, following \nThe sable night on sable wing,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA bit of darkness, dumb with fear, \nBecause that nameless tomb was \nnear. \n\nThen holy bells came pealing out; \nThen steamboats blew, then horses \nneighed; \n\nThen smoke from hamlets round \nabout \n\nCrept out, as if no more afraid. \n\nThen shrill cocks here, and shrill \ncocks there, \n\nStretched glossy necks and filled the \nair;\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHow many cocks it takes to make \nA country morning well awake! \n\nThen many boughs, with many \nbirds,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYoung boughs in green, old boughs in \ngray; \n\nThese birds had very much to say, \n\nIn their soft, sweet, familiar words. \n\nAnd all seemed sudden glad; the \ngloom \n\nForgot the church, forgot the tomb; \n\n\ntfje ls\xc2\xbboutf) 283 \n\nAnd yet, like monks with cross and \nbead, \n\nThe myrtles leaned to read and read. \n\nAnd oh, the fragrance of the sod! \nAnd oh, the perfume of the air! \n\nThe sweetness, sweetness every\xc2\xac \nwhere, \n\nThat rose like incense up to God! \n\nI like a cow\xe2\x80\x99s breath in sweet \nspring; \n\nI like the breath of babes new-born; \nA maid\xe2\x80\x99s breath is a pleasant thing,\xe2\x80\x94 \nBut oh, the breath of sudden morn!\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf sudden mom, when every pore \nOf Mother Earth is pulsing fast \nWith life, and life seems spilling o\xe2\x80\x99er \nWith love, with love too sweet to last: \n\nOf sudden morn beneath the sun, \nBy God\xe2\x80\x99s great river wrapped in gray, \nThat for a space forgets to run, \n\nAnd hides his face, as if to pray. \n\nXI \n\nThe black-eyed Creole kept his \neyes \n\nTurned to the door, as eyes might \nturn \n\nTo see the holy embers bum \nSome sin away at sacrifice. \n\nFull dawn! but yet he knew no \ndawn, \n\nNor song of bird, nor bird on wing, \nNor breath of rose, nor anything \nHer fair face lifted not upon. \n\n\n\n284 \n\n\ngf #>ong of tfje g>outf) \n\n\nAnd yet he taller stood with morn; \nHis bright eyes, brighter than before, \nBurned fast against that favored \ndoor, \n\nHis proud lips lifting still with \nscorn,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWith lofty, silent scorn for one \nWho all night long had plead and \nplead, \n\nWith none to witness but the dead \nHow he for gold had been undone. \n\nO ye who feed a greed for gold \nAnd barter truth, and trade sweet \nyouth \n\nFor cold, hard gold, behold, behold! \nBehold this man! behold this truth! \n\nWhy what is there in all God\xe2\x80\x99s plan \nOf vast creation, high or low, \n\nBy sea or land, by sun or snow, \n\nSo mean, so miserly as man? \n\nLo, earth and heaven all let go \nTheir garnered riches, year by year! \nThe treasures of the trackless snow, \nAh, has thou seen how very dear? \n\nThe wide earth gives, gives golden \ngrain, \n\nGives fruits of gold, gives all, gives \nall! \n\nHold forth your hand, and these shall \nfall \n\nIn your full palm as free as rain. \n\nYea, earth is generous. The trees \nStrip nude as birth-time without fear; \nAnd their reward is year by year \nTo feel their fullness but increase. \n\n\nThe law of Nature is to give, \n\nTo give, to give! and to rejoice \nIn giving with a generous voice, \n\nAnd so trust God and truly live. \n\nBut see this miser at the last,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThis man who loved, who worshipped \ngold, \n\nWho grasped gold with such eager \nhold, \n\nHe fain must hold forever fast: \n\nAs if to hold what God lets go; \n\nAs if to hold, while all around \nLets go and drops upon the ground \nAll things as generous as snow. \n\nLet go your hold! let go or die! \n\nLet go poor soul! Do not refuse \nTill death comes by and shakes you \nloose, \n\nAnd sends you shamed to hell for aye! \n\nWhat if the sun should keep his \ngold? \n\nThe rich moon lock her silver up? \nWhat if the gold-clad buttercup \nBecame such miser, mean and old? \n\nAh, me! the coffins are so true \nIn all accounts, the shrouds so thin \nThat down there you might sew and \nsew, \n\nNor ever sew one pocket in. \n\nAnd all that you can hold of lands \nDown there, below the grass, down \nthere, \n\nWill only be that little share \n\nYou hold in your two dust-full hands. \n\n\n\n\nXII \n\n\n& H>ong of \n\n\nShe comes! she comes! The stony \nfloor \n\nSpeaks out! And now the rusty door \nAt last has just one word this day, \nWith mute, religious lips, to say. \n\nShe comes! she comes! And lo, \nher face \n\nIs upward, radiant, fair as prayer! \n\nSo pure here in this holy place, \nWhere holy peace is everywhere. \n\nHer upraised face, her face of light \nAnd loveliness, from duty done, \n\nIs like a rising orient sun \n\nThat pushes back the brow of night. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xc2\xab\xe2\x80\xa2\xc2\xab \n\nHow brave, how beautiful is truth! \nGood deeds untold are like to this. \nBut fairest of all fair things is \nA pious maiden in her youth: \n\nA pious maiden as she stands \nJust on the threshold of the years \nThat throb and pulse with hopes and \nfears, \n\nAnd reaches God her helpless hands. \n\nHow fair is she! How fond is she! \nHer foot upon the threshold there. \nHer breath is as a blossomed tree,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThis maiden mantled in her hair! \n\nHer hair, her black abundant hair, \nWhere night inhabited, all night \nAnd all this day, will not take flight, \nBut finds content and houses there. \n\n\ntlje i\xc2\xa7>outf) 285 \n\nHer hands are clasped, her two \nsmall hands: \n\nThey hold the holy book of prayer \nJust as she steps the threshold there, \nClasped downward where she silent \nstands. \n\nXIII \n\nOnce more she lifts her lowly face, \nAnd slowly lifts her large, dark eyes \nOf wonder, and in still surprise \nShe looks full forward in her place. \n\nShe looks full forward on the air \nAbove the tomb, and yet below \nThe fruits of gold, the blooms of snow, \nAs looking\xe2\x80\x94looking anywhere. \n\nShe feels\xe2\x80\x94she knows not what she \nfeels: \n\nIt is not terror, is not fear. \n\nBut there is something that reveals \nA presence that is near and dear. \n\nShe does not let her eyes fall down, \nThey lift against the far profound: \nAgainst the blue above the town \nTwo wide-winged vultures circle \nround. \n\nTwo brown birds swim above the \nsea,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHer large eyes swim as dreamily, \n\nAnd follow far, and follow high, \n\nTwo circling black specks in the sky. \n\nOne forward step\xe2\x80\x94the closing door \nCreaks out, as frightened or in pain; \nHer eyes are on the ground again\xe2\x80\x94 \nTwo men are standing close before. \n\n\n\n\n286 H gbong of \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c My love/\' sighs one, \xe2\x80\x9cmy life, my \nall!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHer lifted foot across the sill \nSinks down,\xe2\x80\x94and all things are so \nstill \n\nYou hear the orange-blossoms fall. \n\nBut fear comes not where duty is, \nAnd purity is peace and rest; \n\nHer cross is close upon her breast, \n\nHer two hands clasp hard hold of this. \n\nHer two hands clasp cross, book, \nand she \n\nIs strong in tranquil purity,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAye, strong as Samson when he laid \nHis two hands forth and bowed and \nprayed. \n\nOne at her left, one at her right, \nAnd she betweeen the steps upon,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI can but see that Syrian night, \n\nThe women there at early dawn. \n\nXIV \n\nThe sky is like an opal sea, \n\nThe air is like the breath of kine; \n\nBut oh, her face is white, and she \nLeans faint to see a lifted sign,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo see two hands lift up and \nwave,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo see a face so white with woe, \n\nSo ghastly, hollow, white as though \nIt had that moment left the grave. \n\nHer sweet face at that ghostly sign, \nHer fair face in her weight of hair, \n\nIs like a white dove drowning there,\xe2\x80\x94 \nA white dove drowned in Tuscan \nwine. \n\n\ntfje g>outf) \n\nHe tries to stand, to stand erect; \n\'T is gold, \'t is gold that holds him \ndown! \n\nAnd soul and body both must \ndrown,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTwo millstones tied about his neck. \n\nNow once again his piteous face \nIs raised to her face reaching there; \nHe prays such piteous silent prayer, \nAs prays a dying man for grace. \n\nIt is not good to see him strain \nTo lift his hands, to gasp, to try \nTo speak. His parched lips are so \ndry \n\nTheir sight is as a living pain, \n\nI think that rich man down in hell \nSome like this old man with his \ngold \n\nTo gasp and gasp perpetual, \n\nLike to this minute I have told. \n\n* \n\nXV \n\nAt last the miser cries his pain,\xe2\x80\x94 \nA shrill, wild cry, as if a grave \nJust op\xe2\x80\x99d its stony lips and gave \nOne sentence forth, then closed again. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x99T was twenty years last night, \nlast night! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHis lips still moved, but not to speak; \nHis outstretched hands, so trembling \n\nweak, \n\nWere beggar\xe2\x80\x99s hands in sorry plight. \n\nHis face upturned to hers; his lips \nKept talking on, but gave no sound; \nHis feet were cloven to the ground, \nLike iron hooks his finger tips. \n\n\n\n\nBaton at S>an Biego \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAye, twenty years,\xe2\x80\x9d she sadly \nsighed; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I promised mother every year, \n\nThat I would pray for father here, \nAs she still prayed the night she \ndied: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTo pray as she prayed, fervently, \nAs she had promised she would pray \nThe sad night that he turned away, \nFor him, wherever he might be.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThen she was still; then sudden she \nLet fall her eyes, and so outspake, \n\nAs if her very heart would break, \n\nHer proud lips trembling piteously: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd whether he comes soon or \nlate \n\nTo kneel beside this nameless grave, \nMay God forgive my father\xe2\x80\x99s hate \nAs I forgive, as she forgave! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHe saw the stone; he understood, \nWith that quick knowledge that will \ncome \n\nDAWN AT \n\nMy city sits amid her palms; \n\nThe perfume of her twilight breath \nIs something as the sacred balms \nThat bound Sweet Jesus after death, \nSuch soft, warm twilight sense as lies \nAgainst the gates of Paradise. \n\nSuch prayerful palms, wide palms \nupreached! \n\nThis sea mist is as incense smoke, \n\nYon mission walls a sermon preached \xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n287 \n\nMost quick when men are made most \ndumb \n\nWith terror that stops still the blood. \n\nAnd then a blindness slowly fell \nOn soul and body; but his hands \nHeld tight his bags, two iron bands, \nAs if to bear them into hell. \n\nHe sank upon the nameless stone \nWith oh! such sad, such piteous moan \nAs never man might seek to know \nFrom man\xe2\x80\x99s most unforgiving foe. \n\nHe sighed at last, so long, so deep, \nAs one heart breaking in one\xe2\x80\x99s \nsleep,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOne long, last, weary, willing sigh, \nAs if it were a grace to die. \n\nAnd then his hands, like loosened \nbands \n\nHung down, hung down, on either \nside; \n\nHis hands hung down, hung open \nwide: \n\nWide empty hung the dead man\xe2\x80\x99s \nhands. \n\nSAN DIEGO \n\nWhite lily with a heart of oak. \n\nAnd O, this twilight! 0 the grace \nOf twilight on yon lifted face! \n\nI love you, twilight,\xe2\x80\x94love with love \nSo loyal, loving fond that I \nWhen folding these worn hands to \ndie, \n\nShall pray God lead me not above, \n\nBut leave me, twilight, sad and true, \n\nTo walk this lonesome world with you. \n\n\n\n\n\n288 \n\n\n\xc2\xa9aton at i^an \xc2\xa9tego \n\n\nYea, God knows I have walked with \nnight; \n\nI have not seen, I have not known \nSuch light as beats upon His throne. \n\nI know I could not bear such light; \nTherefore, I beg, sad sister true, \n\nTo share your shadow-world with you. \n\n1 love you, love you, maid of night, \nYour perfumed breath, your dreamful \neyes, \n\nYour holy silences, your sighs \nOf mateless longing; your delight \nWhen night says, Hang on yon moon\'s \nhorn \n\nYour russet gown, and rest till morn. \n\nThe sun is dying; space and room, \nSerenity, vast sense of rest, \n\nLie bosomed in the orange west \nOf orient waters. Hear the boom \nOf long, strong billows; wave on \nwave, \n\nLike funeral guns above a grave. \n\nNow night folds all; no sign or \nword; \n\nBut still that rocking of the deep\xe2\x80\x94 \nSweet mother, rock the world to sleep: \nStill rock and rock; as I have heard \nSweet mother gently rock and rock \nThe while she folds the little frock. \n\n\nBroad mesa, brown, bare moun\xc2\xac \ntains, brown, \n\nBowed sky of brown, that erst was \nblue; \n\nDark, earth-brown curtains coming \ndown\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nEarth-brown, that all hues melt into; \n\n\nBrown twilight, born of light and \n\nshade; \n\nOf night that came, of light that \npassed. . . . \n\nHow like some lorn, majestic maid \nThat wares not whither way at last ! \n\nNow perfumed Night, sad-faced \nand far, \n\nWalks up the world in somber brown. \nNow suddenly a loosened star \nLets all her golden hair fall down\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd Night is dead Day\xe2\x80\x99s coffin-lid, \nWith stars of gold shot through his \npall. . . . \n\nI hear the chorus, katydid; \n\nA katydid, and that is all. \n\nSome star-tipt candles foot and \nhead; \n\nSome perfumes of the perfumed sea; \nAnd now above the coffined dead \nDusk draws great curtains lovingly; \nWhile far o\xe2\x80\x99er all, so dreamful far, \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s Southern Cross by faith is seen \nTipt by one single blazing star, \n\nWith spaces infinite between. \n\n\nCome, love His twilight, the per\xc2\xac \nfume \n\nOf God\xe2\x80\x99s great trailing garment\xe2\x80\x99s \nhem; \n\nThe sense of rest, the sense of room, \nThe garnered goodness of the day, \nThe twelve plucked hours of His tree, \nWhen all the world has gone its way \nAnd left perfection quite to me \nAnd Him who, loving, fashioned \nthem. \n\n\n\nBaton at \n\nI know not why that wealth and \npride \n\nWin not my heart or w r oo my tale. \n\nI only know I know them not; \n\nI only know to cast my lot \nWhere love walks noiselessly with \nnight \n\nAnd patient nature; my delight \nThe wild rose of the mountain side, \nThe lowly lily of the vale; \n\nTo live not asking, just to live; \n\nTo live not begging, just to be; \n\nTo breathe God\xe2\x80\x99s presence in the \ndusk \n\nThat drives out loud, assertive light\xe2\x80\x94 \nTo never ask, but ever give; \n\nTo love my noiseless mother, Night; \nHer vast hair moist with smell of \nmusk, \n\nHer breath sweet with eternity. \n\n\nI \n\nA hermit\xe2\x80\x99s path, a mountain\'s \nperch, \n\nA sandaled monk, a dying man\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA far-off, low, adobe church, \n\nBelow the hermit\xe2\x80\x99s orange-trees \nThat cap the clouds above the seas, \nSo far, its spire seems but a span. \n\n\nA low-voiced dove! The dying \nDon \n\nPut back the cross and sat dark- \nbrowed \n\nAnd sullen, as a dove flew out \nThe bough, and circling round about, \n\n\nH>an Btego 289 \n\nWas bathed and gathered in a cloud, \nThat, like some ship, sailed on and on. \n\nBut let the gray monk tell the tale; \nAnd tell it just as told to me. \n\nThis Don was chiefest of the vale \nThat banks by San Diego\xe2\x80\x99s sea, \n\nAnd who so just, so generous, \n\nAs he who now lay dying thus? \n\nBut wrong, such shameless Saxon \nwrong, \n\nHad crushed his heart, had made him \nhate \n\nThe sight, the very sound of man. \n\nHe loved thelonely wood-dove\xe2\x80\x99s song; \nHe loved it as his living mate. \n\nAnd lo! the good monk laid a ban \nAnd penance of continual prayer\xe2\x80\x94 \nBut list, the living, dying there! \n\nFor now the end was, and he lay \nAs day lies banked against the \nnight\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs lies some bark at close of day \nTo wait the dew-bom breath of night; \nTo wait the ebb of tide, to wait \nThe swift plunge through the Golden \nGate: \n\nThe plunge from bay to boundless \nsea\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFrom life through narrow straits of \nnight, \n\nFrom time to bright eternity\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo everlasting walks of light. \n\nSome like as when you sudden blow \nYour candle out and turn you so \nTo sleep unto the open day: \n\nAnd thus the priest did pleading say: \n\n\n19 \n\n\n\n\n290 \n\n\nBaton at S>an Biego \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou fled my flock, and sought this \nsteep \n\nAnd stony, star-lit, lonely height, \nWhere weird and unnamed creatures \nkeep \n\nTo hold strange thought with things \nof night \n\nLong, long ago. But now at last \nYour life sinks surely to the past. \nLay hold, lay hold, the cross I bring, \nWhere all God\xe2\x80\x99s goodly creatures \ncling. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea! You are good. Dark- \nbrowed and low \n\nBeneath your shaggy brows you look \nOn me, as you would read a book: \nAnd darker still your dark brows grow \nAs I lift up the cross to pray, \n\nAnd plead with you to walk its way. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea, you are good! There is not \none, \n\nFrom Tia Juana to the reach \nAnd bound of gray Pacific Beach, \nFrom Coronado\xe2\x80\x99s palm-set isle \nAnd palm-hung pathways, mile on \nmile, \n\nBut speaks you, Senor, good and true. \nBut oh, my silent, dying son! \n\nThe cross alone can speak for you \nWhen all is said and all is done. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cCome! Turn your dim, dark \neyes to me, \n\nHave faith and help me plant this \ncross \n\nBeyond where blackest billows toss, \nAs you would plant some pleasant \ntree: \n\nSome fruitful orange-tree, and know \n\n\nThat it shall surely grow and grow, \nAs your own orange-trees have grown, \nAnd be, as they, your very own. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou smile at last, and pleasantly: \nYou love your laden orange-trees \nSet high above your silver seas \nWith your own honest hand; each \ntree \n\nA date, a day, a part, indeed, \n\nOf your own life, and walk, and \ncreed. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou love your steeps, your star- \nset blue: \n\nYou watch yon billows flash, and \n\ntoss, \n\nAnd leap, and curve, in merry rout, \nYou love to hear them laugh and \nshout\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMen say you hear them talk to you; \nMen say you sit and look and look, \nAs one who reads some holy book\xe2\x80\x94 \nMy son, come, look upon the cross? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cCome, see me plant amid your \n\ntrees \n\nMy cross, that you may see and know \n\xe2\x80\x99T will surely grow, and grow, and \ngrow, \n\nAs grows some trusted little seed; \n\nAs grows some secret, small good \ndeed; \n\nThe while you gaze upon your \nseas. . . . \n\nSweet Christ, now let it grow, and \nbear \n\nFair fruit, as your own fruit is fair. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAye! ever from the first I knew, \nAnd marked its flavor, freshness, hue \n\n\n\nBaton at H>an Biego \n\n\n291 \n\n\nThe gold of sunset and the gold \nOf morn, in each rich orange rolled. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I mind me now, \xe2\x80\x99t was long since, \nfriend, \n\nWhen first I climbed your path alone, \nA savage path of brush and stone, \nAnd rattling serpents without end. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea, years ago, when blood and \nlife \n\nRan swift, and your sweet, faithful \nwife\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat! tears at last; hot, piteous tears \nThat through your bony fingers creep \nThe while you bend your face, and \nweep \n\nAs if your heart of hearts would \nbreak\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs if these tears were your heart\xe2\x80\x99s \nblood, \n\nA pent-up, sudden, bursting flood\xe2\x80\x94 \nLook on the cross, for Jesus\xe2\x80\x99 sake.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nII \n\n\'T was night, and still it seemed not \nnight. \n\nYet, far down in the canon deep, \nWhere night had housed all day, to \nkeep \n\nCompanion with the wolf, you \nmight \n\nHave hewn a statue out of night. \n\nThe shrill coyote loosed his tongue \nDeep in the dark arroyo\xe2\x80\x99s bed; \n\nAnd bat and owl above his head \nFrom out their gloomy caverns \nswung: \n\n\nA swoop of wings, a cat-like call, \n\nA crackle sharp of chaparral! \n\nThen sudden, fitful winds sprang \nout, \n\nAnd swept the mesa like a broom; \nWild, saucy winds that sang of room! \nThat leapt the canon with a shout \nFrom dusty throats, audaciously \nAnd headlong tore into the sea, \n\nAs tore the swine with lifted snout. \n\nSome birds came, went, then came \nagain \n\nFrom out the hermit\xe2\x80\x99s wood-hung \nhill; \n\nCame swift, and arrow-like, and still, \nAs you have seen birds, when the \nrain\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe great, big, high-born rain, leapt \nwhite \n\nAnd sudden from a cloud like night. \n\nAnd then a dove, dear, nun-like \ndove, \n\nWith eyes all tenderness, with eyes \nSo loving, longing, full of love, \n\nThat when she reached her slender \nthroat \n\nAnd sang one low, soft, sweetest note, \nJust one, so faint, so far, so near, \n\nYou could have wept with joy to hear. \n\nThe old man, as if he had slept, \nRaised quick his head, then bowed \nand wept \n\nFor joy, to hear once more her voice. \nWith childish joy he did rejoice; \n\nAs one will joy to surely learn \nHis dear, dead love is living still; \n\n\n\n292 \n\n\nBaton at \xc2\xa3?an Bicgo \n\n\nAs one will joy to know, in turn, \n\nHe, too, is loved with love to kill. \n\nHe put a hand forth, let it fall \n\nAnd feebly close; and that was all. \n\nAnd then he turned his tearful eyes \n\nTo meet the priest\xe2\x80\x99s, and spake this \nwise:\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNow mind, I say, not one more \nword \n\nThat livelong night of nights was \nheard \n\nBy monk or man, from dusk till dawn; \n\nAnd yet that man spake on and on. \n\nWhy, know you not, soul speaks to \nsoul? \n\nI say the use of words shall pass. \n\nWords are but fragments of the glass; \n\nBut silence is the perfect whole. \n\nAnd thus the old man, bowed and \nwan, \n\nAnd broken in his body, spake\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSpake youthful, ardent, on and on, \n\nAs dear love speaks for dear love\xe2\x80\x99s \nsake. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou spake of her, my wife; be\xc2\xac \nhold! \n\nBehold my faithful, constant love! \n\nNay, nay, you shall not doubt my \ndove, \n\nPerched there above your cross of \ngold! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea, you have books, I know, to \ntell \n\nOf far, fair heaven; but no hell \n\n\nTo her had been so terrible \nAs all sweet heaven, with its gold \nAnd jasper gates, and great white \nthrone, \n\nHad she been banished hence alone. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I say, not God himself could keep, \nBeyond the stars, beneath the deep, \nOr \xe2\x80\x99mid the stars, or \xe2\x80\x99mid the sea, \nHer soul from my soul one brief day, \nBut she would find some pretty way \nTo come and still companion me. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd say, where bide your souls, \ngood priest? \n\nLies heaven west, lies heaven east? \nLet us be frank, let us be fair; \n\nWhere is your heaven, good priest, \nwhere? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIs there not room, is there not \nplace \n\nIn all those boundless realms of space? \nIs there not room in this sweet air, \nRoom \xe2\x80\x99mid my trees, room anywhere, \nFor souls that love us thus so well, \nAnd love so well this beauteous world, \nBut that they must be headlong \nhurled \n\nDown, down, to undiscovered hell? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGood priest, we questioned not \none word \n\nOf all the holy things we heard \nDown in your pleasant town of palms \nLong, long ago\xe2\x80\x94sweet chants, sweet \npsalms, \n\nSweet incense, and the solemn rite \nAbove the dear, believing dead. \n\nNor do I question here tonight \nOne gentle word you may have said. \n\n\n\n\nBaton at \xc2\xa3&an Bit\'go \n\n\n293 \n\n\nI would not doubt, for one brief hour, \nYour word, your creed, your priestly \npower, \n\nYour purity, unselfish zeal, \n\nBut there be fears I scorn to feel! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLet those who will, seek realms \nabove, \n\nRemote from all that heart can love, \nIn their ignoble dread of hell. \n\nGive all, good priest, in charity; \n\nGive heaven to all, if this may be, \nAnd count it well, and very well. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c But I\xe2\x80\x94I could not leave this spot \nWhere she is waiting by my side. \nForgive me, priest; it is not pride; \nThere is no God where she is not! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c You did not know her well. Her \ncreed \n\nWas yours; my faith it was the same, \nMy faith was fair, my lands were \nbroad. \n\nFar down where yonder palm-trees \nrise \n\nWe two together worshiped God \nFrom childhood. And we grew in \ndeed, \n\nDevout in heart as well as name, \nAnd loved our palm-set paradise. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWe loved, we loved all things on \nearth, \n\nHowever mean or miserable. \n\nWe knew no thing that had not worth, \nAnd learned to know no need of hell. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIndeed, good priest, so much, \nindeed, \n\nWe found to do, we saw to love, \n\n\nWe did not always look above \nAs is commanded in your creed, \n\nBut kept in heart one chiefest care, \nTo make this fair world still more fair. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x99T was then that meek, pale \nSaxon came; \n\nWith soulless gray and greedy eyes, \nA snake\xe2\x80\x99s eyes, cunning, cold and wise, \nAnd I\xe2\x80\x94I could not fight, or fly \nHis crafty wiles at all; and I\xe2\x80\x94 \nEnough, enough! I signed my name. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIt was not loss of pleasure, place, \nBroad lands, or the serene delight \nOf doing good, that made long night \nO\xe2\x80\x99er all the sunlight of her face. \n\nBut there be little things that feed \nA woman\xe2\x80\x99s sweetness, day by day, \nThat strong men miss not, do not \nneed, \n\nBut, shorn of all can go their way \nTo battle, and but stronger grow, \n\nAs grow great waves that gather so. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShe missed the music, missed the \nsong, \n\nThe pleasant speech of courteous \nmen, \n\nWho came and went, a comely \nthrong, \n\nBefore her open window, when \nThe sea sang with us, and we two \nHad heartfelt homage, warm and \ntrue. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShe missed the restfulness, the \nrest \n\nOf dulcet silence, the delight \nOf singing silence, when the town \nPut on its twilight robes of brown; \n\n\n\n294 \n\n\nBaton at H>an Biego \n\n\nWhen twilight wrapped herself in \nnight \n\nAnd couched against the curtained \nwest. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBut not one murmur, not one \nword \n\nFrom her sweet baby lips was heard. \nShe only knew I could not bear \nTo see sweet San Diego town, \n\nHer palm set lanes, her pleasant \nsquare, \n\nHer people passing up and down, \nWithout black hate, and deadly hate \nFor him who housed within our gate, \nAnd so, she gently led my feet \nAside to this high, wild retreat. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHow pale she grew, how piteous \npale \n\nThe while I wrought, and ceaseless \nwrought \n\nTo keep my soul from bitter thought, \nAnd build me here above the vale. \nAh me! my selfish, Spanish pride! \nEnough of pride, enough of hate, \nEnough of her sad, piteous fate: \n\nShe died: right here she sank and \ndied. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShe died, and with her latest \nbreath \n\nDid promise to return to me, \n\nAs turns a dove unto her tree \nTo find her mate at night and rest; \nDied, clinging close against my \nbreast; \n\nDied, saying she would surely rise \nSo soon as God had loosed her eyes \nFrom the strange wonderment of \ndeath. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9c How beautiful is death! and how \nSurpassing good, and true, and fair! \nHow just is death, how gently just, \nTo lay his sword against the thread \nOf life when life is surely dead \nAnd loose the sweet soul from the \ndust! \n\nI laid her in my lorn despair \nBeneath that dove, that orange- \nbough\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHow strange your cross should stand \njust there! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd then I waited hours, days: \nThose bitter days, they were as years. \nMy soul groped through the darkest \nways; \n\nI scarce could see God\xe2\x80\x99s face for tears. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI clutched my knife, and I crept \ndown, \n\nA wolf, to San Diego town. \n\nOn, on, amid my palms once more, \n\nKeen knife in hand, I crept that night. \n\nI passed the gate, then fled in fright; \n\nBlack crape hung fluttered from the \ndoor! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI climbed back here, with heart \nof stone: \n\nI heard next morn one sweetest tone; \n\nLooked up, and lo! there on that \nbough \n\nShe perched, as she sits perching now. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI heard the bells peal from my \nheight, \n\nPeal pompously, peal piously; \n\n\n\nBaton at \n\nSaw sable hearse, in plumes of night \nWith not one thought of hate in me. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI watched the long train winding \nby, \n\nA mournful, melancholy lie\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA sable, solemn, mourning mile\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd only pitied him the while. \n\nFor she, she sang that whole day- \nthrough : \n\nSad-voiced, as if she pitied, too. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThey said, \xe2\x80\x98 His work is done, and \nwell.\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nThey laid his body in a tomb \nOf massive splendor. It lies there \nIn all its stolen pomp and gloom\xe2\x80\x94 \nBut list! his soul\xe2\x80\x94his soul is where? \nIn hell! In hell! But where is hell? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHear me but this. Year after \nyear \n\nShe trained my eye, she trained my \near; \n\nNo book to blind my eyes, or ought \nTo prate of hell, when hell is not. \n\nI came to know at last, and well, \nSuch things as never book can tell. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd where was that poor, dismal \nsoul \n\nYe priests had sent to paradise? \n\nI heard the long years roll and roll, \nAs rolls the sea. My once dimmed \neyes \n\nGrew keen as long, sharp shafts of \nlight. \n\nWith eager eyes and reaching face \n1 searched the stars night after night; \nThat dismal soul was not in space! \n\n\nH>an Btego 295 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMeanwhile my green trees grew \nand grew; \n\nAnd sad or glad, this much I knew, \n\nIt were no sin to make more fair \nOne spot on earth, to toil and share \nWith man, or beast, or bird; while \nshe \n\nStill sang her soft, sweet melody. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOne day, a perfumed day in \nwhite\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSuch restful, fresh, and friendlike \nday,\xe2\x80\x94- \n\nFair Mexico a mirage lay \nFar-lifted in a sea of light\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSoft, purple light, so far away. \n\nI turned yon pleasant pathway down, \nAnd sauntered leisurely tow\xe2\x80\x99rd town. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI heard my dear love call and coo, \nAnd knew that she was happy, too, \nIn her sad, sweet, and patient pain \nOf waiting till I came again. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAye, I was glad, quite glad at last; \nNot glad as I had been when she \nWalked with me by yon palm-set sea, \nBut sadly and serenely glad: \n\nAs though \xe2\x80\x99t were twilight like, as \nthough \n\nYou knew, and yet you did not know \nThat sadness, most supremely sad \nShould lay upon you like a pall, \n\nAnd would not, could not pass away \nTill you should pass; till perfect day \nDawns sudden on you, and the call \nOf birds awakens you to morn\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA babe new-born; a soul new-born. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGood priest, what are the birds \nfor? Priest, \n\n\n\n\n\n296 \n\n\nBaton at \n\nBuild ye your heaven west or east? \nAbove, below, or anywhere? \n\nI only ask, I only say \n\nShe sits there, waiting for the day, \n\nThe fair, full day to guide me there. \n\n"What, he? That creature? Ah, \nquite true! \n\nI wander much, I weary you: \n\nI beg your pardon, gentle priest. \nReturning up the stone-strewn steep, \nDown in yon jungle, dank and deep, \nWhere toads and venomed reptiles \n, creep, \n\nThere, there, I saw that hideous \nbeast! \n\n"Aye, there! coiled there beside my \nroad, \n\nClose coiled behind a monstrous toad, \nA huge flat-bellied reptile hid! \n\nHis tongue leapt red as flame; his \neyes, \n\nHis eyes were burning hells of lies\xe2\x80\x94 \nHis head was like a coffin\'s lid: \n\n"Saint George! Saint George! I \ngasped for breath. \n\nThe beast, tight coiled, swift, sud\xc2\xac \nden sprang \n\nHigh in the air, and, rattling, sang \nHis hateful, hissing song of death! \n\n"My eyes met his. He shrank, he \nfell, \n\nFell sullenly and slow. The swell \nOf braided, brassy neck forgot \nIts poise, and every venomed spot \nLost luster, and the coffin head \nCowed level with the toad, and lay \n\n\ni?an Btego \n\nLow, quivering with hate and dread: \nThe while I kept my upward way. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat! Should have killed him? \nNay, good priest. \n\nI know not what or where\xe2\x80\x99s your hell. \nBut be it west or be it east, \n\nHis hell is there! and that is well! \n\n"Nay, do not, do not question me; \nI could not tell you why I know; \n\nI only know that this is so, \n\nAs sure as God is equity. \n\n"Good priest, forgive me, and \ngood-by, \n\nThe stars slow gather to their fold; \n\nI see God\xe2\x80\x99s garment hem of gold \nAgainst the far, faint morning sky. \n\n"Good, holy priest, your God is \nwhere? \n\nYou come to me with book and creed; \nI cannot read your book; I read \nYon boundless, open book of air. \nWhat time, or way, or place I look, \n\nI see God in His garden walk; \n\nI hear Him through the thunders talk, \nAs once He talked, with burning \ntongue, \n\nTo Moses, when the world was young; \nAnd, priest, what more is in your \nbook? \n\n"Behold! the Holy Grail is found, \nFound in each poppy\xe2\x80\x99s cup of gold; \nAnd God walks with us as of old. \nBehold! the burning bush still burns \nFor man, whichever way he turns; \nAnd all God\xe2\x80\x99s earth is holy ground. \n\n\n\n\nBaton at g?an Biego \n\n\n297 \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd\xe2\x80\x94and\xe2\x80\x94good priest, bend low \nyour head, \n\nThe sands are crumbling where I \ntread, \n\nBeside the shoreless, soundless sea. \n\nGood priest, you came to pray, you \nsaid; \n\nAnd now, what would you have of \nme?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nThe good priest gently raised his \nhead, \n\nThen bowed it low and softly said: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYour blessing, son, despite the ban.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHe fell before the dying man; \n\nAnd when he raised his face from \nprayer, \n\nSweet Dawn, and two sweet doves \nwere there. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSONGS OF THE HEBREW CHILDREN \n\n\n(Olive Leaves) \n\n\n299 \n\n\n\\ \n\n\n\nO BOY AT PEACE \n\n\nO boy at peace upon tne Dela\xc2\xac \nware! \n\nO brother mine, that fell in battle \nfront \n\nOf life, so braver, nobler far than \n\nI, \n\nThe wanderer who vexed all gentle\xc2\xac \nness, \n\nReceive this song; 1 have but this to \ngive. \n\nI may not rear the rich man\xe2\x80\x99s ghostly \nstone; \n\nBut you, through all my follies loving \nstill \n\nAnd trusting me . . . nay, I shall \nnot forget. \n\nA failing hand in mine, and fading eyes \n\nThat look\xe2\x80\x99d in mine as from another \nland, \n\n\nYou said: \xe2\x80\x9cSome gentler things; a \nsong for Peace. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Mid all your songs for men one song \nfor God.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAnd then the dark-brow\xe2\x80\x99d mother \nDeath, bent down \n\nHer face to yours, and you were born \nto Him. \n\n\n11 In the desert a fountain is springing , \nIn the wild waste there still is a \ntree." \n\nThough the many lights dwindle to one \nlight , \n\nThere is help if the heavens have one." \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Change lays not her handupontruth." \n\n\n301 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\\ \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nAT BETHLEHEM \n\n\nWith incense and myrrh and sweet \nspices, \n\nFrankincense and sacredest oil \n\nIn ivory, chased with devices \n\nCut quaint and in serpentine coil; \n\nHeads bared, and held down to the \nbosom; \n\nBrows massive with wisdom and \nbronzed; \n\nBeards white as the white May in \nblossom; \n\nAnd borne to the breast and \nbeyond,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nCame the Wise of the East, bending \nlowly \n\nOn staffs, with their garments girt \nround \n\nWith girdles of hair, to the Holy \n\nChild Christ, in their sandals. The \nsound \n\nOf song and thanksgiving ascended\xe2\x80\x94 \nDeep night! Yet some shepherds afar \nHeard a wail with the worshipping \nblended \n\nAnd they then knew the sign of the \nstar. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLA NOTTE\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nIs it night? And sits night at your \npillow? \n\nSits darkness about you like \nDeath? \n\nRolls darkness above like a billow, \n\nAs drowning men catch in their \nbreath? \n\nIs it night, and deep night of dark \nerrors, \n\nOf crosses, of pitfalls and bars? \n\nThen lift up your face from your \nterrors, \n\nFor heaven alone holds the stars! \n\n\nLo! shaggy-beard shepherds, the \nfastness\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\nLorn, desolate Syrian sod; \n\nThe darkness, the midnight, the vast\xc2\xac \nness\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat vast, solemn night bore a \nGod! \n\nThe night brought us God; and the \nSavior \n\nLay down in a cradle to rest; \n\nA sweet cherub Babe in behavior, \n\nSo that all baby-world might be \nblest. \n\n\n3\xc2\xb03 \n\n\n\n\n304 \n\n\n31 n Palestine \n\nIN PALESTINE \n\n\n0 Jebus! thou mother of prophets, \n\nOf soldiers and heroes of song; \n\nLet the crescent oppress thee and \nscoff its \n\nBlind will, let the days do thee \nwrong; \n\nBut to me thou art sacred and \nsplendid, \n\nAnd to me thou art matchless and \nfair, \n\nAs the tawny sweet twilight, with \nblended \n\nSunlight and red stars in her hair. \n\nThy fair ships once came from sweet \nCyprus, \n\nAnd fair ships drew in from Cyrene \n\nWith fruits and rich robes and sweet \nspices \n\nFor thee and thine, eminent queen; \n\nAnd camels came in with the traces \n\nOf white desert dust in their hair \n\nAs they kneel\xe2\x80\x99d in the loud market \nplaces, \n\nAnd Arabs with lances were there. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis past, and the Bedouin pillows \n\nHis head where thy battlements fall, \n\nAnd thy temples flash gold to the \nbillows, \n\nNever more over turreted wall. \n\nBEYOND \n\nAnd they came to Him, mothers of \nJudah, \n\nDark eyed and in splendor of hair, \n\n\n\'Tis past, and the green velvet \n\nmosses \n\nHave grown by the sea, and now \n\nsore \n\nDoes the far billow mourn for his \n\nlosses \n\nOf lifted white ships to the shore. \n\nLet the crescent uprise, let it flash \non \n\nThy dust in the garden of death, \nThy chastened and passionless \npassion \n\nSunk down to the sound of a \nbreath; \n\nYet you lived like a king on a throne \nand \n\nYou died like a queen of the south; \nFor you lifted the cup with your own \nhand \n\nTo your proud and your passionate \nmouth; \n\nLike a splendid swift serpent sur\xc2\xac \nrounded \n\nWith fire and sword, in your side \nYou struck your hot fangs and \nconfounded \n\nYour foes; you struck deep, and so \n\xe2\x80\x94died. \n\nJORDAN \n\nBearing down over shoulders of \nbeauty, \n\nAnd bosoms half hidden, half bare; \n\n\ni \n\n\n\n\nJfattfj \n\n\n305 \n\n\nAnd they brought Him their babes \nand besought Him \n\nHalf kneeling, with suppliant air, \nTo bless the brown cherubs they \nbrought Him, \n\nWith holy hands laid in their hair. \n\nThen reaching His hands He said, \nlowly, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOf such is My Kingdom\xe2\x80\x9d; and \nthen \n\n\nTook the brown little babes in the \nholy \n\nWhite hands of the Savior of men; \n\nHeld them close to His heart and \ncaress\xe2\x80\x99d them, \n\nPut His face down to theirs as in \nprayer, \n\nPut their hands to His neck, and so \nbless\xe2\x80\x99d them \n\nWith baby hands hid in His hair. \n\n\nFAITH \n\n\nThere were whimsical turns of the \nwaters, \n\nThere were rhythmical talks of the \nsea,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThere were gather\xe2\x80\x99d the darkest eyed \ndaughters \n\nOf men, by the deep Galilee. \n\nA blowing full sail, and a parting \nFrom multitudes, living in Him, \n\nA trembling of lips, and tears starting \nFrom eyes that look\xe2\x80\x99d downward \nand dim. \n\n\nA mantle of night and a marching \nOf storms, and a sounding of seas, \n\nOf furrows of foam and of arching \nBlack billows; a bending of knees; \n\nThe rising of Christ\xe2\x80\x94an entreat\xc2\xac \ning\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHands reach\xe2\x80\x99d to the seas as He \nsaith, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHave Faith!\xe2\x80\x9d And all seas are \nrepeating, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHave Faith! Have Faith! \nHave Faith!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nHOPE \n\n\nWhat song is well sung not of \nsorrow? \n\nWhat triumph well won without \npain? \n\nWhat virtue shall be, and not borrow \n\nBright luster from many a stain? \n\nWhat birth has there been without \ntravail? \n\nWhat battle well won without \nblood? \n\n\nWhat good shall earth see without \nevil \n\nIngarner\xe2\x80\x99d as chaff with the good? \n\nLo! the cross set in rocks by the \nRoman, \n\nAnd nourish\xe2\x80\x99d by blood of the \nLamb, \n\nAnd water\xe2\x80\x99d by tears of the woman, \n\nHas flourish\xe2\x80\x99d, has spread like a \npalm; \n\n\n20 \n\n\n\n\n\nCfjaritp \n\n\n306 \n\nHas spread in the frosts, and far \nregions \n\nOf snows in the North, and South \nsands, \n\nWhere never the tramp of his legions \n\nWas heard, or reach\xe2\x80\x99d forth his red \nhands. \n\nBe thankful; the price and the pay\xc2\xac \nment, \n\nThe birth, the privations and scorn, \n\n\nThe cross, and the parting of raiment, \n\nAre finish\xe2\x80\x99d. The star brought us \nmom. \n\nLook starward; stand far and tin- \nearthy, \n\nFree soul\xe2\x80\x99d as a banner unfurl\xe2\x80\x99d. \n\nBe worthy, O brother, be worthy! \n\nFor a God was the price of the \nworld. \n\n\nCHARITY \n\n\nHer hands were clasped downward \nand doubled, \n\nHer head was held down and \ndepress\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nHer bosom, like white billows \ntroubled, \n\nFell fitful and rose in unrest; \n\nHer robes were all dust and dis\xc2\xac \norder\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nHer glory of hair, and her brow, \n\nHer face, that had lifted and lorded, \n\nFell pallid and passionless now. \n\nShe heard not accusers that brought \nher \n\nIn mockery hurried to Him, \n\nNor heeded, nor said, nor besought \nher \n\nWith eyes lifted doubtful and dim. \n\nAll crush\'d and stone-cast in be\xc2\xac \nhavior, \n\nShe stood as a marble would \nstand, \n\n\nThen the Savior bent down, and the \nSavior \n\nIn silence wrote on in the sand. \n\nWhat wrote He? How fondly one \nlingers \n\nAnd questions, what holy command \n\nFell down from the beautiful fingers \n\nOf Jesus, like gems in the sand. \n\nO better the Scian uncherish\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nHad died ere a note or device \n\nOf battle was fashion\xe2\x80\x99d, than perish\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nThis only line written by Christ. \n\nHe arose and look\xe2\x80\x99d on the daugh\xc2\xac \nter \n\nOf Eve, like a delicate flower, \n\nAnd he heard the revilers that \nbrought her; \n\nMen stormy, and strong as a \ntower; \n\nAnd He said, \xe2\x80\x9cShe has sinn\xe2\x80\x99d; let the \nblameless \n\n\n\n\n307 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje iLaist Puppet \n\n\nCome forward and cast the first \nstone!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nBut they, they fled shamed and yet \nshameless; \n\nAnd she, she stood white and \nalone. \n\nWho now shall accuse and arraign us? \n\nWhat man shall condemn and \ndisown? \n\nSince Christ has said only the stain\xc2\xac \nless \n\nShall cast at his fellows a stone. \n\nFor what man can bare us his \nbosom, \n\nAnd touch with his forefinger there, \n\n\nAnd say, Tis as snow, as a \nblossom? \n\nBeware of the stainless, beware! \n\nO woman, bom first to believe us; \n\nYea, also bom first to forget; \n\nBom first to betray and deceive us; \nYet first to repent and regret! \n\nO first then in all that is human, \nYea! first where the Nazarene \ntrod, \n\nO woman! O beautiful woman! \n\nBe then first in the kingdom of \nGod! \n\n\nTHE LAST SUPPER \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd when they had sung an hymn they went out unto the Mount of ^Olives.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94Bible. \n\n\nWhat song sang the twelve with the \nSaviour \n\nWhen finish\xe2\x80\x99d the sacrament wine? \n\nWere they bow\xe2\x80\x99d and subdued in \nbehavior, \n\nOr bold as made bold with a sign? \n\nWhat sang they? What sweet song \nof Zion \n\nWith Christ in their midst like a \ncrown? \n\nWhile here sat Saint Peter, the lion; \n\nAnd there like a lamb, with head \ndown, \n\nSat Saint John, with his silken and \nraven \n\nRich hair on his shoulders, and \neyes \n\nLifting up to the faces unshaven \n\nLike a sensitive child\xe2\x80\x99s in surprise. \n\n\nWas the song as strong fishermen \nswinging \n\nTheir nets full of hope to the sea? \n\nOr low, like the ripple-wave, singing \n\nSea-songs on their loved Galilee? \n\nWere they sad with foreshadow of \nsorrows, \n\nLike the birds that sing low when \nthe breeze \n\nIs tip-toe with a tale of tomorrows,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf earthquakes and sinking of \nseas? \n\nAh! soft was their song as the waves \nare \n\nThat fall in low musical moans; \n\nAnd sad I should say as the winds \nare \n\nThat blow by the white grave\xc2\xac \nstones. \n\n\n\n\n\n3\xc2\xb08 \n\n\ni \n\n\na g>ong for peace \n\nA SONG FOR PEACE \n\n\nV \n\n\nAs a tale that is told, as a vision, \n\nForgive and forget; for I say \n\nThat the true shall endure the \nderision \n\nOf the false till the full of the day; \n\nII \n\nAy, forgive as you would be for\xc2\xac \ngiven ; \n\nAy, forget, lest the ill you have \ndone \n\nBe remember\xe2\x80\x99d against you in heaven \n\nAnd all the days under the sun. \n\nIII \n\nFor who shall have bread without \nlabor? \n\nAnd who shall have rest without \nprice? \n\nAnd who shall hold war with his \nneighbor \n\nWith promise of peace with the \nChrist? \n\nIV \n\nThe years may lay hand on fair \nheaven; \n\nMay place and displace the red \nstars; \n\nMay stain them, as blood stains are \ndriven \n\nAt sunset in beautiful bars; \n\n\nMay shroud them in black till they \nfret us \n\nAs clouds with their showers of \ntears; \n\nMay grind us to dust and forget us, \n\nMay the years, O, the pitiless \nyears! \n\nVI \n\nBut the precepts of Christ are be\xc2\xac \nyond them; \n\nThe truths by the Nazarene \ntaught, \n\nWith the tramp of the ages upon \nthem, \n\nThey endure as though ages were \nnaught; \n\nVII \n\nThe deserts may drink up the \nfountains, \n\nThe forests give place to the plain, \n\nThe main may give place to the \nmountains, \n\nThe mountains return to the main; \n\nVIII \n\nMutations of worlds and mutations \n\nOf suns may take place, but the \nreign \n\nOf Time, and the toils and vexations \n\nBequeath them, no, never a stain. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaeo &us#ia \n\n\n309 \n\n\nIX \n\nGo forth to the fields as one sow\xc2\xac \ning, \n\nSing songs and be glad as you \n\ngo, \n\nThere are seeds that take root with\xc2\xac \nout showing, \n\nAnd bear some fruit whether or \nno. \n\n\nX \n\nAnd the sun shall shine sooner or \nlater, \n\nThough the midnight breaks \nground on the morn, \n\nThen appeal you to Christ, the \nCreator, \n\nAnd to gray bearded Time, His \nfirst born. \n\n\nTO RUSSIA \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth?\xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x94 Bible. \n\n\nWho tamed your lawless Tartar \nblood? \n\nWhat David bearded in her den \n\nThe Russian bear in ages when \n\nYou strode your black, unbridled \nstud, \n\nA skin-clad savage of your steppes? \n\nWhy, one who now sits low and \nweeps, \n\nWhy, one who now wails out to \nyou\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe Jew, the Jew, the homeless Jew. \n\nWho girt the thews of your young \nprime \n\nAnd bound your fierce divided \nforce? \n\n\nWhy, who but Moses shaped your \ncourse \n\nUnited down the grooves of time? \nYour mightly millions all today \nThe hated, homeless Jew obey. \n\nWho taught all poetry to you? \n\nThe Jew, the Jew, the hated Jew. \n\nWho taught you tender Bible tales \nOf honey-lands, of milk and wine? \n\nOf happy, peaceful Palestine? \n\nOf Jordan\xe2\x80\x99s holy harvest vales? \n\nWho gave the patient Christ? I say \nWho gave your Christian creed? \nYea, yea, \n\nWho gave your very God to you? \nYour Jew! Your Jew! Your hated \nJew! \n\n\nTO RACHEL IN RUSSIA \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9c To bring them unto a good land and a large; unto a land flowing with milk and honey.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nO thou, whose patient, peaceful \nblood \n\nPaints Sharon\xe2\x80\x99s roses on thy cheek, \nAnd down thy breasts played hide \nand seek, \n\n\nSix thousand years a stainless flood, \nRise up and set thy sad face hence. \nRise up and come where Freedom \nwaits \n\nWithin these white, wide ocean gates \n\n\n\n\n\n3io \n\n\n\xc2\xaeo &acf)el in Russia \n\n\nTo give thee God\xe2\x80\x99s inheritance; \n\nTo bind thy wounds in this despair; \n\nTo braid thy long, strong, loosened \nhair. \n\nO Rachel, weeping where the \nflood \n\nOf icy Volga grinds and flows \n\nAgainst his banks of blood-red \nsnows\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhite banks made red with children\xe2\x80\x99s \nblood\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLift up thy head, be comforted; \n\nFor, as thou didst on manna feed, \n\nWhen Russia roamed a bear in deed, \n\nAnd on her own foul essence fed, \n\n\nSo shalt thou flourish as a tree \nWhen Russ and Cossack shall not \nbe. \n\nThen come where yellow harvests \nswell; \n\nForsake that savage land of snows; \nForget the brutal Russian\xe2\x80\x99s blows; \nAnd come where Kings of Conscience \ndwell. \n\nOh come, Rebecca to the well! \n\nThe voice of Rachel shall be sweet! \nThe Gleaner rest safe at the feet \nOf one who loves her; and the spell \nOf Peace that blesses Paradise \nShall kiss thy large and lonely eyes. \n\n\n\nSONGS OF ITALY \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n/ \n\n\nTHE IDEAL AND THE REAL \n\n\nA nd full these truths eternal \nO\'er the yearning spirit steal , \n\nThat the real is the ideal , \n\nAnd the ideal is the real. \n\nShe was damn\xe2\x80\x99d with the dower of \nbeauty, she \n\nHad gold in shower by shoulder and \nbrow. \n\nHer feet!\xe2\x80\x94why, her two blessed feet, \nwere so small, \n\nThey could nest in this hand. How \nqueenly, how tall, \n\nHow gracious, how grand! She was \nall to me,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMy present, my past, my eternity! \n\nShe but lives in my dreams. I be\xc2\xac \nhold her now \n\nBy shoreless white waters that flow\xe2\x80\x99d \nlike a sea \n\nAt her feet where I sat; her lips \npushed out \n\nIn brave, warm welcome of dimple \nand pout! \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas aeons agone. By that river \nthat ran \n\nAll fathomless, echoless, limitless, \non, \n\nAnd shoreless, and peopled with \nnever a man, \n\nWe met, soul to soul. . . . Noland; \nyet I think \n\n\nThere were willows and lilies that \nlean\xe2\x80\x99d to drink. \n\nThe stars they were seal\xe2\x80\x99d and the \nmoons were gone. \n\nThe wide shining circles that girdled \nthat world, \n\nThey were distant and dim. And an \nincense curl\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nIn vapory folds from that river that \nran \n\nAll shoreless, with never the presence \nof man. \n\nHow sensuous the night; how soft \nwas the sound \n\nOf her voice on the night! How \nwarm was her breath \n\nIn that world that had never yet \ntasted of death \n\nOr forbidden sweet fruit! ... In \nthat far profound. \n\nWe were camped on the edges of god- \nland. We \n\nWere the people of Saturn. The \nwatery fields, \n\nThe wide-wing\xe2\x80\x99d, dolorous birds of \nthe sea, \n\nThey acknowledged but us. Our \nbrave battle shields \n\nWere my naked white palms; our food \nit was love. \n\nOur roof was the fresco of gold belts \nabove. \n\n\n3i3 \n\n\n\n\n\n3H \n\n\n\xc2\xaefie Sbcal anb tfje 3&eal \n\n\nHow turn\xe2\x80\x99d she to me where that \nwide river ran, \n\nWith its lilies and willows and watery \nweeds, \n\nAnd heeded as only a true love \nheeds! . . . \n\nHow tender she was, and how timid \nshe was! \n\nBut a black, hoofed beast, with the \nhead of a man, \n\nStole down where she sat at my side, \nand began \n\nTo puff his tan cheeks, then to play, \nthen to pause, \n\nWith his double-reed pipe; then to \nplay and to play \n\nAs never played man since the world \nbegan, \n\nAnd never shall play till the judgment \nday. \n\nHow he puff\xe2\x80\x99d! how he play\xe2\x80\x99d! \nThen down the dim shore, \n\nThis half-devil man, all hairy and \nblack, \n\nDid dance with his hoofs in the sand, \nlaughing back \n\nAs his song died away. . . . She \nturned never more \n\nUnto me after that. She arose and \nshe pass\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nRight on from my sight. Then I \nfollowed as fast \n\nAs true love can follow. But ever \nbefore \n\nLike a spirit she fled. How vain and \nhow far \n\nDid I follow my beauty, red belt or \nwhite star! \n\nThrough foamy white sea, unto fruit\xc2\xac \nladen shore. \n\n\nHow long did I follow! My pent \nsoul of fire \n\nIt did feed on itself. I fasted, I \ncried; \n\nWas tempted by many. Yet still I \ndenied \n\nThe touch of all things, and kept my \ndesire . . . \n\nI stood by the lion of St. Mark in that \nhour \n\nOf Venice when gold of the sunset is \nroll\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nFrom cloud to cathedral, from turret \nto tower, \n\nIn matchless, magnificent garments \nof gold; \n\nThen I knew she was near; yet I had \nnot known \n\nHer form or her face since the stars \nwere sown. \n\nWe two had been parted\xe2\x80\x94God \npity us!\xe2\x80\x94when \n\nThis world was unnamed and all \nheaven was dim; \n\nWe two had been parted far back on \nthe rim \n\nAnd the outermost border of heaven\xe2\x80\x99s \nred bars; \n\nWe two had been parted ere the \nmeeting of men, \n\nOr God had set compass on spaces as \nyet; \n\nWe two had been parted ere God had \nonce set \n\nHis finger to spinning the purple with \nstars,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd now at the last in the sea and \nfret \n\nOf the sun of Venice, we two had \nmet. \n\n\n/ \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje Sbeal anti tjje Jteal \n\n\n315 \n\n\nWhere the lion of Venice, with \nbrows a-frown, \n\nWith tossed mane tumbled, and teeth \nin air, \n\nLooks out in his watch o\xe2\x80\x99er the watery \ntown, \n\nWith paw half lifted, with claw half \nbare, \n\nBy the blue Adriatic, at her bath in \nthe sea,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI saw her. I knew her, but she knew \nnot me. \n\nI had found her at last! Why I, 1 \nhad sail\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nThe antipodes through, had sought, \nand had hail\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nAll flags; I had climbed where the \nstorm clouds curl\xe2\x80\x99d \n\nAnd call\xe2\x80\x99d o\'er the awful arch\xe2\x80\x99d dome \nof the world. \n\nI saw her one moment, then fell \nback abash\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\nAnd fill\xe2\x80\x99d to the throat. . . . Then \nI turn\xe2\x80\x99d me once more, \n\nThanking God in my soul, while the \nlevel sun flashed \n\nHappy halos about her. . . . Her \nbreast!\xe2\x80\x94 why, her breast \n\nWas white as twin pillows that lure \nyou to rest. \n\nHer sloping limbs moved like to \nmelodies told, \n\nAs she rose from the sea, and threw \nback the gold \n\nOf her glorious hair, and set face to \nthe shore. . . . \n\nI knew her! I knew her, though we \nhad not met \n\nSince the red stars sang to the sun\xe2\x80\x99s \nfirst set! \n\n\nHow long I had sought her! I had \nhunger\xe2\x80\x99d, nor ate \n\nOf any sweet fruits. 1 had followed \nnot one \n\nOf all the fair glories grown under the \nsun. \n\nI had sought only her, believing that \nshe \n\nHad come upon earth, and stood \nwaiting for me \n\nSomewhere by my way. But the \npathways of Fate \n\nThey had led otherwhere; the round \nworld round, \n\nThe far North seas and the near \nprofound \n\nHad fail\xe2\x80\x99d me for aye. Now I stood \nby that sea \n\nWhere she bathed in her beauty, . . . \nGod, I and she! \n\nI spake not, but caught in my \nbreath; I did raise \n\nMy face to fair heaven to give God \npraise \n\nThat at last ere the ending of Time, \nwe had met, \n\nHad touched upon earth at the same \nsweet place. . . . \n\nYea, we never had met since creation \nat all; \n\nNever, since ages ere Adam\xe2\x80\x99s fall, \n\nHad we two met in that hunger and \nfret \n\nWhere two should be one; but had \nwander\'d through space; \n\nThrough space and through spheres, \nas some bird that hard fate \n\nGives a thousand glad Springs but \nnever one mate. \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefjc 3beal anii tfjc Beal \n\n\n316 \n\nWas it well with my love? Was \nshe true? Was she brave \n\nWith virtue\xe2\x80\x99s own valor? Was she \nwaiting for me? \n\nOh, how fared my love? Had she \nhome? Had she bread? \n\nHad she known but the touch of the \nwarm-temper\xe2\x80\x99d wave? \n\nWas she born to this W\'orld with a \ncrown on her head, \n\nOr born, like myself, but a dreamer \ninstead? . . . \n\nSo long it had been! So long! Why, \nthe sea\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat wrinkled and surly, old, time- \ntemper\xe2\x80\x99d slave\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHad been born, had his revels, grow T n \nwrinkled and hoar \n\nSince I last saw my love on that \nuttermost shore. \n\nOh, how fared my love? Once I \nlifted my face, \n\nAnd I shook back my hair and look\'d \nout on the sea; \n\nI press\xe2\x80\x99d my hot palms as I stood in \nmy place, \n\nAnd I cried, \xe2\x80\x9cOh, I come like a king \nto your side \n\nThough all hell intervene!\xe2\x80\x9d . . . \n\xe2\x80\x9cHist! she may be a bride, \n\nA mother at peace, with sweet babes \nat her knee! \n\nA babe at her breast and a spouse at \nher side!\xe2\x80\x94- \n\nHad 1 wander\xe2\x80\x99d too long, and had \nDestiny \n\nSat mortal between us?\xe2\x80\x9d I buried \nmy face \n\nIn my hands, and I moan\xe2\x80\x99d as I stood \nin my place. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas her year to be young. She \nwas tall, she was fair\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWas she pure as the snow on the Alps \nover there? \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas her year to be young. She \nwas queenly and tall; \n\nAnd I felt she was true, as I lifted my \nface \n\nAnd saw her press down her rich robe \nto its place, \n\nWith a hand white and small as a \nbabe\xe2\x80\x99s with a doll. \n\nAnd her feet!\xe2\x80\x94why, her feet in the \nwhite shining sand \n\nWere so small, \xe2\x80\x99tw r as a wonder the \nmaiden could stand. \n\nThen she push\xe2\x80\x99d back her hair with a \nround hand that shone \n\nAnd flash\xe2\x80\x99d in the light with a white \nstarry stone. \n\nThen my love she is rich! My love \nshe is fair! \n\nIs she pure as the snow on the Alps \nover there? \n\nShe is gorgeous with wealth! \n\xe2\x80\x9cThank God, she has bread,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nI said to myself. Then I humbled \nmy head \n\nIn gratitude deep. Then I ques\xc2\xac \ntion\xe2\x80\x99d me where \n\nWas her palace, her parents? What \nname did she bear? \n\nWhat mortal on earth came nearest \nher heart? \n\nWho touch\xe2\x80\x99d the small hand till it \nthrilled to a smart? \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas her year to be young. She \nwas rich, she was fair\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWas she pure as the snow on the Alps \nover there? \n\n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e ilbeal anb tfje &cal \n\n\n3 i 7 \n\n\nThen she loosed her rich robe that \nwas blue like the sea, \n\nAnd silken and soft as a baby\'s new \nborn. \n\nAnd my heart it leap\xe2\x80\x99d light as the \nsunlight at morn \n\nAt the sight of my love in her proud \npurity, \n\nAs she rose like a Naiad half-robed \nfrom the sea. \n\nThen careless and calm as an empress \ncan be \n\nShe loosed and let fall all the rai\xc2\xac \nment of blue, \n\nAs she drew a white robe in a melody \n\nOf moving white limbs, while between \nthe two, \n\nLike a rift in a cloud, shone her fair \npresence through. \n\nSoon she turn\xe2\x80\x99d, reach\xe2\x80\x99d a hand; \nthen a tall gondolier \n\nWho had lean\xe2\x80\x99d on his oar, like a long \nlifted spear \n\nShot sudden and swift and all silently, \n\nAnd drew to her side as she turn\xe2\x80\x99d \nfrom the tide. \n\nIt was odd, such a thing, and I \ncounted it queer \n\nThat a princess like this, whether vir\xc2\xac \ngin or bride, \n\nShould abide thus apart as she bathed \nin the sea; \n\nAnd I chafed and I chafed, and so \nunsatisfied, \n\nThat I flutter\xe2\x80\x99d the doves that were \nperch\xe2\x80\x99d close about, \n\nAs I strode up and down in dismay \nand in doubt. \n\nSwift she stept in the boat on the \nborders of night \n\n\nAs an angel might step on that far \nwonder land \n\nOf eternal sweet life, which men mis\xc2\xac \nname Death. \n\nQuick I called me a craft, and I \ncaught at my breath \n\nAs she sat in the boat, and her white \nbaby hand \n\nHeld vestments of gold to her throat, \nsnowy white. \n\nThen her gondola shot,\xe2\x80\x94shot sharp \nfor the shore: \n\nThere was never the sound of a song \nor of oar, \n\nBut the doves hurried home in white \nclouds to Saint Mark, \n\nWhere the brass horses plunge their \nhigh manes in the dark. \n\nThen I cried: \xe2\x80\x9cFollow fast! \nFollow fast! Follow fast! \n\nAye! thrice double fare, if you follow \nher true \n\nTo her own palace door!\xe2\x80\x9d There \nwas plashing of oar \n\nAnd rattle of rowlock. ... I sat \npeering through, \n\nLooking far in the dark, peering out \nas we passed \n\nWith my soul all alert, bending down, \nleaning low. \n\nBut only the oaths of the fisherman\xe2\x80\x99s \ncrew \n\nWhen we jostled them sharp as we \nsudden shot through \n\nThe watery town. Then a deep, dis\xc2\xac \ntant roar\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe rattle of rowlock; the rush of the \noar. \n\nThe rattle of rowlock, the rush of \nthe sea . . . \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje Sbeal anti tfjc Heal \n\n\n318 \n\nSwift wind like a sword at the throat \nof us all! \n\nI lifted my face, and far, fitfully \n\nThe heavens breathed lightning; did \nlift and let fall \n\nAs if angels were parting God\xe2\x80\x99s cur\xc2\xac \ntains. Then deep \n\nAnd indolent-like, and as if half \nasleep, \n\nAs if half made angry to move at \nall, \n\nThe thunder moved. It confronted \nme. \n\nIt stood like an avalanche poised on a \nhill, \n\nI saw its black brows. I heard it \nstand still. \n\nThe troubled sea throbb\xe2\x80\x99d as if \nrack\xe2\x80\x99d with pain. \n\nThen the black clouds arose and \nsuddenly rode, \n\nAs a fiery, fierce stallion that knows \nno rein \n\nRight into the town. Then the \nthunder strode \n\nAs a giant striding from star to red \nstar, \n\nThen turn\xe2\x80\x99d upon earth and franti\xc2\xac \ncally came, \n\nShaking the hollow heaven. And \nfar \n\nAnd near red lightning in ribbon and \nskein \n\nDid seam and furrow the cloud with \nflame, \n\nAnd write on black heaven Jehovah\xe2\x80\x99s \nname. \n\nThen lightnings came weaving like \nshuttlecocks, \n\n\nWeaving red robes of black clouds for \ndeath. \n\nAnd frightened doves fluttered them \nhome in flocks, \n\nAnd mantled men hied them with \ngather\xe2\x80\x99d breath. \n\nBlack gondolas scattered as never \nbefore, \n\nAnd drew like crocodiles up on the \nshore; \n\nAnd vessels at sea stood further at \n\nsea, \n\nAnd seamen haul\xe2\x80\x99d with a bended \nknee, \n\nAnd canvas came down to left and to \nright, \n\nTill ships stood stripp\xe2\x80\x99d as if stripp\xe2\x80\x99d \nfor fight! \n\nThen an oath. Then a prayer. \nThen a gust, with rents \n\nThrough the yellow-sail\xe2\x80\x99d fishers. \nThen suddenly \n\nCame sharp fork\xe2\x80\x99d fire! Then again \nthunder fell \n\nLike the great first gun. Ah, then \nthere was rout \n\nOf ships like the breaking of regi\xc2\xac \nments, \n\nAnd shouts as if hurled from an upper \nhell. \n\nThen tempest! It lifted, it spun us \nabout, \n\nThen shot us ahead through the hills \nof the sea \n\nAs a great steel arrow shot shoreward \nin wars\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen the storm split open till I saw \nthe blown stars. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xaeije 3beal anb tfje 3&eal \n\n\n319 \n\n\nOn! on! through the foam! through \nthe storm! through the town! \n\nShe was gone! She was lost in that \nwilderness \n\nOf leprous white palaces. . . . \nBlack distress! \n\nI stood in my gondola. All up and all \ndown \n\nWe pushed through the surge of the \nsalt-flood street \n\nAbove and below. . . . \xe2\x80\x99Twas only \nthe beat \n\nOf the sea\xe2\x80\x99s sad heart. ... I \nleaned, listened; I sat . . . \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas only the water-rat; nothing but \nthat; \n\nNot even the sea-bird screaming \ndistress, \n\nAs she lost her way in that wilder\xc2\xac \nness. \n\nI listen\xe2\x80\x99d all night. I caught at \neach sound; \n\nI clutch\xe2\x80\x99d and I caught as a man that \ndrown\xe2\x80\x99d\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOnly the sullen, low growl of the \nsea \n\nFar out the flood-street at the edge of \nthe ships; \n\nOnly the billow slow licking his \nlips, \n\nA dog that lay crouching there watch\xc2\xac \ning for me,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGrowling and showing white teeth all \nthe night; \n\nOnly a dog, and as ready to bite; \n\nOnly the waves with their salt-flood \ntears \n\nFretting white stones of a thousand \nyears. \n\n\nAnd then a white dome in the lofti\xc2\xac \nness \n\nOf cornice and cross and of glittering \nspire \n\nThat thrust to heaven and held the \nfire \n\nOf the thunder still; the bird\xe2\x80\x99s \ndistress \n\nAs he struck his wings in that wilder\xc2\xac \nness, \n\nOn marbles that speak, and thrill, \nand inspire,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe night below and the night \nabove; \n\nThe water-rat building, the sea-lost \ndove; \n\nThat one lost, dolorous, lone bird\xe2\x80\x99s \ncall, \n\nThe water-rat building,\xe2\x80\x94but that \nwas all. \n\nSilently, slowly, still up and still \ndown, \n\nWe row\xe2\x80\x99d and we row\xe2\x80\x99d for many an \nhour, \n\nBy beetling palace and toppling \ntower, \n\nIn the darks and the deeps of the \nwatery town. \n\nOnly the water-rat building by \nstealth, \n\nOnly the lone bird astray in his \nflight \n\nThat struck white wings in the clouds \nof night, \n\nOn spires that sprang from Queen \nAdria\xe2\x80\x99s wealth; \n\nOnly one sea dove, one lost white \ndove: \n\nThe blackness below, the blackness \nabove! \n\n\n\n320 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje 3fbeal anti tfje Beal \n\n\nThen, pushing the darkness from \npillar to post, \n\nThe morning came sullen and gray \nlike a ghost \n\nSlow up the canal. I lean\xe2\x80\x99d from the \nprow, \n\nAnd listen\xe2\x80\x99d. Not even that dove in \ndistress \n\nCrying its way through the wilder\xc2\xac \nness; \n\nNot even the stealthy old water-rat \nnow, \n\nOnly the bell in the fisherman\xe2\x80\x99s \ntower, \n\nSlow tolling at sea and telling the \nhour, \n\nTo kneel to their sweet Santa \nBarbara \n\nFor tawny fishers at sea, and to pray. \n\nHigh over my head, carved cornice, \nquaint spire. \n\nAnd ancient built palaces knock\xe2\x80\x99d \ntheir gray brows \n\nTogether and frown\xe2\x80\x99d. Then slow- \ncreeping scows \n\nScraped the walls on each side. \nAbove me the fire \n\nOf a sudden-born morning came \nflaming in bars; \n\nWhile up through the chasm I could \ncount the stars. \n\nOh, pity! Such ruin! The dank \nsmell of of death \n\nCrept up the canal: I could scarce \ntake my breath! \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas the fit place for pirates, for \nwomen who keep \n\nContagion of body and soul where \nthey sleep. . . . \n\n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s pity! A white hand now \nbeckoned me \n\nFrom an old mouldy door, almost in \nmy reach. \n\nI sprang to the sill as one wrecked to \na beach; \n\nJ sprang with wide arms: it was she! \nIt was she! . . . \n\nAnd in such a damn\xe2\x80\x99d place! And \nwhat was her trade? \n\nTo think I had follow\xe2\x80\x99d so faithful, so \nfar \n\nFrom eternity\xe2\x80\x99s brink, from star to \nwhite star, \n\nTo find her, to find her, nor wife nor \nsweet maid! \n\nTo find her a shameless poor creature \nof shame, \n\nA nameless, lost body, men hardly \ndared name. \n\nAll alone in her shame, on that \ndamp dismal floor \n\nShe stood to entice me. ... I \nbow\xe2\x80\x99d me before \n\nAll-conquering beauty. I call\xe2\x80\x99d her \nmy Queen! \n\nI told her my love as I proudly had \ntold \n\nMy love had I found her as pure as \npure gold. \n\nI reach\xe2\x80\x99d her my hands, as fearless, as \nclean, \n\nAs man fronting cannon. I cried, \n\xe2\x80\x9cHasten forth \n\nTo the sun! There are lands to the \nsouth, to the north, \n\nAnywhere where you will. Dash the \nshame from your brow; \n\nCome with me, for ever; and come \nwith me now!" \n\n\n\n{Kfje 3fbeal anb tfje Beal \n\n\n321 \n\n\nWhy, I\xe2\x80\x99d have turn\xe2\x80\x99d pirate for her, \nwould have seen \n\nShips bum\xe2\x80\x99d from the seas, like to \nstubble from field. \n\nWould I turn from her now? Why \nshould I now yield, \n\nWhen she needed me most? Had I \nfound her a queen, \n\nAnd beloved by the world,\xe2\x80\x94wh>, \nwhat had I done? \n\nI had woo\xe2\x80\x99d, and had woo\xe2\x80\x99d, and had \nwoo\xe2\x80\x99d till I won! \n\nThen, if I had loved her with gold and \nfair fame, \n\nWould not I now love her, and love \nher the same? \n\nMy soul hath a pride. I would tear \nout my heart \n\nAnd cast it to dogs, could it play a \ndog\xe2\x80\x99s part! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cDon\xe2\x80\x99t you know me, my bride of \nthe wide world of yore? \n\nWhy, don\xe2\x80\x99t you remember the white \nmilky-way \n\nOf stars, that we traversed the aeons \nbefore? . . . \n\nWe were counting the colors, we were \nnaming the seas \n\nOf the vaster ones. You remember \nthe trees \n\nThat swayed in the cloudy white \nheavens, and bore \n\nBright crystals of sweets, and the \nsweet manna-dew? \n\nWhy, you smile as you weep, you \nremember, and you, \n\nYou know me! You know me! \nYou know me! Yea, \n\nYou know me as if \xe2\x80\x99twere but yester\xc2\xac \nday! \n\n\nI told her all things. Her brow \ntook a frown; \n\nHer grand Titan beauty, so tall, so \nserene, \n\nThe one perfect woman, mine own \nidol queen\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHer proud swelling bosom, it broke \nup and down \n\nAs she spake, and she shook in her \nsoul as she said, \n\nWith her small hands held to her bent \naching head: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGo back to the world! Go back, \nand alone \n\nTill kind Death comes and makes \nwhite as his own.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nI said: \xe2\x80\x9cI will wait! I will wait in \nthe pass \n\nOf death, until Time he shall break \nhis glass.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThen I cried, \xe2\x80\x9cYea, here where the \ngods did love, \n\nWhere the white Europa was won,\xe2\x80\x94 \nshe rode \n\nHer milk-white bull through these \nsame warm seas,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYea, here in the land where huge \nHercules, \n\nWith the lion\xe2\x80\x99s heart and the heart \nof the dove, \n\nDid walk in his naked great strength, \nand strode \n\nIn the sensuous air with his lion\xe2\x80\x99s \nskin \n\nFlapping and fretting his knotted \nthews; \n\nWhere Theseus did wander, and \nJason cruise,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYea, here let the life of all lives \nbegin. \n\n\n\n\n322 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje Meal antJ tfje meal \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea! Here where the Orient \nbalms breathe life, \n\nWhere heaven is kindest, where all \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s blue \n\nSeems a great gate open\xe2\x80\x99d to welcome \nyou, \n\nCome, rise and go forth, my empress, \nmy wife.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThen spake her great soul, so grander \nfar \n\nThan I had believed on that outer\xc2\xac \nmost star; \n\nAnd she put by her tears, and calmly \nshe said, \n\nWith hands still held to her bended \nhead: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI will go through the doors of death \nand wait \n\nFor you on the innermost side death\xe2\x80\x99s \ngate. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThank God that this life is but a \nday\xe2\x80\x99s span, \n\nBut a wayside inn for weary, worn \nman\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA night and a day; and, tomorrow, \nthe spell \n\nOf darkness is broken. Now, darling, \nfarewell!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nI caught at her robe as one ready to \ndie\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Nay, touch not the hem of my robe \n\xe2\x80\x94it is red \n\nWith sins that your cruel sex heap\xe2\x80\x99d \non my head! \n\nNow turn you, yes, turn! But \nremember how I \n\nWait weeping, in sackcloth, the while \nI wait \n\n\nInside death\'s door, and watch at the \ngate.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nI cried yet again, how I cried, how \nI cried, \n\nReaching face, reaching hands as a \ndrowning man might. \n\nShe drew herself back, put my two \nhands aside, \n\nHalf turned as she spoke, as one \nturned to the night: \n\nSpeaking low, speaking soft as a wind \nthrough the wall \n\nOf a ruin where mold and night mas\xc2\xac \nters all; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI shall live my day, live patient \non through \n\nThe life that man hath compelled me \nto, \n\nThen turn to my mother, sweet \nearth, and pray \n\nShe keep me pure to the Judgment \nDay! \n\nI shall sit and wait as you used to \ndo, \n\nWill wait the next life, through the \nwhole life through. \n\nI shall sit all alone, I shall wait \nalway; \n\nI shall wait inside of the gate for \nyou, \n\nWaiting, and counting the days as I \nwait; \n\nYea, wait as that beggar that sat by \nthe gate \n\nOf Jerusalem, waiting the Judgment \nDay.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n\n\n\n8 20obe of g?t. fflarfe \n\n\n323 \n\n\nA DOVE OF \n\nO terrible lion of tame Saint Mark! \n\nTamed old lion with the tumbled mane \n\nTossed to the clouds and lost in the \ndark, \n\nWith teeth in the air and tail-whipp\'d \nback, \n\nFoot on the Bible as if thy track \n\nLed thee the lord of the desert again ,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSay, what of thy watch o\'er the watery \ntown? \n\nSay, what of the worlds walking up and \ndown? \n\nO silent old monarch that tops Saint \nMark, \n\nThat sat thy throne for a thousand \nyears, \n\nThat lorded the deep, that defied all \nmen ,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLo! I see visions at sea in the dark; \n\nAnd I see something that shines like \ntears, \n\nAnd I hear something that sounds like \nsighs, \n\nAnd I hear something that seems as \nwhen \n\nA great soul suffers and sinks and dies. \n\nThe high-born, beautiful snow \ncame down, \n\nSilent and soft as the terrible feet \n\nOf time on the mosses of ruins. \nSweet \n\nWas the Christmas time in the watery \ntown. \n\n5 Twas full flood carnival swell\xe2\x80\x99d the \nsea \n\nOf Venice that night, and canal and \nquay \n\n\nST. MARK \n\nWere alive with humanity. Man and \nmaid, \n\nGlad in mad revel and masquerade, \n\nMoved through the feathery snow in \nthe night, \n\nAnd shook black locks as they \nlaugh\xe2\x80\x99d outright. \n\nFrom Santa Maggiore, and to and \nfro, \n\nAnd ugly and black as if devils cast \nout, \n\nBlack streaks through the night of \nsuch soft, white snow, \n\nThe steel-prow\'d gondolas paddled \nabout; \n\nThere was only the sound of the long \noars dip, \n\nAs the low moon sail\xe2\x80\x99d up the sea like \na ship \n\nIn a misty morn. High the low moon \nrose, \n\nRose veil\xe2\x80\x99d and vast, through the \nfeathery snows, \n\nAs a minstrel stept silent and sad \nfrom his boat, \n\nHis worn cloak clutched in his hand \nto his throat. \n\nLow under the lion that guards \nSt. Mark, \n\nDown under wide wings on the edge \nof the sea \n\nIn the dim of the lamps, on the rim of \nthe dark, \n\nAlone and sad in the salt-flood town, \n\nSilent and sad and all sullenly, \n\nHe sat by the column where the \ncrocodile \n\n\n\n324 \n\n\n& JBobe of H>t. Jllatfe \n\n\nKeeps watch o\'er the wave, far mile \nupon mile. . . . \n\nLike a signal light through the night \nlet down, \n\nThen a far star fell through the dim \nprofound\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA jewel that slipp\xe2\x80\x99d God\xe2\x80\x99s hand to the \nground. \n\nThe storm had blown over! Now \nup and then down, \n\nAlone and in couples, sweet women \ndid pass, \n\nSilent and dreamy, as if seen in a \nglass, \n\nHalf mask\xe2\x80\x99d to the eyes, in their \nAdrian town. \n\nSuch women! It breaks one\xe2\x80\x99s heart \nto think. \n\nWater! and never one drop to drink! \n\nWhat types of Titian! What glory of \nhair! \n\nHow tall as the sisters of Saul! How \nfair! \n\nSweet flowers of flesh, and all \nblossoming, \n\nAs if \xe2\x80\x99twere in Eden, and in Eden\xe2\x80\x99s \nspring. \n\n"They are talking aloud with \neloquent eyes, \n\nYet passing me by with never one \nword. \n\nO pouting sweet lips, do you know \nthere are lies \n\nThat are told with the eyes, and never \nonce heard \n\nAbove a heart\xe2\x80\x99s beat when the soul is \nstirr\xe2\x80\x99d? \n\nIt is time to fly home, O doves of St. \nMark! \n\n\nTake boughs of the olive; bear these \nto your ark, \n\nAnd rest and be glad, for the seas and \nthe skies \n\nOf Venice are fair. . . . What! \nwouldn\xe2\x80\x99t go home? \n\nWhat! drifting, and drifting as the \nsoil\xe2\x80\x99d sea-foam? \n\n"And who then are you? You, \nmasked and so fair? \n\nYour half seen face is a rose full \nblown, \n\nDown under your black and abun\xc2\xac \ndant hair? . . . \n\nA child of the street, and unloved and \nalone! \n\nUnloved; and alone? . . . There is \nsomething then \n\nBetween us two that is not un\xc2\xac \nlike! . . . \n\nThe strength and the purposes of \nmen \n\nFall broken idols. We aim and \nstrike \n\nWith high-born zeal and with proud \nintent. \n\nYet let life turn on some acci\xc2\xac \ndent. . . . \n\n"Nay, I\xe2\x80\x99ll not preach. Time\xe2\x80\x99s \n\nlessons pass \n\nLike twilight\xe2\x80\x99s swallows. They chirp \nin their flight, \n\nAnd who takes heed of the wasting \nglass? \n\nNight follows day, and day follows \nnight, \n\nAnd no thing rises on earth but to \nfall \n\n\n\n\nS3 \xc2\xaeq be of ibt. jUladi \n\n\n325 \n\n\nLike leaves, with their lessons most \nsad and fit. \n\nThey are spread like a volume each \nyear to all; \n\nYet men or women learn naught of it, \n\nOr after it all but a weariness \n\nOf soul and body and untold distress. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea, sit, lorn child, by my side, \nand we, \n\nWe will talk of the world. Nay, let \nmy hand \n\nFall kindly to yours, and so, let your \nface \n\nFall fair to my shoulder, and you shall \nbe \n\nMy dream of sweet Italy. Here in \nthis place, \n\nAlone in the crowds of this old care\xc2\xac \nless land. \n\nI shall shelter your form till the morn \nand then\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhy, I shall return to the world and \nto men, \n\nAnd you, not stain\xe2\x80\x99d for one strange, \nkind word \n\nAnd my three last francs, for a lorn \nnight bird. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cFear nothing from me, nay, never \nonce fear. \n\nThe day, my darling, comes after the \nnight. \n\nThe nights they were made to show \nthe light \n\nOf the stars in heaven, though the \nstorms be near. . . . \n\nDo you see that figure of Fortune up \nthere, \n\nThat tops the Dogana with toe \na-tip \n\n\nOf the great gold ball? Her scroll \nis a-trip \n\nTo the turning winds. She is light as \nthe air. \n\nHer foot is set upon plenty\xe2\x80\x99s horn, \n\nHer fair face set to the coming \nmorn. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWell, trust we to Fortune. . . . \nBread on the wave \n\nTurns ever ashore to the hand that \ngave. \n\nWhat am I? A poet\xe2\x80\x94a lover of \nall \n\nThat is lovely to see. Nay, naught \nshall befall. . . . \n\nYes, I am a failure. I plot and I \nplan, \n\nGive splendid advice to my fellow- \nman, \n\nYet ever fall short of achievement. \n\n. . . Ah me! \n\nIn my lorn life\xe2\x80\x99s early, sad after\xc2\xac \nnoon, \n\nSay, what have I left but a rhyme or a \nrune? \n\nAn empty frail hand for some soul at \nsea, \n\nSome fair, forbidden, sweet fruit to \nchoose, \n\nThat \xe2\x80\x99twere sin to touch, and\xe2\x80\x94sin to \nrefuse? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat! I go drifting with you, \ngirl, to-night? \n\nTo sit at your side and to call you \nlove? \n\nWell, that were a fancy! To feed a \ndove, \n\nA poor soil\xe2\x80\x99d dove of this dear Saint \nMark, \n\n\n\n326 \n\n\nS 2Bobe of g>t. iWaife \n\n\nToo frighten\xe2\x80\x99d to rest and too weary \nfor flight. . . . \n\nAye, just three francs, my fortune. \nThere! He \n\nWho feeds the sparrows for this will \nfeed me. \n\nNow here \xe2\x80\x99neath the lion, alone in the \ndark, \n\nAnd side by side let us sit, poor \ndear, \n\nBreathing the beauty as an \natmosphere. . . . \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWe will talk of your loves, I write \ntales of love . . . \n\nWhat! Cannot read? Why, you \nnever heard then \n\nOf your Desdemona, nor the daring \nmen \n\nWho died for her love? My poor \nwhite dove, \n\nThere\xe2\x80\x99s a story of Shylock would \ndrive you wild. \n\nWhat! Never have heard of these \nstories, my child? \n\nOf Tasso, of Petrarch? Not the \nBridge of Sighs? \n\nNot the tale of Ferrara? Not the \nthousand whys \n\nThat your Venice was ever adored \nabove \n\nAll other fair lands for her stories of \nlove? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat then about Shylock? T\xe2\x80\x99was \ngold. Yes\xe2\x80\x94dead. \n\nThe lady? \xe2\x80\x99Twas love. . . . Why \nyes; she too \n\nIs dead. And Byron? \xe2\x80\x99Twas fame. \nAh, true. . . \n\n\nTasso and Petrarch? All died, just \nthe same. . . . \n\nYea, so endeth all, as you truly have \nsaid, \n\nAnd you, poor girl, are too wise; and \nyou, \n\nToo sudden and swift in your hard, \nugly youth, \n\nHave stumbled face fronting an \nobstinate truth. \n\nFor whether for love, for gold, or for \nfame, \n\nThey but lived their day, and they \ndied the same. \n\nBut let\xe2\x80\x99s talk not of death? Of \ndeath or the life \n\nThat comes after death? \xe2\x80\x99Tis be\xc2\xac \nyond your reach, \n\nAnd this too much thought has a \nsense of strife. . . . \n\nAh, true; I promised you not to \npreach. . . . \n\nMy maid of Venice, or maid un\xc2\xac \nmade, \n\nHold close your few francs and be not \nafraid. \n\nWhat! Say you are hungry? Well, \nlet us dine \n\nTill the near morn comes on the silver \nshine \n\nOf the lamp-lit sea. At the dawn of \nday, \n\nMy sad child-woman, you can go \nyour way. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat! You have a palace? I \nknow your town; \n\nKnow every nook of it, left and \nright, \n\n\n\nill 30otoe of H>t. jflarfe \n\n\n327 \n\n\nAs well as yourself. Why, far up and \ndown \n\nYour salt flood streets, lo, many a \nnight \n\nI have row\xe2\x80\x99d and have roved in my \nlorn despair \n\nOf love upon earth, and I know well \nthere \n\nIs no such palace. What! and you \ndare \n\nTo look in my face and to lie out\xc2\xac \nright, \n\nTo lift your face, and to frown me \ndown? \n\nThere is no such palace in that part of \nthe town! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou would woo me away to your \nrickety boat! \n\nYou would pick my pockets! You \nwould cut my throat, \n\nWith help of your pirates! Then \nthrow me out \n\nLoaded with stones to sink me \ndown, \n\nDown into the filth and the dregs of \nyour town! \n\nWhy, that is your damnable aim, no \ndoubt! \n\nAnd, my plaintive voiced child, you \nseem too fair, \n\nToo fair, for even a thought like \nthat; \n\nToo fair for ever such sin to dare\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAy, even the tempter to whisper \nat. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Now, there is such a thingas being \ntrue, \n\nTrue, even in villainy. Listen to me: \n\nBlack-skinn\xe2\x80\x99d women and low-brow\xe2\x80\x99d \nmen, \n\n\nAnd desperate robbers and thieves; \nand then, \n\nWhy, there are the pirates! . . . Ay, \npirates reform\'d\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nPirates reform\xe2\x80\x99d and unreform\xe2\x80\x99d; \n\nPirates for me, girl, friends for you,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd these are your neighbors. And \nso you see \n\nThat I know your town, your neigh\xc2\xac \nbors; and I\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWell, pardon me, dear\xe2\x80\x94but I know \nyou lie. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTut, tut, my beauty! What \ntrickery now? \n\nWhy, tears through your hair on my \nhand like rain! \n\nCome! look in my face: laugh, lie \nagain \n\nWith your wonderful eyes. Lift up \nyour brow, \n\nLaugh in the face of the world, and \nlie! \n\nNow, come! This lying is no new \nthing. \n\nThe wearers of laces know well how \nto lie, \n\nAs well, ay, better, than you or I . . . \n\nBut they lie for fortune, for fame: \ninstead, \n\nYou, child of the street, only lie for \nyour bread. \n\n. . . \xe2\x80\x9cSome sounds blow in from the \ndistant land. \n\nThe bells strike sharp, and as out of \ntune, \n\nSome sudden, short notes. To the \neast and afar, \n\nAnd up from the sea, there is lifting \na star \n\n\n\n\n328 \n\n\n3 JBotie of \xc2\xa3S>t. Jflatfc \n\n\nAs large, my beautiful child, and as \nwhite \n\nAnd as lovely to see as some lady\xe2\x80\x99s \nwhite hand. \n\nThe people have melted away with \nthe night, \n\nAnd not one gondola frets the \nlagoon. \n\nSee! Away to the mountain, the \nface of morn. \n\nHear! Away to the sea\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x99tis the \nfisherman\xe2\x80\x99s horn. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c\xe2\x80\x99Tis morn in Venice! My child, \nadieu! \n\nArise, sad sister, and go your way; \n\nAnd as for myself, why, much like \nyou, \n\nI shall sell the story to who will \npay \n\nAnd dares to reckon it true and \nmeet. \n\nYea, each of us traders, poor child of \npain; \n\nFor each must barter for bread to \neat \n\nIn a world of trade and an age of \ngain; \n\nWith just this difference, waif of the \nstreet, \n\nYou sell your body, I sell my brain. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cPoor lost little vessel, with never \na keel. \n\nSaint Marks, what a wreck! Lo, \nhere you reel, \n\nWith never a soul to advise or to \ncare; \n\nAll cover\xe2\x80\x99d with sin to the brows and \nhair, \n\nYou lie like a seaweed, well a-strand; \n\n\nBlown like the sea-kelp hard on the \nshale, \n\nA half-drown\xe2\x80\x99d body, with never a \nhand \n\nReach\xe2\x80\x99d out to help where you falter \nand fail: \n\nLeft stranded alone to starve and to \ndie, \n\nOr to sell your body to who may \nbuy. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMy sister of sin, I will kiss you! \nYea, \n\nI will fold you, hold you close to my \nbreast; \n\nAnd here as you rest in your first \nfair rest, \n\nAs night is push\xe2\x80\x99d back from the face \nof day \n\nI will push your heavy, dark heaven \nof hair \n\nWell back from your brow, and kiss \nyou where \n\nYour ruffian, bearded, black men of \ncrime \n\nHave stung you and stain\xe2\x80\x99d you a \nthousand time; \n\nI will call you my sister, sweet child, \nand keep \n\nYou close to my heart, lest you wake \nbut to weep. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI will tenderly kiss you, and I \nshall not be \n\nAshamed, nor yet stain\xe2\x80\x99d in the \nleast, sweet dove,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI will tenderly kiss, with the kiss of \nLove, \n\nAnd of Faith, and of Hope, and of \nCharity. \n\n\n\n& \xc2\xa9obe of \xc2\xa7s>L jffflarfe \n\n\n329 \n\n\nNay, I shall be purer and be better \nthen; \n\nFor, child of the street, you, living or \ndead, \n\nStain\xe2\x80\x99d to the brows, are purer to \nme \n\nTen thousand times than the world \nof men, \n\nWho reach you a hand but to lead you \nastray,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut the dawn is upon us. There! \ngo your way. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd take great courage. Take \ncourage and say, \n\nOf this one Christmas when I am \naway, \n\nRoving the world and forgetful of \nyou, \n\nThat I found you as white as the snow \nand knew \n\nYou but needed a word to keep you \ntrue. \n\nWhen you fall weary and so need \nrest, \n\nThen find kind words hidden down in \nyour breast; \n\nAnd if rough men question you,\xe2\x80\x94 \nwhy, then say \n\nThat Madonna sent them. Then \nkneel and pray, \n\nAnd pray for me, the worse of the \ntwo: \n\nThen God will bless you, sweet child, \nand I \n\nShall be the better when I come to die. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea, take great courage, it will be \nas bread; \n\nHave faith, have faith while this day \nwears through. \n\n\nThen rising refresh\xe2\x80\x99d, try virtue \ninstead; \n\nBe stronger and better, poor, pitiful \ndear, \n\nSo prompt with a lie, so prompt with \na tear, \n\nFor the hand grows stronger as the \nheart grows true. . . . \n\nTake courage my child, for I promise \nyou \n\nWe are judged by our chances of life \nand lot; \n\nAnd your poor soul may yet pass \nthrough \n\nThe eye of the needle, where laces \nshall not. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSad dove of the dust, with tear- \nwet wings, \n\nHomeless and lone as the dove from \nits ark,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDo you reckon yon angel that tops \nSt. Mark, \n\nThat tops the tower, that tops the \ntown, \n\nIf he knew us two, if he knew all \nthings, \n\nWould say, or think, you are worse \nthan I? \n\nDo you reckon yon angel, now look\xc2\xac \ning down, \n\nFar down like a star, he hangs so \nhigh, \n\nCould tell which one were the worse \nof us two? \n\nChild of the street\xe2\x80\x94it is not you! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIf we two were dead, and laid \nside by side \n\nRight here on the pavement, this very \nday, \n\n\n\n\n330 \n\n\nComo \n\n\nHere under the sun-flushed maiden \nsky, \n\nWhere the morn flows in like a rosy \ntide, \n\nAnd the sweet Madonna that stands \nin the moon, \n\nWith her crown of stars, just across \nthe lagoon, \n\nShould come and should look upon \nyou and I,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDo you reckon, my child, that she \nwould decide \n\nAs men do decide and as women do \nsay, \n\nThat you are so dreadful, and turn \naway? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIf angels were sent to choose this \nday \n\nBetween us two as we rest here, \n\nHere side by side in this storied \nplace,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIf angels were sent to choose, I \nsay, \n\nThis very moment the best of the \ntwo, \n\nYou, white with a hunger and stain\xe2\x80\x99d \nwith a tear, \n\n\nOr I, the rover the wide world \nthrough, \n\nRestless and stormy as any sea,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLooking us two right straight in the \nface, \n\nChild of the street, he would not \nchoose me. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe fresh sun is falling on turret \nand tower, \n\nThe far sun is flashing on spire and \ndome, \n\nThe marbles of Venice are bursting to \nflower, \n\nThe marbles of Venice are flower and \nfoam: \n\nGood night and good morn; I must \nleave you now. \n\nThere! bear my kiss on your pale, soft \nbrow \n\nThrough earth to heaven: and when \nwe shall meet \n\nBeyond the darkness, poor waif of \nthe street, \n\nWhy, then I shall 1-mow you, my sad, \nsweet dove; \n\nShall claim you, and kiss you, with \nthe kiss of love.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nCOMO \n\n\nThe lakes lay bright as bits of \nbroken moon \n\nJust newly set within the cloven \nearth ; \n\nThe ripen\xe2\x80\x99d fields drew round a \ngolden girth \n\nFar up the steeps, and glittered in the \nnoon; \n\n\nAnd when the sun fell down, from \nleafy shore \n\nFond lovers stole in pairs to ply the \noar; \n\nThe stars, as large as lilies, fleck\xe2\x80\x99d \nthe blue; \n\nFrom out the Alps the moon came \nwheeling through \n\n\n\n\nComo \n\n\n33i \n\n\nThe rocky pass the great Napoleon \nknew. \n\nA gala night it was,\xe2\x80\x94the season\xe2\x80\x99s \nprime. \n\nWe rode from castled lake to festal \ntown, \n\nTo fair Milan\xe2\x80\x94my friend and I; rode \ndown \n\nBy night, where grasses waved in \nrippled rhyme: \n\nAnd so, what theme but love at such a \ntime? \n\nHis proud lip curl\xe2\x80\x99d the while with \nsilent scorn \n\nAt thought of love; and then, as one \nforlorn, \n\nHe sigh\xe2\x80\x99d; then bared his temples, \ndash\xe2\x80\x99d with gray; \n\nThen mock\xe2\x80\x99d, as one outworn and \nwell blase. \n\nA gorgeous tiger lily, flaming \nred,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSo full of battle, of the trumpets \nblare, \n\nOf old-time passion, uprear\xe2\x80\x99d its \nhead. \n\nI gallop\xe2\x80\x99d past. I lean\'d. I clutch\xe2\x80\x99d \nit there \n\nFrom out the stormy grass. I held \nit high, \n\nAnd cried: \xe2\x80\x9cLo! this to-night shall \ndeck her hair \n\nThrough all the dance. And mark! \nthe man shall die \n\nWho dares assault, for good or ill \ndesign, \n\nThe citadel where I shall set this \nsign.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nO, she shone fairer than the \nsummer star, \n\nOr curl\xe2\x80\x99d sweet moon in middle \ndestiny; \n\nMore fair than sun-mom climbing up \nthe sea, \n\nWhere all the loves of Adriana \nare. . . . \n\nWho loves, who truly loves, will \nstand aloof: \n\nThe noisy tongue makes most un\xc2\xac \nholy proof \n\nOf shallow passion. . . . All the \nwhile afar \n\nFrom out the dance I stood and \nwatched my star, \n\nMy tiger lily borne, an oriflamme of \nwar. \n\nA down the dance she moved with \nmatchless grace. \n\nThe world\xe2\x80\x94my world\xe2\x80\x94moved with \nher. Suddenly \n\nI question\xe2\x80\x99d whom her cavalier might \nbe? \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas he! His face was leaning to \nher face! \n\nI clutch\xe2\x80\x99d my blade; I sprang, I \ncaught my breath,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd so, stood leaning cold and still as \ndeath. \n\nAnd they stood still. She blushed, \nthen reach\xe2\x80\x99d and tore \n\nThe lily as she passed, and down the \nfloor \n\nShe strew\xe2\x80\x99d its heart like jets of gush\xc2\xac \ning gore. . . . \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas he said heads, not hearts \nwere made to break; \n\n\n\n332 \n\n\nSunrise tn VTetxtce \n\n\nHe taught her this that night in \nsplendid scorn. \n\nI learn\xe2\x80\x99d too well. . . . The dance \nwas done, ere morn \n\nWe mounted\xe2\x80\x94he and I\xe2\x80\x94but no \nmore spake. . . . \n\nAnd this for woman\xe2\x80\x99s love! My lily \nworn \n\nTn her dark hair in pride, to then be \ntorn \n\nAnd trampled on, for this bold \nstranger\xe2\x80\x99s sake! . . . \n\nTwo men rode silent back toward the \nlake; \n\nSUNRISE \n\nNight seems troubled and scarce \nasleep; \n\nHer brows are gather\xe2\x80\x99d as in broken \nrest. \n\nA star in the east starts up from the \ndeep! \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis morn, new-born, with a star on \nher breast, \n\nWhite as my lilies that grow in the \nWest! \n\nHist! men are passing me hurriedly. \n\nI see the yellow, wide wings of a \nbark, \n\nSail silently over my morning star. \n\nI see men move in the moving dark, \n\nTall and silent as columns are; \n\nGreat, sinewy men that are good to \nsee, \n\nWith hair push\'d back, and with open \nbreasts; \n\nBarefooted fishermen seeking their \nboats, \n\nBrown as walnuts, and hairy as \ngoats,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nTwo men rode silent down\xe2\x80\x94but only \none \n\nRode up at morn to meet the rising \nsun. \n\nThe red-clad fishers row and creep \nBelow the crags as half asleep, \n\nNor ever make a single sound. \n\nThe walls are steep, \n\nThe waves are deep; \n\nAnd if a dead man should be found \nBy these same fishers in their round, \nWhy, who shall say but he was \ndrown\xe2\x80\x99d? \n\n4 VENICE \n\nBrave old water-dogs, wed to the \nsea, \n\nFirst to their labors and last to their \nrests. \n\nShips are moving. I hear a \nhorn,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnswers back, and again it calls. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis the sentinel boats that watch the \ntown \n\nAll night, as mounting her watery \nwalls, \n\nAnd watching for pirate or smuggler. \nDown \n\nOver the sea, and reaching away, \n\nAnd against the east, a soft light \nfalls, \n\nSilvery soft as the mist of morn, \n\nAnd I catch a breath like the breath \nof day. \n\nThe east is blossoming! Yea, a \nrose, \n\nVast as the heavens, soft as a kiss, \n\n\n\n\nVale! America \n\n\n333 \n\n\nSweet as the presence of woman is, \n\nRises and reaches, and widens and \ngrows \n\nLarge and luminous up from the \nsea, \n\nAnd out of the sea as a blossoming \ntree. \n\nRicher and richer, so higher and \nhigher, \n\nDeeper and deeper it takes its \nhue; \n\nBrighter and brighter it reaches \nthrough \n\n\nThe space of heaven to the place of \nstars. \n\nThen beams reach upward as arms \nfrom the sea; \n\nThen lances and arrows are aimed at \nme. \n\nThen lances and spangles and spars \nand bars \n\nAre broken and shiver\xe2\x80\x99d and strown \non the sea; \n\nAnd around and about me tower and \nspire \n\nStart from the billows like tongues of \nfire. \n\n\nVALE! AMERICA \n\n\nLet me rise and go forth. A far, \ndim spark \n\nIllumes my path. The light of my \nday \n\nHath fled, and yet am I far away. \n\nThe bright, bent moon has dipp\xe2\x80\x99d her \nhorn \n\nIn the darkling sea. High up in the \ndark \n\nThe wrinkled old lion, he looks away \n\nTo the east, and impatient as if for \nmom. . . . \n\nI have gone the girdle of earth, and \nsay, \n\nWhat have I gain\xe2\x80\x99d but a temple \ngray, \n\nTwo crow\xe2\x80\x99s feet, and a heart for\xc2\xac \nlorn? \n\nA star starts yonder like a soul \nafraid! \n\nIt falls like a thought through the \ngreat profound. \n\n\nFearfully swift and with never a \nsound, \n\nIt fades into nothing, as all things \nfade; \n\nYea, as all things fail. And where is \nthe leaven \n\nIn the pride of a name or a proud \nman\xe2\x80\x99s nod? \n\nOh, tiresome, tiresome stairs to \nheaven! \n\nWeary, oh, wearysome ways to \nGod! \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twere better to sit with the chin on \nthe palm, \n\nSlow tapping the sand, come storm, \ncome calm. \n\nI have lived from within and not \nfrom without; \n\nI have drunk from a fount, have fed \nfrom a hand \n\nThat no man knows who lives upon \nland; \n\n\n\n\n334 \n\n\n"^ale! America \n\n\nAnd yet my soul it is crying out. \n\nI care not a pin for the praise of \nmen; \n\nBut I hunger for love. I starve, f \ndie, \n\nEach day of my life. Ye pass me \nby \n\nEach day, and laugh as ye pass; and \nwhen \n\nYe come, I start in my place as ye \ncome, \n\nAnd lean, and would speak,\xe2\x80\x94but my \nlips are dumb. \n\nYon sliding stars and the changeful \nmoon. . . . \n\nLet me rest on the plains of Lombardy \nfor aye, \n\nOr sit down by this Adrian Sea and \ndie. \n\nThe days that do seem as some \nafternoon \n\nThey all are here. I am strong and \ntrue \n\nTo myself; can pluck and could plant \nanew \n\nMy heart, and grow tall; could come \nto be \n\nAnother being; lift bolder hand \n\nAnd conquer. Yet ever will come to \nme \n\nThe thought that Italia is not my \nland. \n\nCould I but return to my woods \nonce more, \n\nAnd dwell in their depths as I have \ndwelt, \n\nKneel in their mosses as I have \nknelt, \n\n\nSit where the cool white rivers \nrun, \n\nAway from the world and half hid \nfrom the sun, \n\nHear winds in the wood of my storm- \ntorn shore, \n\nTo tread where only the red man \ntrod, \n\nTo say no word, but listen to God! \n\nGlad to the heart with listening,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt seems to me that I then could \nsing, \n\nAnd sing as never sung man before. \n\nBut deep-tangled woodland and \nwild waterfall, \n\nO farewell for aye, till the Judgment \nDay! \n\nI shall see you no more, O land of \nmine, \n\nO half-aware land, like a child at \nplay! \n\nO voiceless and vast as the push\xe2\x80\x99d- \nback skies! \n\nNo more, blue seas in the blest \nsunshine, \n\nNo more, black woods where the \nwhite peaks rise, \n\nNo more, bleak plains where the high \nwinds fall, \n\nOr the red man keeps or the shrill \nbirds call! \n\nI must find diversion with another \nkind: \n\nThere are roads on the land, broad \nroads on the sea; \n\nTake ship and sail, and sail till I \nfind \n\nThe love that I sought from etern\xc2\xac \nity; \n\n\n\n^ale! America \n\n\n335 \n\n\nRun away from oneself, take ship and \nsail \n\nThe middle white seas; see turban\xe2\x80\x99d \nmen,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThrow thought to the dogs for aye. \nAnd when \n\nAll seas are travel\xe2\x80\x99d and all scenes \nfail, \n\nWhy, then this doubtful, sad gift of \nverse \n\nMay save me from death\xe2\x80\x94or some\xc2\xac \nthing worse. \n\nMy hand it is weary, and my harp \nunstrung; \n\nAnd where is the good that I pipe or \nsing, \n\nFashion new notes, or shape any \nthing? \n\nThe songs of my rivers remain \nunsung \n\nHenceforward for me. . . . But a \nman shall arise \n\nFrom the far, vast valleys of the \nOccident, \n\nWith hand on a harp of gold, and with \neyes \n\nThat lift with glory and a proud \nintent; \n\nYet so gentle indeed, that his sad \nheartstrings \n\nShall thrill to the heart of your heart \nas he sings. \n\nLet the wind sing songs in the lake\xc2\xac \nside reeds, \n\nLo, I shall be less than the indolent \nwind! \n\nWhy should I sow, when I reap and \nbind \n\n\nAnd gather in nothing but the thistle \nweeds? \n\nIt is best I abide, let what will \nbefall; \n\nTo rest if I can, let time roll by: \n\nLet others endeavor to learn, while \n\nI, \n\nWith naught to conceal, with much to \nregret, \n\nShall sit and endeavor, alone, to \nforget. \n\nShall I shape pipes from these \nseaside reeds, \n\nAnd play for the children, that shout \nand call? \n\nLo! men they have mock\'d me the \nwhole year through! \n\nI shall sing no more. ... I shall \nfind in old creeds, \n\nAnd in quaint old tongues, a world \nthat is new; \n\nAnd these, I will gather the sweets of \nthem all. \n\nAnd the old-time doctrines and the \nold-time signs, \n\nI will taste of them all, as tasting old \nwines. \n\nI will find new thought, as a new\xc2\xac \nfound vein \n\nOf rock-lock\'d gold in my far, fair \nWest. \n\nI will rest and forget, will entreat to \nbe blest; \n\nTake up new thought and again grow \nyoung; \n\nYea, take a new world as one bom \nagain, \n\nAnd never hear more mine own \nmother tongue; \n\n\n\n\n\n336 \n\n\nyJale! America \n\n\nNor miss it. Why should I? I \nnever once heard, \n\nIn my land\xe2\x80\x99s language, love\xe2\x80\x99s one \nsweet word. \n\nDid I court fame, or the favor of \nman? \n\nMake war upon creed, or strike hand \nwith clan? \n\nI sang my songs of the sounding \ntrees, \n\nAs careless of name or of fame as the \nseas; \n\nAnd these I sang for the love of \nthese, \n\nAnd the sad sweet solace they \nbrought to me. \n\nI but sang for myself, touch\xe2\x80\x99d here, \ntouch\xe2\x80\x99d there, \n\nAs a strong-wing\'d bird that flies \nanywhere. \n\n. . . How do I wander! And \n\nyet why not? \n\nI once had a song, told a tale in \nrhyme; \n\nWrote books, indeed, in my proud \nyoung prime; \n\nI aim\'d at the heart like a musket \nball; \n\nI struck cursed folly like a cannon \nshot,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd where is the glory or good of it \nall? \n\n\\ \n\nYet these did I write for my land, but \nthis \n\nI write for myself,\xe2\x80\x94and it is as it \nis. \n\nYea, storms have blown counter \nand shaken me. \n\n\nAnd yet was I fashion\xe2\x80\x99d for strife, and \nstrong \n\nAnd daring of heart, and born to \nendure; \n\nMy soul sprang upward, my feet felt \nsure; \n\nMy faith was as wide as a wide- \nbough\xe2\x80\x99d tree. \n\nBut there be limits; and a sense of \nwrong \n\nForever before you will make you \nless \n\nA man, than a man at first would \nguess. \n\nGood men can forgive\xe2\x80\x94and, they \nsay,forget . . . \n\nFar less of the angel than Indian is \nset \n\nIn my fierce nature. And I look \naway \n\nTo a land that is dearer than this, and \nsay, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI shall remember, though you may \nforget. \n\nYea, I shall remember for aye and a \nday \n\nThe keen taunts thrown in a boy face, \nwhen \n\nHe cried unto God for the love of \nmen.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nEnough, ay and more than enough, \nof this! \n\nI know that the sunshine must follow \nthe rain; \n\nAnd if this be the winter, why spring \nagain \n\nMust come in its season, full \nblossom\xe2\x80\x99d with bliss. \n\n\n\nVale! America \n\n\n337 \n\n\n1 will lean to the storm, though the \nwinds blow strong. \xe2\x80\x9e . . \n\nYea, the winds they have blown and \nhave shaken me\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs the winds blow songs through a \nshattered old tree, \n\nThey have blown this broken and \ncareless set song. \n\nThey have sung this song, be it \nnever so bad; \n\nHave blown upon me and play\xe2\x80\x99d upon \n\nme, \n\nHave broken the notes,\xe2\x80\x94blown sad, \nblown glad; \n\nJust as the winds blow fierce and \nfree \n\nA barren, a blighted, and a cursed fig \ntree. \n\nAnd if I grow careless and heed no \nwhit \n\nWhether it please or what comes of \nit, \n\nWhy, talk to the winds, then, and not \nto me. \n\n\nThe quest of love? \xe2\x80\x99Tis the quest \nof troubles; \n\n\'Tis the wind through the woods of \nthe Oregon. \n\nSit down, sit down, for the world goes \n\n\non \n\n\nPrecisely the same; and the rainbow \nbubbles \n\n\nOf lo^e, they gather, or break, or \nblow, \n\nWhether you bother your brain or \nno; \n\nAnd for all your troubles and all your \ntears, \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twere just the same in a hundred \nyears. \n\nBy the populous land, or the lone\xc2\xac \nsome sea, \n\nLo! these were the gifts of the gods to \nmen,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThree miserable gifts, and only \nthree: \n\nTo love, to forget, and to die\xe2\x80\x94and \nthen? \n\nTo love in peril, and bitter-sweet \npain, \n\nAnd then, forgotten, lie down and \ndie: \n\nOne moment of sun, whole seasons of \nrain, \n\nThen night is roll\xe2\x80\x99d to the door of the \nsky. \n\nTo love? To sit at her feet and to \nweep; \n\nTo climb to her face, hide your face \nin her hair; \n\nTo nestle you there like a babe in its \nsleep, \n\nAnd, too, like a babe, to believe\xe2\x80\x94it \nstings there! \n\nTo love! \xe2\x80\x99Tis to suffer, \xe2\x80\x9cLie close to \nmy breast, \n\nLike a fair ship in haven, O darling!\xe2\x80\x9d \nI cried. * \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYour round arms outreaching to \nheaven for rest \n\nMake signal to death.\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 .... Death \nchme, and love died. \n\nTo forget? To forget, mount horse \nand clutch sword; \n\nTake ship and make sail to the ice- \nprison\xe2\x80\x99d seas, \n\n\n22 \n\n\n\n\n\n338 \n\n\n\xe2\x96\xa0*4Jalc! America \n\n\nWrite books and preach lies; range \nlands; or go hoard \n\nA grave full of gold, and buy wines\xe2\x80\x94 \nand drink lees: \n\nThen die; and die cursing, and call it \na prayer! \n\nIs earth but a top\xe2\x80\x94a boy-god\xe2\x80\x99s \ndelight, \n\nTo be spun for his pleasure, while \nman\xe2\x80\x99s despair \n\nBreaks out like a wail of the damn\xe2\x80\x99d \nthrough the night? \n\nSit down in the darkness and weep \nwith me \n\nOn the edge of the world. Lo, love \nlies dead! \n\nAnd the earth and the sky, and the \nsky and the sea, \n\nSeem shutting together as a book that \nis read. \n\nYet what have we learn\'d? We \nlaugh\xe2\x80\x99d with delight \n\nIn the morning at school, and kept \ntoying with all \n\nTime\xe2\x80\x99s silly playthings. Now \nwearied ere night, \n\nWe must cry for dark-mother, her \ncradle the pall. \n\n\'Twere better blow trumpets \n\xe2\x80\x99gainst love, keep away \n\nThat traitorous urchin with fire or \nshower, \n\nThan have him come near you for one \nlittle hour. \n\nTake physic, consult with your doc\xc2\xac \ntor, as you \n\nWould fight a contagion; carry all \nthrough \n\n\nThe populous day some drug that \nsmells loud, \n\nAs you pass on your way, or make \nway through the crowd. \n\nTalk war, or carouse; only keep off \nthe day \n\nOf his coming, with every hard means \nin your way. \n\nBlow smoke in the eyes of the world \nand laugh \n\nWith the broad-chested men, as you \nloaf at your inn, \n\nAs you crowd to your inn from your \nsaddle and quaff \n\nRed wine from a horn; while your \ndogs at your feet, \n\nYour slim spotted dogs, like the fawn, \nand as fleet, \n\nCrouch patiently by and look up at \nyour face, \n\nAs they wait for the call of the horn \nto the chase; \n\nFor you shall not suffer, and you shall \nnot sin \n\nUntil peace goes out just as love \ncomes in. \n\nLove horses and hounds, meet \nmany good men\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYea, men are most proper, and keep \nyou from care. \n\nThere is strength in a horse. There \nis pride in his will; \n\nIt is sweet to look back as you climb \nthe steep hill. \n\nThere is room. You have movement \nof limb; you have air, \n\nHave the smell of the wood, of the \ngrasses; and then \n\n\n\n\n3&ome \n\n\n339 \n\n\nWhat comfort to rest, as you lie \nthrown full length \n\nAll night and alone, with your fists \nfull of strength! \n\nGo away, go away with your bitter\xc2\xac \nsweet pain \n\nOf love; for love is the story of \ntroubles, \n\n\nOf troubles and love, that travel to\xc2\xac \ngether \n\nThe round world round. Behold the \nbubbles \n\nOf love! Then troubles and turbu\xc2\xac \nlent weather. \n\nWhy, man had all Eden! Then love, \nthen Cain! \n\n\nROME \n\n\nI \n\nSome leveled hills, a wall, a dome \nThat lords its gold cross to the skies, \nWhile at its base a beggar cries \nFor bread, and dies, and\xe2\x80\x94this is \nRome. \n\nII \n\nYet Rome is Rome, and Rome she \nmust \n\nAnd shall remain beside her gates, \nAnd tribute take of Kings and \nStates, \n\nUntil the stars have fallen to dust. \n\n\nIII \n\nYea, Time on yon Campagnan \nplain \n\nHas pitched in siege his battle-tents; \n\nAnd round about her battlements \n\nHas marched and trumpeted in \nvain. \n\nIV \n\nThese skies are Rome! The very \nloam \n\nLifts up and speaks in Roman pride; \n\nAnd Time, outfaced and still defied, \n\nSits by and wags his beard at Rome. \n\n\nATTILA\xe2\x80\x99S THRONE, TORCELLO \n\n\nI do recall some sad days spent \nBy borders of the Orient, \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twould make a tale. It matters not. \nI sought the loneliest seas; I sought \nThe solitude of ruins, and forgot \nMine own life and my littleness \nBefore this fair land\xe2\x80\x99s mute distress. \n\nSlow sailing through the reedy \nisles, \n\n\nSome sunny summer yesterdays, \n\nI watched the storied yellow sail, \nAnd lifted prow of steely mail; \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis all that\xe2\x80\x99s left Torcello now,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA pirate\xe2\x80\x99s yellow sail, a prow. \n\nI touch\xe2\x80\x99d Torcello. Once on land, \nI took a sea-shell in my hand, \n\nAnd blew like any trumpeter. \n\nI felt the fig leaves lift and stir \n\n\n\n\n\n\n340 \n\n\nSttila\xe2\x80\x99s \xc2\xaef)nme, \xc2\xaeorceIlo \n\n\nOn trees that reach from ruin\xe2\x80\x99d wall \nAbove my head,\xe2\x80\x94but that was all. \nBack from the farther island shore \nCame echoes trooping\xe2\x80\x94nothing more. \n\nBy cattle paths grass-grown and \nworn, \n\nThrough marbled streets all stain\xe2\x80\x99d \nand torn \n\nBy time and battle, lone I walk\xe2\x80\x99d. \n\nA bent old beggar, white as one \nFor better fruitage blossoming, \n\nCame on. And as he came he talk\xe2\x80\x99d \nUnto himself; for there were none \nIn all his island, old and dim, \n\nTo answer back or question him. \n\nI turn\xe2\x80\x99d, retraced my steps once \nmore. \n\nThe hot miasma steam\xe2\x80\x99d and rose \nIn deadly vapor from the reeds \nThat grew from out the shallow shore, \nWhere peasants say the sea-horse \nfeeds, \n\nAnd Neptune shapes his horn and \nblows. \n\nYet here stood Adria once, and \nhere \n\nAttila came with sword and flame, \nAnd set his throne of hollow\xe2\x80\x99d stone \nIn her high mart. And it remains \nStill lord o\xe2\x80\x99er all. Where once the \ntears \n\nOf mute petition fell, the rains \nOf heaven fall. Lo! all alone \nThere lifts this massive empty \nthrone. \n\nI climb\xe2\x80\x99d and sat that throne of \nstone \n\n\nTo contemplate, to dream, to reign\xe2\x80\x94 \nAy, reign above myself; to call \nThe people of the past again \nBefore me as I sat alone \nIn all my kingdom. There were \nkine \n\nThat browsed along the reedy brine, \nAnd now and then a tusky boar \nWould shake the high reeds of the \nshore, \n\nA bird blow by,\xe2\x80\x94but that was all. \n\nI watch\xe2\x80\x99d the lonesome sea-gull \npass. \n\nI did remember and forget,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe past roll\xe2\x80\x99d by; I lived alone. \n\nI sat the shapely, chisell\xe2\x80\x99d stone \nThat stands in tall, sweet grasses \nset; \n\nAy, girdled deep in long, strong grass, \nAnd green alfalfa. Very fair \nThe heavens were, and still and \nblue, \n\nFor Nature knows no changes there. \nThe Alps of Venice, far away, \n\nLike some half-risen late moon lay. \n\nHow sweet the grasses at my feet! \nThe smell of clover over-sweet. \n\nI heard the hum of bees. The bloom \nOf clover-tops and cherry-trees \nWas being rifled by the bees, \n\nAnd these were building in a tomb. \nThe fair alfalfa\xe2\x80\x94such as has \nUsurp\xe2\x80\x99d the Occident, and grows \nWith all the sweetness of the rose \nOn Sacramento\xe2\x80\x99s sundown hills\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIs there, and that dead island fills \nWith fragrance. Yet the smell of \ndeath \n\nComes riding in on every breath. \n\n\n( \n\n\n\n^enttc \n\n\n34i \n\n\nThat sad, sweet fragrance. It had \nsense, \n\nAnd sound, and voice. It was a \npart \n\nOf that which had possess\xe2\x80\x99d my \nheart, \n\nAnd would not of my will go hence, \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas Autumn\xe2\x80\x99s breath; sad as the \nkiss \n\nOf some sweet worshipp\xe2\x80\x99d woman is. \n\nSome snails had climb\xe2\x80\x99d the throne \nand writ \n\nTheir silver monograms on it \n\nIn unknown tongues. I sat thereon, \n\nI dream\'d until the day was gone; \n\nI blew again my pearly shell,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBlew long and strong, and loud and \nwell; \n\n\nI puff\xe2\x80\x99d my cheeks, I blew as when \nHorn\xe2\x80\x99d satyrs piped and danced as \nmen. \n\nSome mouse-brown cows that fed \nwithin \n\nLook\xe2\x80\x99d up. A cowherd rose hard by, \nMy single subject, clad in skin, \n\nNor yet half-clad. I caught his eye,\xe2\x80\x94 \nHe stared at me, then turn\xe2\x80\x99d and \nfled. \n\nHe frighten\xe2\x80\x99d fled, and as he ran, \nLike wild beast from the face of man \nBack o\xe2\x80\x99er his shoulder threw his head. \nHe stopp\xe2\x80\x99d, and then this subject \ntrue, \n\nMine only one in all the isle, \n\nTurn\xe2\x80\x99d round, and, with a fawning \nsmile, \n\nCame back and ask\'d me for a sou! \n\n\nVENICE \n\n\nCity at sea, thou art surely an ark, \n\nSea-blown and a-wreck in the rain \nand dark, \n\nWhere the white sea-caps are so toss\xe2\x80\x99d \nand curl\xe2\x80\x99d. \n\nThy sins they were many\xe2\x80\x94and be\xc2\xac \nhold the flood! \n\nAnd here and about us are beasts in \nstud. \n\nCreatures and beasts that creep and \ngo, \n\nEnough, ay, and wicked enough I \nknow, \n\nTo populate, or devour, a world. \n\nO wrinkled old lion, looking down \n\nWith brazen frown upon mine and me. \n\n\nFrom tower a-top of your watery \ntown, \n\nOld king of the desert, once king of \nthe sea: \n\nList! here is a lesson for thee to-day. \n\nProud and immovable monarch, I \nsay, \n\nLo! here is a lesson to-day for thee, \n\nOf the things that were and the things \nto be. \n\nDank palaces held by the populous \nsea \n\nFor the good dead men, all co\\er\xe2\x80\x99d \nwith shell,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWe will pay them a visit some day; \nand we, \n\n\n\n\n342 \n\n\n& hailstorm in Venice \n\n\nWe may come to love their old \npalaces well. \n\nBah! toppled old columns all tumbled \nacross, \n\nToss\xe2\x80\x99d in the waters that lift and fall, \n\nWaving in waves long masses of \nmoss, \n\nToppled old columns,\xe2\x80\x94and that will \nbe all. \n\nI know you, lion of gray Saint \nMark; \n\nYou flutter\xe2\x80\x99d all seas beneath your \nwing. \n\nNow, over the deep, and up in the \ndark, \n\nHigh over the girdles of bright \ngaslight, \n\nWith wings in the air as if for \nflight, \n\nAnd crouching as if about to spring \n\nFrom top of your granite of Africa,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSay, what shall be said of you some \nday? \n\nWhat shall be said, O grim Saint \nMark, \n\nSavage old beast so cross\xe2\x80\x99d and \nchurl\xe2\x80\x99d, \n\n\nBy the after-men from the under\xc2\xac \nworld ? \n\nWhat shall be said as they search \nalong \n\nAnd sail these seas for some sign or \nspark \n\nOf the old dead fires of the dear old \ndays, \n\nWhen men and story have gone their \nways, \n\nOr even your city and name from \nsong? \n\nWhy, sullen old monarch of still\'d \nSaint Mark, \n\nStrange men of my West, wise- \nmouth \xe2\x80\x99d and strong, \n\nWill come some day and, gazing \nlong \n\nAnd mute with wonder, will say of \nthee: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThis is the Saint! High over the \ndark, \n\nFoot on the Bible and great teeth \nbare, \n\nTail whipp\xe2\x80\x99d back and teeth in the \nair\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLo! this is the Saint, and none but \nhe!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nA HAILSTORM IN VENICE \n\n\nThe hail like cannon-shot struck \nthe sea \n\nAnd churn\xe2\x80\x99d it white as a creamy \nfoam; \n\nThen hail like battle-shot struck \nwhere we \n\nStood looking a-sea from a sea-girt \nhome\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nCame shooting askance as if shot at \nthe head; \n\nThen glass flew shiver\xe2\x80\x99d and men fell \ndown \n\nAnd pray\'d where they fell, and the \ngray old town \n\nLay riddled and helpless as if shot \ndead. \n\n\n( \n\n\n\n\nibanta JWatta: Corcello \n\n\n343 \n\n\nThen lightning right full in the \neyes! and then \n\nFair women fell down flat on the \nface, \n\nAnd pray\xe2\x80\x99d their pitiful Mother with \ntears, \n\nAnd pray\xe2\x80\x99d black death as a hiding- \nplace; \n\n\nAnd good priests pray\xe2\x80\x99d for the sea- \nbound men \n\nAs never good priests had pray\xe2\x80\x99d for \nyears. . . . \n\nThen God spake thunder! And then \nthe rain! \n\nThe great, white, beautiful, high\xc2\xac \nborn rain! \n\n\nSANTA MARIA: TORCELLO \n\n\nAnd yet again through the watery \nmiles \n\nOf reeds I row\xe2\x80\x99d, till the desolate \nisles \n\nOf the black-bead makers of Venice \nwere not. \n\nI touch\xe2\x80\x99d where a single sharp tower is \nshot \n\nTo heaven, and torn by thunder and \nrent \n\nAs if it had been Time\xe2\x80\x99s battlement. \n\nA city lies dead, and this great grave\xc2\xac \nstone \n\nStands on its grave like a ghost \nalone. \n\nSome cherry-trees grow here, and \nhere \n\nAn old church, simple and severe \n\nIn ancient aspect, stands alone \n\nAmid the ruin and decay, all grown \n\nIn moss and grasses. Old and \nquaint, \n\nWith antique cuts of martyr\xe2\x80\x99d \nsaint, \n\nThe gray church stands with stooping \nknees, \n\nDefying the decay of seas. \n\n\nHer pictured hell, with flames \nblown high, \n\nIn bright mosaics wrought and \nset \n\nWhen men first knew the Nubian \nart; \n\nHer bearded saints as black as \njet; \n\nHer quaint Madonna, dim with \nrain \n\nAnd touch of pious lips of pain, \n\nSo touch\xe2\x80\x99d my lonesome soul, that I \n\nGazed long, then came and gazed \nagain, \n\nAnd loved, and took her to my \nheart. \n\nNor monk in black, nor Capucin, \n\nNor priest of any creed was seen. \n\nA sunbrown\xe2\x80\x99d woman, old and \ntall, \n\nAnd still as any shadow is, \n\nStole forth from out the mossy wall \n\nWith massive keys to show me \nthis: \n\nCame slowly forth, and, following, \n\nThree birds\xe2\x80\x94and all with drooping \nwing. \n\n\n\n\n344 \n\n\n3fit a (flcmbola \n\n\nThree mute brown babes of hers; \nand they\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOh, they were beautiful as sleep, \n\nOr death, below the troubled deep! \nAnd on the pouting lips of these, \n\nRed corals of the silent seas, \n\nSweet birds, the everlasting seal \nOf silence that the God has set \nOn this dead island sits for aye. \n\nI would forget, yet not forget \nTheir helpless eloquence. They \ncreep \n\nSomehow into my heart, and keep \nOne bleak, cold corner, jewel set. \nThey steal my better self away \nTo them, as little birds that day \nStole fruits from out the cherry- \ntrees. \n\nSo helpless and so wholly still, \n\nSo sad, so wrapt in mute surprise, \n\n\nIN A C \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas night in Venice. Then down \nto the tide, \n\nWhere a tall and a shadowy gondo\xc2\xac \nlier \n\nLean\xe2\x80\x99d on his oar, like a lifted \nspear;\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas night in Venice; then side by \nside \n\nWe sat in his boat. Then oar \na-trip \n\nOn the black boat\xe2\x80\x99s keel, then dip \nand dip, \n\nThese boatmen should build their \nboats more wide, \n\n\nThat I did love, despite my will. \n\nOne little maid of ten\xe2\x80\x94such eyes, \n\nSo large and lovely, so divine! \n\nSuch pouting lips, such pearly cheek \nDid lift her perfect eyes to mine, \nUntil our souls did touch and \nspeak\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nStood by me all that perfect day, \n\nYet not one sweet word could she \nsay. \n\nShe turn\xe2\x80\x99d her melancholy eyes \nSo constant to my own, that I \nForgot the going clouds, the sky; \nFound fellowship, took bread and \nwine: \n\nAnd so her little soul and mine \nStood very near together there. \n\nAnd oh, I found her very fair! \n\nYet not one soft word could she \nsay: \n\nWhat did she think of all that day? \n\n\nFor we were together, and side by \nside. \n\nThe sea it was level as seas of \nlight, \n\nAs still as the light ere a hand was \nlaid \n\nTo the making of lands, or the seas \nwere made. \n\n\'Twas fond as a bride on her bridal \nnight \n\nWhen a great love swells in her soul \nlike a sea, \n\nAnd makes her but less than divinity. \n\n\n\n\nCapucin of 3&ome \n\n\n345 \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas night,\xe2\x80\x94The soul of the day, I \nwis. \n\nA woman\xe2\x80\x99s face hiding from her first \nkiss. \n\n. . Ah, how one wanders! Yet \nafter it all, \n\n1 o laugh at all lovers and to learn to \nscoff. . . . \n\nWhen you really have naught of \naccount to say, \n\nIt is better, perhaps, to pull leaves by \nthe way; \n\nWatch the round moon rise, or the red \nstars fall; \n\nAnd then, too, in Venice! dear, moth- \neaten town; \n\nOne palace of pictures; great frescoes \nspill\xe2\x80\x99d down \n\n\nOutside the walls from the fullness \nthereof:\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas night in Venice. On o\xe2\x80\x99er \nthe tide\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThese boats they are narrow as they \ncan be, \n\nThese crafts they are narrow enough, \nand we, \n\nTo balance the boat, sat side by \nside\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOut under the arch of the Bridge of \nSighs, \n\nOn under the arch of the star-sown \nskies; \n\nWe two were together on the Adrian \nSea,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe one fair woman of the world to \nme. \n\n\nTHE CAPUCIN OF ROME \n\n\nOnly a basket for fruits or bread \n\nAnd the bits you divide with your \ndog, which you \n\nHad left from your dinner. The \nround year through \n\nHe never once smiles. He bends his \nhead \n\nTo the scorn of men. He gives the \nroad \n\nTo the grave ass groaning beneath his \nload. \n\nHe is ever alone. Lo! never a hand \n\nIs laid in his hand through the whole \nwid.e land, \n\nSave when a man dies, and he shrives \nhim home. \n\nAnd that is the Capucin monk of \nRome. \n\n\nHe coughs, he is hump\xe2\x80\x99d, and he \nhobbles about \n\nIn sandals of wood. Then a hempen \ncord \n\nGirdles his loathsome gown. \nAbhorr\xe2\x80\x99d! \n\nAy, lonely, indeed, as a leper cast \nout. \n\nOne gown in three years! and\xe2\x80\x94bah! \nhow he smells! \n\nHe slept last night in his coffin of \nstone, \n\nThis monk that coughs, this skin \nand bone, \n\nThis living dead corpse from the \ndamp, cold cells,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGo ye where the Pincian, half-level\xe2\x80\x99d \ndown, \n\n\n\n\n\n\n346 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje Capucitt of Borne \n\n\nSlopes slow to the south. These \nmen in brown \n\nHave a monkery there, quaint, \nbuilded of stone; \n\nAnd, living or dead, \'tis the brown \nmen\xe2\x80\x99s home,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThese dead brown monks who are \nliving in Rome! \n\nYou will hear wood sandals on the \nsanded floor; \n\nA cough, then the lift of a latch, then \nthe door \n\nGroans open, and\xe2\x80\x94horror! Four \nwalls of stone \n\nAll gorgeous with flowers and frescoes \nof bone! \n\nThere are bones in the corners and \nbones on the wall; \n\nAnd he barks like a dog that watches \nhis bone, \n\nThis monk in brown from his bed of \nstone\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe barks, and he coughs, and that is \nall. \n\nAt last he will cough as if up from his \ncell; \n\nThen strut with considerable pride \nabout, \n\nAnd lead through his blossoms of \nbone, and smell \n\nTheir odors; then talk, as he points \nthem out, \n\nOf the virtues and deeds of the gents \nwho wore \n\nThe respective bones but the year \nbefore. \n\nThen he thaws at last, ere the bones \nare through, \n\n\nAnd talks right well as he turns them \nabout \n\nAnd stirs up a most unsavory smell; \n\nYea, talks of his brown dead brothers, \ntill you \n\nWish them, as they are, no doubt, in \n\xe2\x80\x94well, \n\nA very deep well. . . . And that may \nbe why, \n\nAs he shows you the door and bows \ngood-by, \n\nThat he bows so low for a franc or \ntwo, \n\nTo shrive their souls and to get them \nout\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThese bony brown men who have \ntheir home, \n\nDead or alive, in their cells at \nRome. \n\n\nWhat good does he do in the world? \nAh! well, \n\nNow that is a puzzler. . . . But, \nlisten! He prays. \n\nHis life is the fast of the forty days. \n\nHe seeks the despised; he divides the \nbread \n\nThat he begg\xe2\x80\x99d on his knees, does this \nold shavehead. \n\nAnd then, when the thief and the \nbeggar fell! \n\nAnd then, when the terrible plague \ncame down, \n\nChrist, how we cried to these men in \nbrown \n\nWhen other men fled! Ah, who then \n\nwas seen \n\nStand firm to the death like the \nCapucin? \n\n\n\n\nFROM SHADOWS OF SHASTA, 1881 \n\n\n\n\n347 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMOUNT SHASTA \n\n\nTo lord all Godland! lift the brow \nFamiliar to the moon, to top \nThe universal world, to prop \nThe hollow heavens up, to vow \nStern constancy with stars, to \nkeep \n\nEternal watch while eons sleep; \n\nTo tower proudly up and touch \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s purple garment-hems that \nsweep \n\nThe cold blue north! Oh, this were \nmuch! \n\nA LAND THAT MAN \n\nA land that man has newly trod, \n\nA land that only God has known, \nThrough all the soundless cycles \nflown. \n\nYet perfect blossoms bless the sod, \nAnd perfect birds illume the \ntrees \n\nAnd perfect unheard harmonies \nPour out eternally to God. \n\n\nWhere storm-born shadows hide and \nhunt \n\nI knew thee, in thy glorious youth, \n\nAnd loved thy vast face, white as truth. \n\nI stood where thunderbolts were wont \n\nTo smite thy Titan-fashioned front, \n\nAnd heard dark mountains rock and \nroll; \n\nI saw the lighting\xe2\x80\x99s gleaming rod \n\nReach forth and write on heaven\xe2\x80\x99s \nscroll \n\nThe awful autograph of God! \n\nHAS NEWLY TROD \n\nA thousand miles of mighty wood \nWhere thunder-storms stride fire- \nshod; \n\nA thousand flowers every rod, \n\nA stately tree on every rood; \n\nTen thousand leaves on every tree, \nAnd each a miracle to me; \n\nAnd yet there be men who question \nGod! \n\n\nTHE MOUNTAINS \n\n\nThe mountains from that fearful first \nNamed day were God\xe2\x80\x99s own house. \nBehold, \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas here dread Sinai\xe2\x80\x99s thunders \nburst \n\n\nAnd showed His face. \xe2\x80\x99Twas here of \nold \n\nHis prophets dwelt. Lo, it was here \nThe Christ did come when death drew \nnear. \n\n\n349 \n\n\n\n\n\n350 \n\n\nJfor tfje JUgfjt \n\n\nGive me God\xe2\x80\x99s wondrous upper world \nThat makes familiar with the moon; \nThese stony altars, they have hurled \n\nFOR THE \n\n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98For the Right! as God has given \nMan to see the Maiden Right!" \n\nFor the Right, through thickest \nnight, \n\nTill the man-brute Wrong be driven \nFrom high places; till the Right \nShall lift like some grand beacon \nlight. \n\n\nOppression back, have kept the boon \nOf liberty. Behold, how free \nThe mountains stand, and eternally. \n\nRIGHT \n\nFor the Right! Love, Right and \nDuty; \n\nLift the world up, though you \nfall \n\nHeaped with dead before the wall; \nGod can find a soul of beauty \nWhere it falls, as gems of worth \nAre found by miners dark in earth. \n\n\nO, THE MOCKERY OF PITY \n\n\nO, the mockery of pity! \n\nWeep with fragrant handker\xc2\xac \nchief, \n\nIn pompous luxury of grief, \n\nSelfish, hollow-hearted city? \n\n\nO these money-getting times! \n\nWhat\xe2\x80\x99s a heart for? What\xe2\x80\x99s a \nhand, \n\nBut to seize and shake the land, \nTill it tremble for its crimes? \n\n\nO TRANQUIL MOON \n\n\nO tranquil moon! O pitying moon! \nPut forth thy cool, protecting \npalms, \n\nAnd cool their eyes with cooling \nalms, \n\nAgainst the burning tears of noon. \n\n\nO saintly, noiseless-footed nun! \n\nO sad-browed patient mother, keep \nThy homeless children while they \nsleep, \n\nAnd kiss them, weeping, every \none. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nLOG CABIN LINES \n\n\n351 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nV \n\n\n\n4 \n\nTHE SOLDIERS\xe2\x80\x99 HOME, WASHINGTON \n\n\nThe monument, tipped with elec\xc2\xac \ntric fire, \n\nBlazed high in a halo of light below \n\nMy low cabin door in the hills that \ninspire; \n\nAnd the dome of the Capitol gleamed \nlike snow \n\nIn a glory of light, as higher and \nhigher \n\nThis wondrous creation of man was \nsent \n\nTo challenge the lights of the firma\xc2\xac \nment. \n\nA tall man, tawny and spare as \nbone, \n\nWith battered old hat and with feet \nhalf bare, \n\nWith the air of a soldier that was all \nhis own\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAye, something more than a soldier\xe2\x80\x99s \nair\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nCame clutching a staff, with a face \nlike .stone; \n\nLimped in through my gate\xe2\x80\x94and I \nthought to beg\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTight clut? hing a staff, slow dragging \na leg. \n\nThe bent new moon, like a simitar, \n\nKept peace in Heaven. All earth lay \nstill. \n\nSome sentinel stars stood watch \nafar, \n\n\nSome crickets kept clanging along the \nhill, \n\nAs the tall, stern relic of blood and \nwar \n\nLimped in, and, with hand up to brow \nhalf raised, \n\nLimped up, looked about, as one \ndazed or crazed. \n\nHis gaunt face pleading for food \nand rest, \n\nHis set lips white as a tale of shame, \n\nHis black coat tight to a shirtless \nbreast, \n\nHis black eyes burning in mine-like \nflame; \n\nBut never a word from his set lips \ncame \n\nAs he whipped in line his battered old \nleg, \n\nAnd his knees made mouths, and as if \nto beg. \n\nAye! black were his eyes; but \ndoubtful and dim \n\nTheir vision of beautiful earth, I \nthink. \n\nAnd I doubt if the distant, dear \nworlds to him \n\nWere growing brighter as he neared \nthe brink \n\nOf dolorous seas where phantom ships \nswim. \n\n\n23 \n\n\n353 \n\n\n\n354 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje ikiltuerg\' $ome, \xc2\xa9Hagfjingtan \n\n\nFor his face was as hard as the hard, \nthin hand \n\nThat clutched that staff like an iron \nband. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Sir, I am a soldier! \xe2\x80\x9d The battered \nold hat \n\nStood up as he spake, like to one on \nparade\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nStood taller and braver as he spake \nout that\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd the tattered old coat, that was \ntightly laid \n\nTo the battered old breast, looked so \ntrim thereat \n\nThat I knew the mouths of the bat\xc2\xac \ntered old leg \n\nThat had opened wide were not made \nto beg. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI have wandered and wandered \nthis twenty year, \n\nSearched up and down for my regi\xc2\xac \nments. \n\nHave they gone to that field where no \nfoes appear? \n\nHave they pitched in Heaven their \ncloud-white tents? \n\nOr, tell me, my friend, shall I find \nthem here \n\nOn the hill beyond, at the Soldiers\xe2\x80\x99 \nHome, \n\nWhere the weary soldiers have ceased \nto roam? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAye, I am a soldier and a briga\xc2\xac \ndier; \n\nIs this the way to the Soldiers\xe2\x80\x99 Home? \n\nThere is plenty and rest for us all, I \nhear, \n\n\nAnd a bugler, bidding us cease to \nroam, \n\nRides over the hill all the livelong \nyear\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nRides calling and calling the brave to \ncome \n\nAnd rest and rest in that Soldier\xe2\x80\x99s \nHome. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIs this, sir, the way? I wandered \nin here \n\nJ ust as one oft will at the close of day. \n\nAye, I am a soldier, and a brigadier! \n\nNow, the Soldiers\xe2\x80\x99 Home, sir. Is \nthis the way? \n\nI have wandered and wandered this \ntwenty year, \n\nSeeking some trace of my regiments \n\nSabered and riddled and tom to rents. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAye, I am a soldier and a briga\xc2\xac \ndier! \n\nA battered old soldier in the dusk of \nhis day; \n\nBut you don\xe2\x80\x99t seem to heed, or you \ndon\xe2\x80\x99t seem to hear, \n\nThough, meek as I may, I ask for the \nway \n\nTo the Soldiers\xe2\x80\x99 Home, which must \nbe quite near, \n\nWhile under your oaks, in your easy \nchair, \n\nYou sit and you sit, and you stare \nand you stare. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat battle? What deeds did I \ndo in the fight? \n\nWhy, sir, I have seen green fields \nturn as red \n\nAs yonder red town in that marvelous \nlight! \n\n\n\n355 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefjc Hxilbiers\xe2\x80\x99 J^ome, (Washington \n\n\nThen the great blazing guns! Then \nthe ghastly white dead\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut, tell me, I faint, I must cease to \nroam! \n\nThis battered leg aches! Then this \nsabered old head\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIs\xe2\x80\x94 is this the way to the Soldiers\xe2\x80\x99 \nHome? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhy, I hear men say \xe2\x80\x99t is a Para\xc2\xac \ndise \n\nOn the green oak hills by the great \nred town; \n\nThat many old comrades shall meet \nmy eyes; \n\nThat a tasseled young trooper rides \nup and rides down, \n\nWith bugle horn blowing to the still \nblue skies, \n\nRides calling and calling us to rest \nand to stay \n\nIn that Soldiers\xe2\x80\x99 Home. Sir, is this \nthe way? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMy leg is so lame! Then this \nsabered old head\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAh! pardon me, sir, I never complain; \n\nBut the road is so rough, as I just \nnow said; \n\nAnd then there is this something that \ntroubles my brain. \n\nIt makes the light dance from yon \nCapitol\xe2\x80\x99s dome; \n\nIt makes the road dim as I doubtfully \ntread\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd\xe2\x80\x94sir, is this the way to the \nSoldiers\xe2\x80\x99 Home? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cFrom the first to the last in that \ndesperate war\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhy, I did my part. If I did not fall, \n\n\nA hair\xe2\x80\x99s breadth measure of this skull- \nbone scar \n\nWas all that was wanting; and then \nthis ball\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut what cared I? Ah! better by far \n\nHave a sabered old head and a shat\xc2\xac \ntered old knee \n\nTo the end, than not had the praise \nof Lee- \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat! What do I hear? No \nhome there for me? \n\nWhy, I heard men say that the war \nwas at end! \n\nOh, my head swims so.- and I scarce \ncan see! \n\nBut a soldier\xe2\x80\x99s a soldier, I think, my \nfriend, \n\nWherever that soldier may chance to \nbe! \n\nAnd wherever a soldier may chance to \nroam, \n\nWhy, a Soldiers\xe2\x80\x99 Home is a soldier\xe2\x80\x99s \nhome!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHe turned as to go; but he sank to \nthe grass; \n\nAnd I lifted my face to the firmament; \n\nFor I saw a sentinel white star \npass, \n\nLeading the way the old soldier \nwent. \n\nAnd the light shone bright from the \nCapitol\xe2\x80\x99s dome, \n\nAh, brighter from Washington\xe2\x80\x99s \nmonument, \n\nLighting his way to the Soldiers, \nHome. \n\nThe Cabin, Washington, D. C. \n\n\n\n\n356 \n\n\n\xc2\xa9libe \n\n\nOLIVE \n\n\nDove-horne symbol, olive bough; \nDove-hued sign from God to men, \nAs if still the dove and thou \nKept companionship as then. \n\n\nDove-hued, holy branch of peace, \nAntique, all-enduring tree; \n\nDeluge and the floods surcease\xe2\x80\x94 \nDeluge and Gethsemane. \n\n\nTHE BATTLE FLAG AT SHENANDOAH \n\n\nThe tented field wore a wrinkled \nfrown, \n\nAnd the emptied church from the hill \nlooked down \n\nOn the emptied road and the emptied \ntown, \n\nThat summer Sunday morning. \n\nAnd here was the blue, and there \nwas the gray; \n\nAnd a wide green valley rolled away * \n\nBetween where the battling armies \n\nlay, \n\nThat sacred Sunday morning. \n\nAnd Custer sat, with impatient \nwill, \n\nHis restless horse, \xe2\x80\x99mid his troopers \nstill, \n\nAs he watched with glass from the \noak-set hill, \n\nThat silent Sunday morning. \n\nThen fast he began to chafe and to \nfret; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c There\xe2\x80\x99s a battle flag on a bayonet \n\nToo close to my own true soldiers set \n\nFor peace this Sunday morning!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cRide over, some one,\xe2\x80\x9d he haught\xc2\xac \nily said, \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd bring it to me! Why, in bars \nblood red \n\nAnd in stars I will stain it, and over\xc2\xac \nhead \n\nWill flaunt it this Sunday morning!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThen a West-born lad, pale-faced \nand slim, \n\nRode out, and touching his cap to \nhim, \n\nSwept down, swept swift as Spring \nswallows swim, \n\nThat anxious Sunday morning. \n\nOn, on through the valley! up, up, \nanywhere! \n\nThat pale-faced lad like a bird \nthrough the air \n\nKept on till he climbed to the banner \nthere \n\nThat bravest Sunday morning! \n\nAnd he caught up the flag, and \naround his waist \n\nHe wound it tight, and he turned in \nhaste, \n\nAnd swift his perilous route retraced \n\nThat daring Sunday morning. \n\nAll honor and praise to the trusty \nsteed! \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e ILotft Regiment 357 \n\n\nAh! boy, and banner, and all God \nspeed! \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s pity for you in your hour of \nneed \n\nThis deadly Sunday morning. \n\nO, deadly shot! and O, shower of \nlead! \n\nO, iron rain on the brave, bare \nhead! \n\nWhy, even the leaves from the trees \nfall dead \n\nThis dreadful Sunday morning! \n\nBut he gains the oaks! Men cheer \nin their might! \n\nBrave Custer is laughing in his de\xc2\xac \nlight! \n\nTHE LOST \n\nThe dying land cried; they heard \nher death-call, \n\nThese bent old men stopped, listened \nintent; \n\nThen rusty old muskets rushed down \nfrom the wall, \n\nAnd squirrel-guns gleamed in that \nregiment, \n\nAnd grandsires marched, old muskets \nin hand\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe last men left in the old South\xc2\xac \nland. \n\nThe gray grandsires! They were \nseen to reel, \n\nTheir rusty old muskets a wearisome \nload; \n\nThey marched, scarce tall as the \ncannon\xe2\x80\x99s wheel, \n\n\nWhy, he is embracing the boy outright \n\nThis glorious Sunday morning! \n\nBut, soft! Not a word has the pale \nboy said. \n\nHe unwinds the flag. It is starred, \nstriped, red \n\nWith his heart\xe2\x80\x99s best blood; and he \nfalls down dead, \n\nIn God\xe2\x80\x99s still Sunday morning. \n\nSo, wrap this flag to his soldier\xe2\x80\x99s \nbreast: \n\nInto stars and stripes it is stained and \nblest; \n\nAnd under the oaks let him rest and \nrest \n\nTill God\xe2\x80\x99s great Sunday morning. \n\nREGIMENT \n\nMarched stooping on up the corduroy \nroad; \n\nThese gray old boys, all broken and \nbent, \n\nMarched out, the gallant last regi\xc2\xac \nment. \n\nBut oh! that march through the \ncypress trees, \n\nWhen zest and excitement had died \naway! \n\nThat desolate march through the \nmarsh to the knees\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe gray moss mantling the battered \nand gray\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThese gray grandsires all broken and \nbent\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe gray moss mantling the regi\xc2\xac \nment. \n\n\n\n\n358 \n\n\n\xc2\xaeJje Host Regiment \n\n\nThe gray bent men and the mosses \ngray; \n\nThe dull dead gray of the uniform! \n\nThe dull dead skies, like to lead that \nday, \n\nDull, dead, heavy and deathly warm! \n\nOh, what meant more than the cy\xc2\xac \npress meant, \n\nWith its mournful moss, to that regi\xc2\xac \nment? \n\nThat deadly march through the \nmarshes deep! \n\nThat sultry day and the deeds in \nvain! \n\nThe rest on the cypress roots, the \nsleep\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe sleeping never to rise again! \n\nThe rust on the gims; the rust and \nthe rent\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat dying and desolate regiment! \n\nThe muskets left leaning against \nthe trees, \n\nThe cannon-wheels clogged from the \nmoss o\xe2\x80\x99er head, \n\nThe cypress trees bending on obsti\xc2\xac \nnate knees \n\nAs gray men kneeling by the gray \nmen dead! \n\nA lone bird rising, long legged and \ngray, \n\nSlow rising and rising and drifting \naway. \n\nThe dank dead mosses gave back \nno sound, \n\nThe drums lay silent as the drummers \nthere; \n\nThe sultry stillness it was so profound \n\n\nYou might have heard an unuttered \nprayer; \n\nAnd ever and ever and far away, \n\nKept drifting that desolate bird in \ngray. \n\nThe long gray shrouds of that cy\xc2\xac \npress wood, \n\nLike vails that sweep where the gray \nnuns weep\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat cypress moss o\xe2\x80\x99er the dankness \ndeep, \n\nWhy, the cypress roots they were \nrunning blood; \n\nAnd to right and to left lay an old \nman dead\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA mourning cypress set foot and head. \n\n\'Twas man hunting man in the \nwilderness there; \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas man hunting man and hunting \nto slay, \n\nBut nothing was found but death \nthat day, \n\nAnd possibly God\xe2\x80\x94and that bird in \ngray \n\nSlow rising and rising and drifting \naway. \n\nNow down in the swamp where the \ngray men fell \n\nThe fireflies volley and volley at \nnight, \n\nAnd black men belated are heard to \ntell \n\nOf the ghosts in gray in a mimic \n\xe2\x80\x94fight \n\nOf the ghosts of the gallant old men \nin gray \n\nWho silently died in the swamp that \nday. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nJletopott i&etosi 359 \n\nNEWPORT NEWS \n\n\nThe huge sea monster, the \xe2\x80\x9c Merri- \nmac"; \n\nThe mad sea monster, the \xe2\x80\x9cMoni\xc2\xac \ntor\xe2\x80\x9d; \n\nYou may sweep the sea, peer forward \nand back, \n\nBut never a sign or a sound of \nwar. \n\nA vulture or two in the heavens \nblue; \n\nA sweet town building, a boatman\xe2\x80\x99s \ncall: \n\nThe far sea-song of a pleasure \ncrew; \n\nThe sound of hammers. And that is \nall. \n\n\nAnd where are the monsters that \ntore this main? \n\nAnd where are the monsters that \nshook this shore? \n\nThe sea grew mad! And the shore \nshot flame! \n\nThe mad sea monsters they are no \nmore. \n\nThe palm, and the pine, and the sea \nsands brown; \n\nThe far sea songs of the pleasure \ncrews; \n\nThe air like balm in this building \ntown\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd that is the picture of Newport \nNews. \n\n\nTHE COMING OF SPRING \n\n\nMy own and my only Love some \nnight \n\nShall keep her tryst, shall come from \nthe South, \n\nAnd oh, her robe of magnolia white! \n\nAnd oh, and oh, the breath of her \nmouth! \n\nAnd oh, her grace in the grasses \nsweet! \n\nAnd oh, her love in the leaves new \nborn! \n\nAnd oh, and oh, her lily-white feet \n\nSet daintily down in the dew-wet \nmorn! \n\nThe drowsy cattle at night shall \nkneel \n\nAnd give God thanks, and shall dream \nand rest; \n\n\nThe stars slip down and a golden seal \n\nBe set on the meadows my Love has \nblest. \n\nCome back, my Love, come sud\xc2\xac \nden, come soon. \n\nThe world lies waiting as the cold \ndead lie; \n\nThe frightened winds wail and the \ncrisp-curled moon \n\nRides, wrapped in clouds, up the cold \ngray sky. \n\nOh, Summer, my Love, my first, \nlast Love! \n\nI sit all day by Potomac here, \n\nWaiting and waiting the voice of the \ndove; \n\nWaiting my darling, my ov 7 n, my dear. \n\nThe Cabin, Washington, D. C. \n\n\n\n\n360 \n\n\nSummer jttoons at Jtlount Vernon \n\nSUMMER MOONS AT MOUNT VERNON \n\n\nSuch musky smell of maiden night! \nSuch bridal bough, like orange tree! \nSuch wondrous stars! Yon lily \nmoon \n\nSeems like some long-lost afternoon! \n\nMore perfect than a string of pearls \nWe hold the full days of the year; \n\nThe days troop by like flower girls, \nAnd all the days are ours here. \n\nTHE POEM BY \n\nPaine! The Prison of France! \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 Lafayette! \n\nThe Bastile key to our Washington, \nWhose feet on the necks of tyrants \nset \n\nShattered their prisons every one. \n\nThe key hangs here on his white walls \nhigh, \n\nThat all shall see, that none shall \nforget \n\nWhat tyrants have been, what they \nmay be yet; \n\nAnd the Potomac rolling by. \n\nWASHINGTON BY \n\nThe snow was red with patriot \nblood, \n\nThe proud foe tracked the blood-red \nsnow. \n\nThe flying patriots crossed the flood \nA tattered, shattered band of woe. \nForlorn each barefoot hero stood, \nWith bare head bended low. \n\n\nHere youth must learn; here age may \nlive \n\nFull tide each day the year can give. \n\nNo frosted wall, no frozen hasp, \n\nShuts Nature\xe2\x80\x99s book from us today; \n\nHer palm leaves lift too high to clasp; \n\nHer college walls, the milky way. \n\nThe light is with us! Read and lead! \n\nThe larger book, the loftier deed! \n\nTHE POTOMAC \n\nOn Washington\xe2\x80\x99s walls let it rust \nand rust, \n\nAnd tell its story of blood and of tears, \n\nThat Time still holds to the Poet\xe2\x80\x99s \ntrust, \n\nTo people his pages for years and \nyears. \n\nThe monstrous shape on the white \nwalls high, \n\nLike a thief in chains let it rot and \nrust\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIts kings and adorers crowned in dust: \n\nAnd the Potomac rolling by. \n\nTHE DELAWARE \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLet us cross back! Death waits \nus here: \n\nRecross or die!\xe2\x80\x9d the chieftain said. \n\nA famished soldier dropped a tear\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA tear that froze as it was shed: \n\nFor oh, his starving babes were \ndear\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey had but this for bread! \n\n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xae!)e $rab\xc2\xa3srt Pattle \n\n\n361 \n\n\nA captain spake: \xe2\x80\x9cIt cannot be! \nThese bleeding men, why, what could \nthey? \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twould be as snowflakes in a sea!\xe2\x80\x9d \nThe worn chief did not heed or say. \nHe set his firm lips silently, \n\nThen turned aside to pray. \n\nAnd as he kneeled and prayed to \nGod, \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s finger spun the stars in space; \nHe spread his banner blue and broad, \nHe dashed the dead sun\xe2\x80\x99s stripes in \nplace, \n\nTill war walked heaven fire shod \nAnd lit the chieftain\xe2\x80\x99s face: \n\nTill every soldier\xe2\x80\x99s heart was stirred, \nTill every sword shook in its sheath\xe2\x80\x94 \n\xe2\x80\x9cUp! up! Face back. But not one \nword!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s flag above; the ice beneath\xe2\x80\x94 \nThey crossed so still, they only heard \nThe icebergs grinding their teeth! \n\nHo! Hessians, hirelings at meat \nWhile praying patriots hunger so! \nThen, bang! Boom! Bang! Death \nand defeat! \n\nAnd blood? Ay, blood upon the \nsnow! \n\nYet not the blood of patriot feet, \n\nBut heart\xe2\x80\x99s blood of the foe! \n\nO ye who hunger and despair! \n\nO ye who perish for the sun, \n\nLook up and dare, for God is there; \nAnd man can do what man has \ndone! \n\nThink, think of darkling Delaware! \nThink, think of Washington! \n\n\nTHE BRAVEST BATTLE \n\n\nThe bravest battle that ever was \nfought; \n\nShall I tell you where and when? \n\nOn the maps of the world you will \nfind it not; \n\nIt was fought by the mothers of \nmen. \n\nNay, not with cannon or battle shot, \n\nWith sword or braver pen; \n\nNay, not with eloquent word or \nthought, \n\nFrom mouths of wonderful men. \n\nBut deep in a woman\xe2\x80\x99s walled-up \nheart\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nOf woman that would not yield, \n\nBut patiently, silently bore her part\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLo! there in that battle-field. \n\nNo marshaling troop, no bivouac \nsong; \n\nNo banners to gleam and wave; \n\nAnd oh! these battles they last so \nlong\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFrom babyhood to the grave! \n\nYet, faithful still as a bridge of stars, \n\nShe fights in her walled-up town\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFights on and on in the endless \nwars, \n\nThen silent, unseen\xe2\x80\x94goes down. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE ULTIMATE WEST \n\nMy Mountains still are free! \n\nThey hurl oppression hack; \n\nThey keep the boon of liberty. \n\n\n363 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTO JUANITA \n\n\nYou will come my bird, Bonita? \nCome! For I by steep and stone \nHave built such nest for you, Juanita, \nAs not eagle bird hath known. \n\nRugged! Rugged as Parnassus! \nRude, as all roads I have trod\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYet are steeps and stone-strewn \npasses \n\nSmooth o\xe2\x80\x99erhead, and nearest God. \n\nHere black thunders of my canon \nShake its walls in Titan wars! \n\nHere white sea-born clouds com\xc2\xac \npanion \n\nWith such peaks as know the stars! \n\nHere madrona, manzanita\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHere the snarling chaparral \nHouse and hang o\xe2\x80\x99er steeps, Juanita, \nWhere the gaunt wolf loved to dwell! \n\nDear, I took these trackless masses \nFresh from Him who fashioned them; \nWrought in rock, and hewed fair \npasses, \n\nFlower set, as sets a gem. \n\nAye, I built in woe. God willed it; \nWoe that passeth ghosts of guilt; \n\n\nYet I built as His birds builded\xe2\x80\x94 \nBuilded, singing as I built. \n\nAll is finished! Roads of flowers \nWait your loyal little feet. \n\nAll completed? Nay, the hours \nTill you come are incomplete. \n\nSteep below me lies the valley, \nDeep below me lies the town, \n\nWhere great sea-ships ride and rally, \nAnd the world walks up and down. \n\nO, the sea of lights far streaming \nWhen the thousand flags are furled\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen the gleaming bay lies dreaming \nAs it duplicates the world! \n\nYou will come, my dearest, truest? \nCome my sovereign queen of ten; \n\nMy blue skies will then be bluest; \n\nMy white rose be whitest then: \n\nThen the song! Ah, then the saber \nFlashing up the walls of night! \n\nHate of wrong and love of neighbor\xe2\x80\x94 \nRhymes of battle for the Right! \n\nThe Hights, Cal. \n\n\n365 \n\n\n\n\n\n366 \n\n\nCalifornia\xe2\x80\x99s insurrection \n\nCALIFORNIA\xe2\x80\x99S RESURRECTION \n\n\nThe rain! The rain! The generous \nrain! \n\nAll things are his who knows to \nwait. \n\nBehold the rainbow bends again \n\nAbove the storied, gloried Gate\xe2\x80\x94 \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s written covenant to men \nIn Tyrian tints on cloth of gold, \n\nSuch as no tongue or pen hath \ntold! \n\nBehold brown grasses where you \npass\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA sleeping lion\xe2\x80\x99s tawny mane, \n\n\nBrown-breasted Mother Earth in \npain \n\nOf travail\xe2\x80\x94God\xe2\x80\x99s forgiving grass \nLong three days dead to rise again \nTo lead us upward, on and on\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nEach blade a shining saber drawn. \n\nBehold His Covenenat is true! \n\nLo! California soon shall wear \nAbout her ample breast each hue \nThat yonder hangs high-arched \nmid air! \n\nBehold the very grasses knew! \nBehold the Resurrection is! \n\nBehold what witness like to this? \n\n\nPLEASANT TO THE SIGHT \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd God planted a garden eastward in Eden wherein He caused to grow every tree \nthat is pleasant to the sight and good for food.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nBehold the tree, the lordly tree, \n\nThat fronts the four winds of the \nstorm, \n\nA fearless and defiant form \nThat mocks wild winter merrily! \nBehold the beauteous, budding tree \nWith censers swinging in the air, \nWith arms in attitude of prayer, \nWith myriad leaves, and every leaf \nA miracle of color, mold, \n\nMore gorgeous than a house of \ngold! \n\nEach leaf a poem of God\xe2\x80\x99s plan, \n\nEach leaf as from His book of old \nTo build, to bastion man\xe2\x80\x99s belief: \nMan\xe2\x80\x99s love of God, man\xe2\x80\x99s love of man. \n\nAye, love His trees, leaf, trunk, or \nroot, \n\n\nThe comely, stately, upright grace \n\nThat greets God\xe2\x80\x99s rain with lifted \nface; \n\nThe great, white beauteous, high\xc2\xac \nborn rain \n\nThat rides as white sails ride the main. \n\nThat wraps alike leaf, trunk or shoot. \n\nWhen sudden thunder lights his \ntorch \n\nAnd strides high Heaven\xe2\x80\x99s ample \nporch. \n\nAye, love God\xe2\x80\x99s tree, leaf, branch and \nroot. \n\nFor God set first the pleasant tree; \n\nThe \xe2\x80\x9cgood for food\xe2\x80\x9d came tardily. \n\nThe poor, blind hog knows but the \nfruit, \n\nAnd wallows in his fat and dies, \n\nA hog, up to his very eyes. \n\n\n\n\ne freest \n\nTHE TREES \n\n\n3*7 \n\n\nThe trees they lean\xe2\x80\x99d in their love \nunto trees, \n\nThat lock\xe2\x80\x99d in their loves, and were \nso made strong, \n\n\nStronger than armies; ay, stronger \nthan seas \n\nThat rush from their caves in a \nstorm of song. \n\n\nA HARD ROW FOR STUMPS \n\n\nYou ask for manliest, martial deeds? \n\nGo back to Ohio\xe2\x80\x99s natal morn\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGo back to Kentucky\xe2\x80\x99s fields of \ncom; \n\nJust weeds and stumps and stumps \nand weeds! \n\nJust red men blazing from stump and \ntree \n\nWhere buckskin\xe2\x80\x99d prophets \xe2\x80\x99midst \nstrife and stress \n\nCame crying, came dying in the \nwilderness, \n\nThat hard, first, cruel half-century! \n\nWhat psalms they sang! what prayers \nthey said, \n\nCabin or camp, as the wheels \nrolled west; \n\nSilently leaving their bravest, \nbest\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nPaving a Nation\xe2\x80\x99s path with their \ndead! \n\nWhat unnamed battles! what thumps \nand bumps! \n\nWhat saber slashes with the broad, \nbright hoe! \n\nWhat weeds in phalanx! what \nstumps in row! \n\nWhat rank vines fortressed in rows \nof stumps! \n\n\nJust stumps and nettles and weed- \nchoked corn \n\nTiptoeing to wave but one blade in \nair! \n\nDank milkweed here, and rank \nburdock there \n\nBesieging and storming that blade \nforlorn! \n\nSuch weed-bred fevers, slow sapping \nthe brave\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe homesick heart and the aching \nhead! \n\nThe hoe and the hoe, \xe2\x80\x99till the man \nlay dead \n\nAnd the great west wheels rolled over \nhis grave. \n\nAnd the saying grew, as sayings will \ngrow \n\nFrom hard endeavor and bangs and \nbumps: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHe got in a mighty hard row of \nstumps; \n\nBut he tried, and died trying to hoe \nhis row.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nO braver and brighter this ten-pound \nhoe, \n\nThan brightest, broad saber of \nWaterloo! \n\nNor ever fell soldier more truly true \n\n\n\n\n\n368 S 3&oto for Stumps* \n\n\nThan he who died trying to hoe his \nrow. \n\nThe weeds are gone and the stumps \nare gone\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe huge hop-toad and the copper\xc2\xac \nhead, \n\nAnd a million bent sabers flash \ntriumph instead \n\nFrom stately, clean corn in the \ndiamond-sown dawn. \n\nBut the heroes have vanished, save \nhere and there, \n\nFar out and afield like some storm- \nriven tree, \n\nLeans a last survivor of Ther\xc2\xac \nmopylae, \n\nLeafless and desolate, lone and bare. \n\nHis hands are weary, put by the hoe; \n\nHis ear is dull and his eyes are dim. \n\nGive honor to him and give place \nfor him, \n\n\nFor he bled and he led us, how long \nago! \n\nAnd ye who inherit the fields he won, \n\nLorn graves where the Wabash \nslips away, \n\nGo fashion green parks where your \nbabes may play \n\nUnhindered of stumps or of weeds in \nsun. \n\nI have hewn some weeds, swung a \nheavy, broad hoe\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSuch weeds! such a mighty hard \nrow for stumps! \n\nSuch up-hill struggles, such down\xc2\xac \nhill slumps \n\nAs you, please God, may never once \nknow! \n\nBut the sea lies yonder, just a league \nbelow, \n\nAll down-hill now, and I go my \nway\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\nNot far to go, and not much to say, \n\nSave that I tried, tried to hoe my row. \n\n\nTHE GOLD THAT GREW BY SHASTA TOWN \n\n\nFrom Shasta town to Redding town \nThe ground is tom by miners dead; \nThe manzanita, rank and red, \n\nDrops dusty berries up and down \nTheir grass-grown trails. Their silent \nmines \n\nAre wrapped in chaparral and vines; \nYet one gray miner still sits down \n\xe2\x80\x99Twixt Redding and sweet Shasta \ntown. \n\nThe quail pipes pleasantly. The \nhare \n\n\nLeaps careless o\xe2\x80\x99er the golden oat \nThat grows below the water moat; \nThe lizard basks in sunlight there. \nThe brown hawk swims the perfumed \nair \n\nUnfrightened through the livelong \nday; \n\nAnd now and then a curious bear \nComes shuffling down the ditch by \nnight, \n\nAnd leaves some wide, long tracks in \n\nclay \n\nSo human-like, so stealthy light, \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefje <\xc2\xa9oIb tfiat <@reto bp \xc2\xaeoton 369 \n\n\nWhere one lone cabin still stoops \ndown \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twixt Redding and sweet Shasta \ntown. \n\nThat great graveyard of hopes! of \nmen \n\nWho sought for hidden veins of gold; \nOf young men suddenly grown old\xe2\x80\x94 \nOf old men dead, despairing when \nThe gold was just within their hold! \nThat storied land, whereon the light \nOf other days gleams faintly still; \nSomelike the halo of a hill \nThat lifts above the falling night; \nThat warm, red, rich and human \nland, \n\nThat flesh-red soil, that warm red \nsand, \n\nWhere one gray miner still sits down! \n\xe2\x80\x99T wixt Redding and sweet Shasta \ntown! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI know the vein is here! \xe2\x80\x9d he said; \nFor twenty years, for thirty years! \nWhile far away fell tears on tears \nFrom wife and babe who mourned \nhim dead. \n\nNo gold! No gold! And he grew \nold \n\nAnd crept to toil with bended head \nAmid a graveyard of his dead, \n\nStill seeking for that vein of gold. \n\nThen lo, came laughing down the \nyears \n\nA sweet grandchild! Between his \ntears \n\nHe laughed. He set her by the door \nThe while he toiled; his day\xe2\x80\x99s toil o\xe2\x80\x99er \nHe held her chubby cheeks between \n\n\nHis hard palms, laughed; and laugh\xc2\xac \ning cried. \n\nYou should have seen, have heard \nand seen \n\nHis boyish joy, his stout old pride, \nWhen toil was done and he sat down \nAt night, below sweet Shasta town! \n\nAt last his strength was gone. \xe2\x80\x9cNo \nmore! \n\nI mine no more. I plant me now \nA vine and fig-tree; worn and old, \n\nI seek no more my vein of gold. \n\nBut, oh, I sigh to give it o\xe2\x80\x99er; \n\nThese thirty years of toil! somehow \nIt seems so hard; but now, no more.\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nAnd so the old man set him down \nTo plant, by pleasant Shasta town. \nAnd it was pleasant; piped the quail \nThe full year through. The chip\xc2\xac \nmunk stole, \n\nHis whiskered nose and tossy tail \nFull buried in the sugar-bowl. \n\nAnd purple grapes and grapes of \ngold \n\n.Swung sweet as milk. While orange- \ntrees \n\nGrew brown with laden honey-bees. \nOh! it was pleasant up and down \nThat vine-set hill of Shasta town. \n\n\nAnd then that cloud-burst came! \nAh, me! \n\nThat torn ditch there! The mellow \nland \n\nRolled seaward like a rope of sand, \nNor left one leafy vine or tree \n\n\n24 \n\n\n\n\n\n370 )t <\xc2\xa9olb tfjat (Sreto bp ^bas^ta \xc2\xaeoton \n\n\nOf all that Eden nestling down \nBelow that moat by Shasta town! \n\nThe old man sat his cabin\xe2\x80\x99s sill, \nHis gray head bowed to hands and \nknee; \n\nThe child went forth, sang pleasantly, \nWhere burst the ditch the day before, \nAnd picked some pebbles from the \nhill. \n\nThe old man moaned, moaned o\xe2\x80\x99er \nand o\xe2\x80\x99er: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMy babe is dowerless, and I \nMust fold my helpless hands and die! \nAh, me! What curse comes ever \ndown \n\nOn me and mine at Shasta town.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGood Grandpa, see!\xe2\x80\x9d the glad \nchild said, \n\nAnd so leaned softly to his side,\xe2\x80\x94 \nLaid her gold head to his gray head, \nAnd merry voiced and cheery cried, \n\xe2\x80\x9cGood Grandpa, do not weep, but \nsee! \n\n\nI\xe2\x80\x99ve found a peck of orange seeds! \n\nI searched the hill for vine or tree; \nNot one!\xe2\x80\x94not even oats or weeds; \nBut, oh! such heaps of orange seeds! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cCome, good Grandpa! Now, \nonce you said \n\nThat Gcd is good. So this may teach \nThat we must plant each seed, and \n\neach \n\nMay grow to be an orange tree. \n\nNow, good Grandpa, please raise \nyour head, \n\nAnd please come plant the seeds with \nme.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAnd prattling thus, or like to this, \nThe child thrust her full hands in his. \n\nHe sprang, sprang upright as of old. \n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x99Tis gold! \xe2\x80\x99tis gold! my hidden vein! \n\xe2\x80\x99Tis gold for you, sweet babe, \'tis \ngold! \n\nYea, God is good; we plant again!\xe2\x80\x9d \nSo one old miner still sits down \nBy pleasant, sunlit Shasta town. \n\n\nTHE SIOUX CHIEF\xe2\x80\x99S DAUGHTER \n\n\nTwo gray hawks ride the rising blast; \nDark cloven clouds drive to and fro \nBy peaks pre-eminent in snow; \n\nA sounding river rushes past, \n\nSo wild, so vortex-like, and vast. \n\nA lone lodge tops the windy hill; \n\nA tawny maiden, mute and still, \nStands waiting at the river\xe2\x80\x99s brink, \nAs eager, fond as you can think. \n\nA mighty chief is at her feet; \n\n\nShe does not heed him wooing so\xe2\x80\x94 \nShe hears the dark, wild waters flow; \nShe waits her lover, tall and fleet, \nFrom out far beaming hills of snow. \n\nHe comes! The grim chief springs \nin air\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis brawny arm, his blade is bare. \n\nShe turns; she lifts her round, \nbrown hand; \n\n\n\n\n37i \n\n\n\xc2\xaej)e g>toux Chief\xe2\x80\x99s! Baugijtct \n\n\nShe looks him fairly in the face; \n\nShe moves her foot a little pace \nAnd says, with calmness and com\xc2\xac \nmand, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThere\xe2\x80\x99s blood enough in this lorn \nland. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBut see! a test of strength and \nskill, \n\nOf courage and fierce fortitude; \n\nTo breast and wrestle with the rude \nAnd storm-born waters, now I will \nBestow you both. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c . . . Stand either side! \n\nAnd you, my burly chief, I know \nWould choose my right. Now peer \nyou low \n\nAcross the waters wild and wide. \n\nSee! leaning so this morn I spied \nRed berries dip yon farther side. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSee, dipping, dripping in the \nstream! \n\nTwin boughs of autumn berries \ngleam! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Now this, brave men, shall be the \ntest: \n\nPlunge in the stream, bear knife in \nteeth \n\nTo cut yon bough for bridal wreath. \nPlunge in! and he who bears him best, \nAnd brings yon ruddy fruit to land \nThe first, shall have both heart and \n\nhand.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nTwo tawny men, tall, brown and \nthewed \n\nLike antique bronzes rarely seen, \n\nShot up like flame. \n\n\nShe stood between \nLike fixed, impassive fortitude. \n\nThen one threw robes with sullen air, \nAnd wound red fox-tails in his hair; \nBut one with face of proud delight \nEntwined a wing of snowy white. \n\nShe stood between. She sudden \ngave \n\nThe sign and each impatient brave \nShot sudden in the sounding wave; \nThe startled waters gurgled round; \nTheir stubborn strokes kept sullen \nsound. \n\nOh, then uprose the love that slept! \nOh, then her heart beat loud and \nstrong! \n\nOh, then the proud love pent up long \nBroke forth in wail upon the air! \n\nAnd leaning there she sobbed and \nwept, \n\nWith dark face mantled in her hair. \n\nShe sudden lifts her leaning brow. \nHe nears the shore, her love! and now \nThe foam flies spouting from the face \nThat laughing lifts from out the race. \n\nThe race is won, the work is done! \nShe sees the kingly crest of snow; \n\nShe knows her tall, brown Idaho. \n\nShe cries aloud, she laughing cries, \nAnd tears are streaming from her eyes: \n\xe2\x80\x9cO splendid, kingly Idaho! \n\nI kiss thy lifted crest of snow. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMy tall and tawny king, come back! \nCome swift, O sweet! why falter so? \nCome! Come! What thing has \ncrossed your track? \n\n\n\n\n\n372 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefjc g>toux Cfjief\xe2\x80\x99g \xc2\xa9augfjtcc \n\n\nI kneel to all the gods I know. . . \n\nGreat Spirit, what is this I dread? \n\nWhy, there is blood! the wave is red! \n\nThat wrinkled chief, outstripped in \nrace, \n\nDives down, and, hiding from my \nface, \n\nStrikes underneath. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c . . . He rises now! \n\nNow plucks my hero\xe2\x80\x99s berry bough, \n\nAnd lifts aloft his red fox head, \n\nAnd signals he has won for me. . . . \n\nHist, softly! Let him come and see. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOh, come! my white-crowned \nhero, come! \n\nOh, come! and I will be your bride, \n\nDespite yon chieftain\xe2\x80\x99s craft and \nmight. \n\nCome back to me! my lips are \ndumb, \n\nMy hands are helpless with despair; \n\nThe hair you kissed, my long, strong \nhair, \n\nIs reaching to the ruddy tide, \n\nThat you may clutch it when you \ncome. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHow slow he buffets back the \nwave! \n\nO God, he sinks! O Heaven! save \n\nMy brave, brave king! He rises! \nsee! \n\nHold fast, my hero! Strike for me. \n\nStrike straight this way! Strike firm \nand strong! \n\nHold fast your strength. It is not \nlong\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nO God, he sinks! He sinks! Is \ngone! \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd did I dream and do I wake? \n\nOr did I wake and now but dream? \n\nAnd what is this crawls from the \nstream? \n\nOh, here is some mad, mad mistake! \n\nWhat, you! the red fox at my feet? \n\nYou first, and failing from the race? \n\nWhat! You have brought me berries \nred? \n\nWhat! You have brought your bride \na wreath? \n\nYou sly red fox with wrinkled face\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat blade has blood between your \nteeth! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLie low! lie low! while I lean o\xe2\x80\x99er \n\nAnd clutch your red blade to the \nshore. . . . \n\nHa! ha! Take that! take that and \nthat! \n\nHa! ha! So, through your coward \nthroat \n\nThe full day shines! ... Two \nfox-tails float \n\nFar down, and I but mock thereat. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBut what is this? What snowy \ncrest \n\nClimbs out the willows of the west, \n\nAll dripping from his streaming hair\'* \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis he! My hero brave and fair! \n\nHis face is lifting to my face, \n\nAnd who shall now dispute the race? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe gray hawks pass, O love! and \ndoves \n\nO\xe2\x80\x99er yonder lodge shall coo their \nloves. \n\nMy hands shall heal your wounded \n\nbreast, \n\nAnd in yon tall lodge two shall rest.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n\nSH S>fjafi(a fEale of Hobe \n\nA SHASTA TALE OF LOVE \n\n\n373 \n\n\nu And God saw the light that it was \ngood." \n\nI heard a tale long, long ago, \nWhere I had gone apart to pray \nBy Shasta\xe2\x80\x99s pyramid of snow, \n\nThat touches me unto this day. \n\nI know the fashion is to say \nAn Arab tale, an Orient lay; \n\nBut when the grocer rings my gold \nOn counter, flung from greasy hold, \nHe cares not from Acadian vale \nIt comes, or savage mountain \nchine;\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBut this the Shastan tale: \n\nOnce in the olden, golden days, \nWhen men and beasts companioned, \nwhen \n\nAll went in peace about their ways \nNor God had hid His face from men \nBecause man slew his brother beast \nTo make his most unholy feast, \n\nA gray coyote, monkish cowled, \nUpraised his face and wailed and \nhowled \n\nThe while he made his patient round; \nFor lo! the red men all lay dead, \nStark, frozen on the ground. \n\nThe very dogs had fled the storm, \nA mother with her long, meshed hair \nBound tight about her baby\xe2\x80\x99s form, \nLay frozen, all her body bare. \n\nHer last shred held her babe in place; \nHer last breath warmed her baby\xe2\x80\x99s \nface. \n\nThen, as the good monk brushed the \nsnow \n\n\nAside from mother loving so, \n\nHe heard God from the mount above \nSpeak through the clouds and loving \nsay: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea, all is dead but Love.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNow take up Love and cherish \nher, \n\nAnd seek the white man with all \nspeed, \n\nAnd keep Love warm within thy fur; \nFor oh, he needeth love indeed. \n\nTake all and give him freely, all \nOf love you find, or great or small; \nFor he is very poor in this, \n\nSo poor he scarce knows what love is.\xe2\x80\x9d \nThe gray monk raised Love in his \npaws \n\nAnd sped, a ghostly streak of gray, \nTo where the white man was. \n\nBut man uprose, enraged to see \nA gaunt wolf track his new-hewn \ntown. \n\nHe called his dogs, and angrily \nHe brought his flashing rifle down. \nThen God said: \xe2\x80\x9cOn his hearth\xc2\xac \nstone lay \n\nThe seed of Love, and come away; \nThe seed of Love, \xe2\x80\x99tis needed so, \n\nAnd pray that it may grow and \ngrow.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAnd so the gray monk crept at night \nAnd laid Love down, as God had \nsaid, \n\nA faint and feeble light. \n\nSo faint, indeed, the cold hearth\xc2\xac \nstone \n\n\n\n374 \n\n\nJLobe in tfjc ^terras \n\n\nIt seemed would chill starved Love \nto death; \n\nAnd so the monk gave all his own \n\nAnd crouched and fanned it with his \nbreath \n\nUntil a red cock crowed for day. \n\nThen God said: \xe2\x80\x9cRise up, come \naway. \n\nThe beast obeyed, but yet looked \nback \n\nAll morn along his lonely track; \n\nFor he had left his all in all, \n\nHis own Love, for that famished \nLove \n\nSeemed so exceeding small. \n\nAnd God said: \xe2\x80\x9cLook not back \nagain." \n\nBut ever, where a campfire burned, \n\nAnd he beheld strong, burly men \n\nAt meat, he sat him down and \nturned \n\nHis face to wail and wail and mourn \n\n\nThe Love laid on that cold hearth\xc2\xac \nstone. \n\nThen God was angered, and God \nsaid: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBe thou a beggar then; thy head \nHath been a fool, but thy swift feet, \nBecause they bore sweet Love, shall \nbe \n\nThe fleetest of all fleet." \n\nAnd ever still about the camp, \n\nBy chine or plain, in heat or hail, \n\nA homeless, hungry, hounded tramp, \nThe gaunt coyote keeps his wail. \n\nAnd ever as he wails he turns \nHis head, looks back and yearns and \nyearns \n\nFor lost Love, laid that wintry day \nTo warm a hearthstone far away. \nPoor loveless, homeless beast, I keep \nYour lost Love warm for you, and, \ntoo, \n\nA canon cool and deep. \n\n\nLOVE IN THE SIERRAS \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNo, not so lonely now\xe2\x80\x94I love \nA forest maiden; she is mine \nAnd on Sierra\xe2\x80\x99s slopes of pine, \n\nThe vines below, the snows above, \n\nA solitary lodge is set \nWithin a fringe of water\xe2\x80\x99d firs; \n\nAnd there my wigwam fires burn, \n\nFed by a round brown patient hand, \nThat small brown faithful hand of \nhers \n\nThat never rests till my return. \n\nThe yellow smoke is rising yet; \nTiptoe, and see it where you stand \nLift like a column from the land. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThere are no sea-gems in her hair, \nNo jewels fret her dimpled hands, \nAnd half her bronzen limbs are bare. \nHer round brown arms have golden \nbands, \n\nBroad, rich, and by her cunning \nhands \n\nCut from the yellow virgin ore, \n\nAnd she does not desire more. \n\nI wear the beaded wampum belt \nThat she has wove\xe2\x80\x94the sable pelt \nThat she has fringed red threads \naround; \n\nAnd in the morn, when men are not, \n\n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xa9lb <Hib at Castle &ocfes \n\n\n375 \n\n\nI wake the valley with the shot \nThat brings the brown deer to the \nground. \n\nAnd she beside the lodge at noon \nSings with the wind, while baby \nswings \n\nIn sea-shell cradle by the bough\xe2\x80\x94 \nSings low, so like the clover sings \nWith swarm of bees; I hear her now, \n\nI see her sad face through the \nmoon. . . . \n\nSuch songs!\xe2\x80\x94would earth had more \nof such! \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nShe has not much to say, and she \nLifts never voice to question me \nIn aught I do . . . and that is \nmuch. \n\nI love her for her patient trust, \n\nAnd my love\'s forty-fold return\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOLD GIB AT \n\nHis eyes are dim, he gropes his way, \nHis step is doubtful, slow, \n\nAnd now men pass him by today: \nBut forty years ago\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhy forty years ago I say \nOld Gib was good to know. \n\nFor, forty years ago today, \n\nWhere cars glide to and fro, \n\nThe Modoc held the world at bay, \nAnd blood was on the snow. \n\nAy, forty years ago I say \nOld Gib was good to know. \n\nFull forty years ago today \nThis valley lay in flame; \n\nUp yonder pass and far away, \n\nRed ruin swept the same: \n\n\nA value I have not to learn \nAs you ... at least, as many \nmust . . . \n\n. . . \xe2\x80\x9cShe is not over tall or fair; \nHer breasts are curtained by her \nhair, \n\nAnd sometimes, through the silken \nfringe, \n\nI see her bosom\xe2\x80\x99s wealth, like wine \nBurst through in luscious ruddy \ntinge\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd all its wealth and worth are mine. \nI know not that one drop of blood \nOf prince or chief is in her veins: \n\nI simply say that she is good, \n\nAnd loves me with pure womanhood. \n. . . When that is said, why, what \nremains?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nASTLE ROCKS \n\nTwo women, with their babes at play, \nWere butchered in black shame. \n\n\'Twas then with gun and flashing \neye \n\nOld Gib loomed like a pine; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNow will you fight, or will you fly? \nI\xe2\x80\x99ll take a fight in mine. \n\nCome let us fight; come let us die! \xe2\x80\x9d \nThere came just twenty-nine. \n\nJust twenty-nine who dared to die, \nAnd, too, a motley crew \nOf half-tamed red men; would they \n\nfly, \n\nOr would they fight him too? \n\nNo time to question or reply, \n\nThat was a time to do. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n376 \n\n\n<&lb <\xc2\xa7it> at Castle Rocks \n\n\nUp, up, straight up where thunders \ngrow \n\nAnd growl in Castle Rocks, \n\nStraight up till Shasta gleamed in \nsnow, \n\nAnd shot red battle shocks; \n\nTill clouds lay shepherded below, \n\nA thousand ghostly flocks. \n\nYet up and up Old Gibson led, \n\nNo looking backward then; \n\nHis bare feet bled; the rocks were red \nFrom torn, bare-footed men. \n\nYet up, up, up, till well nigh dead\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe Modoc in his den! \n\nThen cried the red chief from his \nheight, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNow, white man, what would you? \nBehold my hundreds for the fight, \nBut yours so faint and few; \n\nWe are as rain, as hail at night \nBut you, you are as dew. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhite man, go back; I beg go \nback, \n\nI will not fight so few; \n\nYet if I hear one rifle crack, \n\nBe that the doom of you! \n\nBack! down, I say, back down your \ntrack, \n\nBack, down! What else to do ? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c What else to do? Avenge or die! \nBrave men have died before; \n\nAnd you shall fight, or you shall fly. \n\n\nYou find no women more, \n\nNo babes to butcher now; for I \nShall storm your Castle\xe2\x80\x99s door!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThen bang! whiz bang! whiz bang \nand ping! \n\nSix thousand feet below, \n\nSweet Sacramento ceased to sing, \n\nBut wept and wept, for oh! \n\nThese arrows sting as adders sting, \nAnd they kept stinging so. \n\nThen one man cried: \xe2\x80\x9c Brave men \nhave died, \n\nAnd we can die as they; \n\nBut ah! my babe, my one year\xe2\x80\x99s \nbride! \n\nAnd they so far away. \n\nBrave Captain, lead us back\xe2\x80\x94aside, \nMust all here die today?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHis face, his hands, his body bled: \nYea, no man there that day\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNo white man there but turned to \nred, \n\nIn that fierce fatal fray; \n\nBut Gib with set teeth only said: \n\xe2\x80\x9cNo; we came here to stay!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThey stayed and stayed, and \nModocs stayed, \n\nBut when the night came on, \n\nNo white man there was now afraid, \nThe last Modoc had gone; \n\nHis ghost in Castle Rocks was laid \nTill everlasting dawn. \n\n\n\nComattrije \n\nCOMANCHE \n\n\n377 \n\n\nA blazing home, a blood-soaked \nhearth; \n\nFair woman\xe2\x80\x99s hair with blood upon! \nThat Ishmaelite of all the earth \nHas like a cyclone, come and gone\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n. His feet are as the blighting dearth; \nHis hands are daggers drawn. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTo horse! to horse!\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 the rangers \nshout, \n\nAnd red revenge is on his track! \n\nThe black-haired Bedouin en route \nLooks like a long, bent line of black. \nHe does not halt nor turn about; \n\nHe scorns to once look back. \n\nBut on! right on that line of black, \nAcross the snow-white, sand-sown \npass; \n\nThe bearded rangers on their track \nBear thirsty sabers bright as glass. \n\nYet not one red man there looks back; \nHis nerves are braided brass. \n\nAt last, at last, their mountain came \nTo clasp its children in their flight! \nUp, up from out the sands of flame \nThey clambered, bleeding to their \nheight; \n\nThis savage summit, now so tame, \nTheir lone star, that dread night! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHuzzah! Dismount!\xe2\x80\x9d the cap\xc2\xac \ntain cried. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHuzzah! the rovers cease to roam! \nThe river keeps yon farther side, \n\nA roaring cataract of foam. \n\nThey die, they die for those who died \nLast night by hearth and home!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nHis men stood still beneath the \nsteep; \n\nThe high, still moon stood like a nun. \n\nThe horses stood as willows weep; \n\nTheir weary heads drooped every one. \n\nBut no man there had thought of \nsleep; \n\nEach waited for the sun. \n\nVast nun-white moon! Her silver \nrill \n\nOf snow-white peace she ceaseless \npoured; \n\nThe rock-built battlement grew still, \n\nThe deep-down river roared and \nroared. \n\nBut each man there with iron will \n\nLeaned silent on his sword. \n\nHark! See what light starts from \nthe steep! \n\nAnd hear, ah, hear that piercing \nsound. \n\nIt is their lorn death-song they keep \n\nIn solemn and majestic round. \n\nThe red fox of these deserts deep \n\nAt last is run to ground. \n\nOh, it was weird,\xe2\x80\x94that wild, pent \nhorde! \n\nTheir death-lights, their death-wails \neach one. \n\nThe river in sad chorus roared \n\nAnd boomed like some great funeral \ngun. \n\nThe while each ranger nursed his \nsword \n\nAnd waited for the sun. \n\n\n\n\njMontaia \n\nMONTARA \n\n\n37 \xc2\xbb \n\n/ \n\n\nMontara, Naples of my West! \n\nMontara, Italy to me! \n\nMontara, newest, truest, best \n\nOf all brave cities by this \nsea! \n\n\nI\xe2\x80\x99d rather one wee bungalow \nWherel mid-March may sit me down \nAnd watch thy warm waves come and \ngo, \n\nThan two whole blocks of Boston \ntown. \n\n\nTHE LARGER COLLEGE \n\n\nON LAYING THE COLLEGE CORNER-STONE \n\n\nWhere San Diego seas are warm, \nWhere winter winds from warm \nCathay \n\nSing sibilant, where blossoms swarm \nWith Hybla\xe2\x80\x99s bees, we come to lay \nThis tribute of the truest, best, \n\nThe warmest daughter of the West. \n\nHere Progress plants her corner\xc2\xac \nstone \n\nAgainst this warm, still, Cortez vrave. \nIn ashes of the Aztec\xe2\x80\x99s throne, \n\nIn tummals of the Toltec\xe2\x80\x99s grave, \n\nWe plant this stone, and from the sod \nPick painted fragments of his god. \n\nHere Progress lifts her torch to \nteach \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s pathway through the pass of \ncare; \n\nHer altar-stone Balboa\xe2\x80\x99s Beach, \n\nHer incense warm, sweet, perfumed \nair; \n\nSuch incense! where white strophes \nreach \n\nAnd lap and lave Balboa\xe2\x80\x99s Beach! \n\n\nWe plant this stone as some small \nseed \n\nIs sown at springtime, warm with \nearth; \n\nWe sow this seed as some good deed \n\nIs sown, to grow until its worth \n\nShall grow, through rugged steeps of \ntime, \n\nTo touch the utmost star sublime. \n\nWe lift this lighthouse by the sea, \n\nThe westmost sea, the westmost \nshore, \n\nTo guide man\xe2\x80\x99s ship of destiny \n\nWhen Scylla and Charybdis roar; \n\nTo teach him strength, to proudly \nteach \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s grandeur, where His white \npalms reach: \n\nTo teach not Sybil books alone; \n\nMan\xe2\x80\x99s books are but a climbing \nstair, \n\nLain step by step, like stairs of stone; \n\nThe stairway here, the temple \nthere\xe2\x80\x94 \\ \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaeo tfje pioneers \n\n\n379 \n\n\nMan\xe2\x80\x99s lampad honor, and his trust, \nThe God who called him from the \ndust. \n\nMan\xe2\x80\x99s books are but man\xe2\x80\x99s \nalphabet, \n\nBeyond and on his lessons lie\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe lessons of the violet, \n\nThe large gold letters of the sky; \n\nThe love of beauty, blossomed soil, \nThe large content, the tranquil toil: \n\nThe toil that nature ever taught, \nThe patient toil, the constant stir, \nThe toil of seas where shores are \nwrought, \n\nThe toil of Christ, the carpenter; \n\n\nThe toil of God incessantly \nBy palm-set land or frozen sea. \n\nBehold this sea, that sapphire sky! \nWhere nature does so much for man, \nShall man not set his standard high, \nAnd hold some higher, holier plan? \nSome loftier plan than ever planned \nBy outworn book of outworn land? \n\nWhere God has done so much for \nman! \n\nShall man for God do aught at all? \nThe soul that feeds on books alone\xe2\x80\x94 \nI count that soul exceeding small \nThat lives alone by book and creed,\xe2\x80\x94 \nA soul that has not learned to read. \n\n\nTO THE PIONEERS \n\nREAD AT SAN FRANCISCO, 1894 \n\n\nHow swift this sand, gold-laden, \nruns! \n\nHow slow these feet, once swift and \nfirm! \n\nYe came as romping, rosy sons, \nCome jocund up at College term; \n\nYe came so jolly, stormy, strong, \n\nYe drown\xe2\x80\x99d the roll-call with your \nsong. \n\nBut now ye lean a list\xe2\x80\x99ning ear \nAnd\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9c Adsum! Adsum! I am here!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nMy brave world-builders of a world \nThat tops the keystone, star of \nStates, \n\nAll hail! Your battle flags are furled \nIn fruitful peace. The golden gates \nAre won. The jasper walls be yours. \n\n\nYour sun sinks down yon soundless \nshores. \n\nNight falls. But lo! your lifted eyes \nGreet gold outcroppings in the skies. \n\nCompanioned with Sierra\xe2\x80\x99s peaks \nOur storm-born eagle shrieks his scorn \nOf doubt or death, and upward seeks \nThrough unseen worlds the coming \nmorn. \n\nOr storm, or calm, or near, or far, \nHis eye fixed on the morning star, \nHe knows, as God knows, there is \ndawn; \n\nAnd so keeps on, and on, and on! \n\nSo ye, brave men of bravest days, \nFought on and on with battered shield, \n\n\n\n\n\n\n380 \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9c 49 \xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nUp bastion, rampart, till the rays \n\nOf full morn met ye on the field. \n\nYe knew not doubt; ye only knew \n\nTo do and dare, and dare and do! \n\nYe knew that time, that God\xe2\x80\x99s first\xc2\xac \nborn, \n\nWould turn the darkest night to \nmorn. \n\nYe gave your glorious years of \nyouth \n\nAnd lived as heroes live\xe2\x80\x94and die. \n\nYe loved the truth, ye lived the truth; \n\nYe knew that cowards only lie. \n\nThen heed not now one serpent\xe2\x80\x99s hiss, \n\n\nWe have worked our claims, \n\nWe have spent our gold, \n\nOur barks are astrand on the bars; \nWe are battered and old, \n\nYet at night we behold, \nOutcroppings of gold in the stars. \n\nChorus \n\nTho\' battered and old, \n\nOur hearts are bold, \n\nYet oft do we repine; \n\nFor the days of old, \n\nFor the days of gold, \n\nFor the days of forty-nine. \n\n\nOr trait\xe2\x80\x99rous, trading, Judas kiss. \n\nLet slander wallow in his slime; \n\nStill leave the truth to God and time. \n\nWorn victors, few and true, such \nclouds \n\nAs track God\xe2\x80\x99s trailing garment\xe2\x80\x99s hem \nWhere Shasta keeps shall be your \nshrouds, \n\nAnd ye shall pass the stars in them. \nYour tombs shall be while time en\xc2\xac \ndures, \n\nSuch hearts as only truth secures; \nYour everlasting monuments \nSierra\xe2\x80\x99s snow-topt battle tents. \n\nWhere the rabbits play, \n\nWhere the quail all day \nPipe on the chaparral hill; \n\nA few more days, \n\nAnd the last of us lays \nHis pick aside and all is still. \n\nChorus \n\nWe are wreck and stray, \n\nWe are cast away, \n\nPoor battered old hulks and spars; \nBut we hope and pray, \n\nOn the judgment day, \n\nWe shall strike it up in the stars. \n\n\nSAN DIEGO \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cO for a beaker of the warm South; \nThe true, the blushful hypocrinel" \n\nWhat shall be said of the sun-born \nPueblo? \n\n\nThis town sudden bom in the path of \nthe sun? \n\nThis town of St. James, of the calm \nSan Diego, \n\nAs suddenly born as if shot from a gun ? \n\n\n\n\n\npioneers to tfje (great Cmeralb Eanb 381 \n\n\nWhy, speak of her warmly; why, \nwrite her name down \n\nAs softer than sunlight, as warmer \nthan wine! \n\nWhy, speak of her bravely; this ulti\xc2\xac \nmate town \n\nWith feet in the foam of the vast \nArgentine: \n\n\nThe vast argent seas of the Aztec, \nof Cortez! \n\nThe boundless white border of battle- \ntorn lands\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe fall of Napoleon, the rise of red \nJuarez\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe footfalls of nations are heard on \nher sands. \n\n\nPIONEERS TO THE GREAT EMERALD LAND \n\nREAD AT PORTLAND, 1 896 \n\n\nEmerald, emerald, emerald Land; \n\nLand of the sun mists, land of the \nsea, \n\nStately and stainless and storied and \ngrand \n\nAs cloud-mantled Hood in white \nmajesty\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMother of States, we are worn, we are \ngray\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMother of men, we are going away. \n\nMother of States, tall mother of \nmen, \n\nOf cities, of churches, of homes, of \nsweet rest, \n\nWe are going away, we must journey \nagain, \n\nAs of old we journeyed to the vast, far \nWest. \n\nWe tent by the river, our feet once \nmore, \n\nPlease God, are set for the ultimate \nshore. \n\nMother, white mother, white Ore\xc2\xac \ngon \n\nIn emerald kilt, with star-set crown \n\n\nOf sapphire, say is it night? Is it \ndawn? \n\nSay what of the night? Is it well up \nand down? \n\nWe are going away. . . . From \nyon high watch tower, \n\nYoung men, strong men, say, what \nof the hour? \n\nYoung men, strong men, there is \nwork to be done; \n\nFaith to be cherished, battles to fight, \n\nVictories won were never well won \n\nSave fearlessly won for God and the \nright. \n\nThese cities, these homes, sweet peace \nand her spell \n\nBe ashes, but ashes, with the infidel. \n\nHave Faith, such Faith as your \nfathers knew, \n\nAll else must follow if you have but \nFaith. \n\nBe true to their Faith, and you must \nbe true. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLo! I will be with you,\xe2\x80\x9d the Master \nsaith. \n\n\n\n\n\n382 \n\n\nAlaska \n\n\nGood by, dawn breaks; it is coming \nfull day \n\nAnd one by one we strike tent and \naway. \n\nGood by. Slow folding our snow- \nwhite tents, \n\n\nOur dim eyes lift to the farther shore, \nAnd never these riddled, gray regi\xc2\xac \nments \n\nShall answer full roll-call any more. \nYet never a doubt, nay, never a \nfear \n\nOf old, or now, knew the Pioneer. \n\n\nALASKA \n\n\nIce built, ice bound and ice \nbounded, \n\nSuch cold seas of silence! such room! \n\nSuch snow-light, such sea light con\xc2\xac \nfounded \n\nWith thunders that smite like a doom! \n\nSuch grandeur! such glory! such \ngloom! \n\nHear that boom! hear that deep dis\xc2\xac \ntant boom \n\nOf an avalanche hurled \n\nDown this unfinished world! \n\n\nIce seas! and ice summits! ice \nspaces \n\nIn splendor of white, as God\xe2\x80\x99s throne! \n\nIce worlds to the pole! and ice places \n\nUntracked, and unnamed, and un\xc2\xac \nknown ! \n\nHear that boom! Hear the grinding, \nthe groan \n\nOf the ice-gods in pain! Hear the \nmoan \n\nOf yon ice mountain hurled \n\nDown this unfinished world. \n\n\nTHE AMERICAN OCEAN \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTen thousand miles of mobile sea\xe2\x80\x94 \nThis sea of all seas blent as one \nWide, unbound book of mystery, \n\nOf awe, of sibyl prophecy, \n\nEre yet a ghost or misty ken \nOf God\xe2\x80\x99s far, first beginning when \nVast darkness lay upon the deep.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHe looked to heaven, God; but she \nSaw only his face and the sea.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAye, day is done, the dying \nsun \n\nSinks wounded unto death tonight; \n\nA great, hurt swan, he sinks to \nrest, \n\nHis wings all crimson, blood his \nbreast! \n\nWith wide, low wings, reached left \nand right, \n\nHe sings, and night and swan are \none\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOne huge, black swan of Helicon.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n\n\n\n\n3 foriligijt at \n\nTWILIGHT AT \n\nThe brave young city by the Bal\xc2\xac \nboa seas \n\nLies compassed about by the hosts of \nnight\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLies humming, low, like a hive of \nbees; \n\nAnd the day lies dead. And its \nspirit\xe2\x80\x99s flight \n\nIs far to the west; while the golden \nbars \n\nThat bound it are broken to a dust of \nstars. \n\n\ntfjc Jngijts 383 \n\nTHE HIGHTS \n\nCome under my oaks, oh, drowsy \ndusk! \n\nThe wolf and the dog; deer incense \nhour \n\nWhen Mother Earth hath a smell of \nmusk, \n\nAnd things of the spirit assert their \npower\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhen candles are set to burn in the \nwest\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSet head and foot to the day at \nrest. \n\n\nARBOR DAY \n\n\nAgainst our golden orient dawns \n\nWe lift s living light today, \n\nThat shall outshine the splendid \nbronze \n\nThat lords and lights that lesser Bay. \n\nSweet Paradise was sown with \ntrees; \n\nThy very name, lorn Nazareth, \n\nMeans woods, means sense of birds \nand bees, \n\nAnd song of leaves with lisping \nbreath. \n\nGod gave us Mother Earth, full \nblest \n\nCALIFORNIA\xe2\x80\x99S \n\nThe golden poppy is God\xe2\x80\x99s gold, \n\nThe gold that lifts, nor weighs us \ndown, \n\nThe gold that knows no miser\'s hold, \nThe gold that banks not in the town, \n\n\nWith robes of green in healthful fold; \nWe tore the green robes from her \nbreast! \n\nWe sold our mother\xe2\x80\x99s robes for gold! \n\nWe sold her garments fair, and she \nLies shamed and naked at our feet! \nIn penitence we plant a tree; \n\nWe plant the cross and count it meet. \n\nLo, here, where Balboa\xe2\x80\x99s waters \ntoss, \n\nHere in this glorious Spanish bay, \nWe plant the cross, the Christian \ncross, \n\nThe Crusade Cross of Arbor Day. \n\nCUP OF GOLD \n\nBut singing, laughing, freely spills \nIts hoard far up the happy hills; \n\nFar up, far down, at every turn.\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhat beggar has not gold to \nburn! \n\n\n\n\n\n384 \n\n\nti ]t Pattern g>eag \n\nBY THE BALBOA SEAS \n\n\nThe golden fleece is at our feet, \nOur hills are girt in sheen of gold; \n\nOur golden flower-fields are sweet \nWith honey hives. A thousand-fold \nMore fair our fruits on laden stem \nThan Jordan tow\xe2\x80\x99rd Jerusalem. \n\nMAGNOLIA \n\nThe broad magnolia\xe2\x80\x99s blooms are \nwhite; \n\nHer blooms are large, as if the moon \nHad lost her way some lazy night, \nAnd lodged here till the afternoon. \n\nCALIFORNIA\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nThe stars are large as lilies! Morn \nSeems some illumined story\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe story of our Savior born, \n\nTold from old turrets hoary\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe full moon smiling tips a horn \nAnd hies to bed in glory! \n\nMy sunclad city walks in light \nAnd lasting summer weather; \n\nRed roses bloom on bosoms white \nAnd rosy cheeks together. \n\nIf you should smite one cheek, still \nsmite \n\nFor she will turn the other. \n\nThe thronged warm street tides to \nand fro \n\nAnd Love, roseclad, discloses. \n\nThe only snowstorm we shall know \nIs this white storm of roses\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt seems like Maytime, mating so, \nAnd\xe2\x80\x94-Nature counting noses. \n\n\nBehold this mighty sea of seas! \nThe ages pass in silence by. \n\nGold apples of Hesperides \nHang at our God-land gates for aye. \nOur golden shores have golden keys \nWhere sound and sing the Balboa seas. \n\nBLOSSOMS \n\nOh, vast white blossoms breathing \nlove! \n\nWhite bosom of my lady dead, \n\nIn your white heaven overhead \nI look, and learn to look above. \n\nCHRISTMAS \n\nSoft sea winds sleep on yonder \ntide; \n\nYou hear some boatmen rowing. \nTheir sisters\xe2\x80\x99 hands trail o\xe2\x80\x99er the side; \nThey toy with warm waves flowing; \nTheir laps are laden deep and wide \nFrom rose-trees green and growing. \n\nSuch roses white! such roses red! \nSuch roses richly yellow! \n\nThe air is like a perfume fed \nFrom autumn fruits full mellow\xe2\x80\x94 \nBut see! a brother bends his head, \nAn oar forgets its fellow! \n\nGive me to live in land like this, \nNor let me wander further; \n\nSome sister in some boat of bliss \nAnd I her only brother\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSweet paradise on earth it is; \n\nI would not seek another. \n\n\n\n\n\n3\xc2\xa75 \n\n\n\xc2\xaejie jdlett of Jfottp=i5tne \n\nTHE MEN OF FORTY-NINE \n\n\nThose brave old bricks of forty- \nnine! \n\nWhat lives they lived! what deaths \nthey died! \n\nA thousand canons, darkling wide \nBelow Sierra\xe2\x80\x99s slopes of pine, \nReceive them now. And they who \ndied \n\nAlong the far, dim, desert route\xe2\x80\x94 \nTheir ghosts are many. Let them \nkeep \n\nTheir vast possessions. The Piute, \nThe tawny warrior, will dispute \nNo boundary with these. And I \nWho saw them live, who felt them \ndie, \n\nSay, let their unplow\xe2\x80\x99d ashes sleep, \nUntouch\xe2\x80\x99d by man, on plain or steep. \n\nThe bearded, sunbrown\xe2\x80\x99d men who \nbore \n\nThe burden of that frightful year, \nWho toil\xe2\x80\x99d, but did not gather store, \nThey shall not be forgotten. Drear \nAnd white, the plains of Shoshonee \nShall point us to that farther shore, \nAnd long, white, shining lines of \nbones \n\nMake needless sign or white mile\xc2\xac \nstones. \n\nThe wild man\xe2\x80\x99s yell, the groaning \nwheel; \n\nThe train that moved like drifting \nbarge; \n\nThe dust that rose up like a cloud\xe2\x80\x94 \nLike smoke of distant battle! Loud \nThe great whips rang like shot, and \nsteel \n\n\nOf antique fashion, crude and large, \nFlash\xe2\x80\x99d back as in some battle charge. \n\nThey sought, yea, they did find \ntheir rest. \n\nAlong that long and lonesome way, \nThese brave men buffet\xe2\x80\x99d the West \nWith lifted faces. Full were they \nOf great endeavor. Brave and true \nAs stern Crusader clad in steel, \nThey died a-field as it was fit. \n\nMade strong with hope, they dared to \ndo \n\nAchievement that a host today \nWould stagger at, stand back and \nreel, \n\nDefeated at the thought of it. \n\nWhat brave endeavor to endure! \nWhat patient hope, when hope was \npast! \n\nWhat still surrender at the last, \n\nA thousand leagues from hope! how \npure \n\nThey lived, how proud they died! \nHow generous with life! The wide \nAnd gloried age of chivalry \nHath not one page like this to \nme. \n\n\nLet all these golden days go by, \n\nIn sunny summer weather. I \nBut think upon my buried brave, \nAnd breathe beneath another sky. \nLet Beauty glide in gilded car, \n\nAnd find my sundown seas afar, \nForgetful that \xe2\x80\x99tis but one grave \nFrom eastmost to the westmost wave. \n\n\n25 \n\n\n\n386 \n\n\nCuster \n\n\nYea, I remember! The still tears \nThat o\xe2\x80\x99er uncoffin\xe2\x80\x99d faces fell! \n\nThe final, silent, sad farewell! \n\nGod! these are with me all the years! \nThey shall be with me ever. I \nShall not forget. I hold a trust. \nThey are part of my existence. When \nSwift down the shining iron track \n\n\nYou sweep, and fields of corn flash \nback, \n\nAnd herds of lowing steers move by, \nAnd men laugh loud, in mute mis\xc2\xac \ntrust, \n\nI turn to other days, to men \nWho made a pathway with their \ndust. \n\n\nCUSTER \n\n\nOh, it were better dying there, \n\nOn glory\xe2\x80\x99s front, with trumpet\xe2\x80\x99s blare, \nAnd battle\xe2\x80\x99s shout blent wild about\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe sense of sacrifice, the roar \nOf war! The soul might well leap \nout\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nThe brave, white soul leap boldly \nout \n\nThe door of wounds, and up the stair \nOf heaven to God\xe2\x80\x99s open door, \nWhile yet the knees were bent in \nprayer. \n\n\nTHE HEROES OF AMERICA \n\n\nO perfect heroes of the earth, \n\nThat conquer\xe2\x80\x99d forests, harvest set! \nO sires, mothers of my West! \n\nHow shall we count your proud be\xc2\xac \nquest? \n\nBut yesterday ye gave us birth; \n\nWe eat your hard-earned bread to\xc2\xac \nday, \n\nNor toil nor spin nor make regret, \nBut praise our petty selves and say \nHow great we are. We all forget \nThe still endurance of the rude \nUnpolish\xe2\x80\x99d sons of solitude. \n\nWhat strong, uncommon men were \nthese, \n\nThese settlers hewing to the seas! \nGreat horny-handed men and tan; \n\n\nMen blown from many a barren \nland \n\nBeyond the sea; men red of hand, \nAnd men in love, and men in debt, \nLike David\xe2\x80\x99s men in battle set; \n\nAnd men whose very hearts had \ndied, \n\nWho only sought these woods to \nhide \n\nTheir wretchedness, held in the van; \nYet every man among them stood \nAlone, along that sounding wood, \nAnd every man somehow a man. \nThey push\xe2\x80\x99d the mailed wood aside, \nThey toss\xe2\x80\x99d the forest like a toy, \nThat grand forgotten race of men\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe boldest band that yet has been \nTogether since the siege of Troy. \n\n\n[ \n\n\n\n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9c\xc2\xaebe Jfourtfj \xe2\x80\x9d in Oregon \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTHE FOURTH\xe2\x80\x9dIN OREGON \n\n\n387 \n\n\nHail, Independence of old ways! \nOld worlds! The West declares the \nWest, \n\nHer storied ways, her gloried days, \nBecause the West deserveth best. \nThis new, true land of noblest deeds \nHas rights, has sacred rights and \nneeds. \n\nSing, ye who may, this natal day; \nOf dauntless thought, of men of \nmight, \n\nIn lesser lands and far away. \n\nBut truth is truth and right is right. \nAnd, oh, to sing like sounding flood, \nThese boundless boundaries writ in \nblood! \n\nThree thousand miles of battle \ndeeds, \n\nOf burning Moscows, Cossacks, \nsnows; \n\nThen years and years of British \ngreed, \n\nOf grasping greed; of lurking foes. \n\nI say no story ever writ \nOr said, or sung, surpasses it! \n\nAnd who has honored us, and who \nHas bravely dared stand up and say: \n\xe2\x80\x9cGive ye to Caesar Caesar\xe2\x80\x99s due?\xe2\x80\x9d \nUnpaid, unpensioned, mute and gray, \nSome few survivors of the brave, \n\nStill hold enough land for a grave. \n\nHow much they dared, how much \nthey won\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhy, o\xe2\x80\x99er your banner of bright \nstars, \n\n\nTheir star should be the blazing sun \nAbove the battle star of Mars. \n\nHere, here beside brave Whitman\xe2\x80\x99s \ndust, \n\nLet us be bravely, frankly just. \n\nThe mountains from the first were \nso. \n\nThe mountains from the first were \nfree. \n\nThey ever laid the tyrant low, \n\nAnd kept the boon of liberty. \n\nThe levels of the earth alone \nEndured the tyrant, bore the throne. \n\nThe levels of the earth alone \nBore Sodoms, Babylons of crime, \n\nAnd all sad cities overthrown \nAlong the surging surf of time. \n\nThe coward, slave, creeps in the fen: \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s mountains only cradle men. \n\nAye, wise and great was Washing\xc2\xac \nton, \n\nAnd brave the men of Bunker Hill; \nMost brave and worthy every one, \n\nIn work and faith and fearless will \nAnd brave endeavor for the right, \nUntil yon stars burst through their \nnight. \n\nAye, wise and good was Washing\xc2\xac \nton. \n\nYet when he laid his sword aside, \n\nThe bravest deed yet done was done. \nAnd when in stately strength and \npride \n\nHe took the plow and turned the mold \nHe wrote God\xe2\x80\x99s autograph in gold. \n\n\n\ntn \xc2\xa9rcgon \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9c\xc2\xaefje Jfourtf)\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n388 \n\nHe wrought the fabled fleece of \ngold \n\nIn priceless victories of peace, \n\nWith plowshare set in mother mold; \nThen gathering the golden fleece \nAbout his manly, martial breast, \n\nThis farmer laid him down to rest. \n\nO! this was godlike! And yet, who \nOf all men gathered here today \nHas not drawn sword as swift as true, \nThen laid its reddened edge away, \nAnd took the plow, and turned the \nmold \n\nTo sow yon sunny steeps with gold. \n\nAye, this true valor! Sing who will \nOf battle charge, of banners borne \nTriumphant up the blazing hill \nOn battle\xe2\x80\x99s front, of banners tom, \n\nOf horse and rider torn and rent, \n\nRed regiment on regiment. \n\nYet this were boy\xe2\x80\x99s play to that \nman \n\nWho, far out yonder lone frontier, \nWith wife and babe fought in the van, \nFought on, fought on, year after year. \nNo brave, bright flag to cheer the \nbrave, \n\nNo farewell gun above his grave. \n\nI say such silent pioneers \nWho here set plowshare to the sun, \nAnd silent gave their sunless years, \nWere kings of heroes every one. \n\nNo Brandywine, no Waterloo \nE\xe2\x80\x99er knew one hero half so true! \n\nA nation\xe2\x80\x99s honor for our dead, \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s pity for the stifled pain; \n\n\nAnd tears as ever woman shed, \n\nSweet woman\xe2\x80\x99s tears for maimed or \nslain. \n\nBut man\xe2\x80\x99s tears for the mute, un\xc2\xac \nknown, \n\nWho fights alone, who falls alone. \n\nThe very bravest of the brave, \n\nThe hero of all lands to me? \n\nFar up yon yellow lifting wave \nHis brave ship cleaves the golden \nsea. \n\nAnd gold or gain, or never gain, \n\nNo argosy sails there in vain. \n\nAnd who the coward? Hessian \nhe, \n\nWho turns his back upon the \nfield, \n\nWho wears the slavish livery \nOf town or city, sells his shield \nOf honor, as his ilk of old \nSold body, soul, for British gold. \n\nMy heroes, comrades of the field, \nContent ye here; here God to you, \nWhatever fate or change may yield, \nHas been most generous and true. \nYon everlasting snow-peaks stand \nHis sentinels about this land. \n\nYon bastions of God\xe2\x80\x99s house are \nwhite \n\nAs heaven\xe2\x80\x99s porch with heaven\xe2\x80\x99s \npeace. \n\nBehold His portals bathed in light! \nBehold at hand the golden fleece! \nBehold the fatness of the land \nOn every hill, on every hand! \n\n\n\n&tt Knstuer \n\n\n389 \n\n\nYon bannered snow-peaks point \nand plead \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s upward path, God\xe2\x80\x99s upward \nplan \n\n\nOf peace, God\xe2\x80\x99s everlasting creed \nOf love and brotherhood of man. \nThou mantled magistrates in white, \nGive us His light! Give us His light! \n\n\nAN ANSWER \n\n\nWell! who shall lay hand on my \nharp but me, \n\nOr shall chide my song from the \nsounding trees? \n\nThe passionate sun and the resolute \nsea, \n\nThese were my masters, and only these. \n\nThese were my masters, and only \nthese, \n\nAnd these from the first I obey\'d, and \nthey \n\nShall command me now, and I shall \nobey \n\nAs a dutiful child that is proud to \nplease. \n\nThere never were measures as true \nas the sun, \n\nThe sea hath a song that is passingly \nsweet, \n\nAnd yet they repeat, and repeat, and \nrepeat, \n\nThe same old runes though the new \nyears run. \n\nBy unnamed rivers of the Oregon \nnorth, \n\nThat roll dark-heaved into turbulent \nhills, \n\nI have made my home. . . . The \nwild heart thrills \n\nWith memories fierce, and a world \nstorms forth. \n\n\nOn eminent peaks that are dark \nwith pine, \n\nAnd mantled in shadows and voiced \nin storms, \n\nI have made my camps: majestic \ngray forms \n\nOf the thunder-clouds, they were \ncompanions of mine; \n\nAnd face set to face, like to lords \naustere, \n\nHave we talk\xe2\x80\x99d, red-tongued, of the \nmysteries \n\nOf the circling sun, of the oracled \nseas, \n\nWhile ye who judged me had mantled \nin fear. \n\nSome fragment of thought in the \nunfinish\xe2\x80\x99d words; \n\nA cry of fierce freedom, and I claim \nno more. \n\nWhat more would you have from the \ntender of herds \n\nAnd of horse on an ultimate Oregon \nshore? \n\nFrom men unto God go forth, as \nalone, \n\nWhere the dark pines talk in their \ntones of the sea \n\nTo the unseen God in a harmony \n\nOf the under seas, and know the un\xc2\xac \nknown. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFROM \n\nTHE BUILDING OF THE CITY BEAUTIFUL, \n\n1893 \n\n\n391 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFEED MY SHEEP \n\n\nCome, let us ponder; it is fit\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBorn of the poor, born to the poor\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe poor of purse, the poor of wit \nWere first to find God\xe2\x80\x99s opening \ndoor, \n\nWere first to climb the ladder, round \nby round, \n\nThat fell from Heaven\xe2\x80\x99s door unto the \nground. \n\n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s poor came first, the very first! \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s poor were first to see, to \nhear, \n\nTo feel the light of heaven burst \nFull on their faces far or near, \n\nHis poor were first to follow, first to \nfall! \n\nWhat if at last His poor stand first of \nall? \n\n\nUNDER THE SYRIAN STARS \n\n\nDear Bethlehem, the proud repose \nOf conscious worthiness is thine. \n\nRest on. The Arab comes and \ngoes, \n\nBut farthest Saxon holds thy shrine \n\nMore sacred in his stouter Christian \nhold \n\nThan England\xe2\x80\x99s heaped-up iron house \nof gold. \n\nThy stony hill is heaven\xe2\x80\x99s stair; \n\nThine every stone some storied gem. \n\nOh, thou art fair and very fair, \n\nThou holy, holy Bethlehem! \n\n\nThy very dust more dear than dust of \ngold \n\nAgainst my glorious sunset waters \nrolled. \n\nAnd here did glean the lowly Ruth; \nHere strode her grandson, fierce and \nfair, \n\nStrode forth in all his kingly youth \nAnd tore the ravening she-bear. \n\nHere Rachel sleeps. Here David, \nthirsting, cried \n\nFor just one drop from yonder trick\xc2\xac \nling tide. \n\n\nTHE GROWING OF A SOUL \n\n\nHear ye this parable. A man \n\nDid plant a garden. Vine and tree \nAlike, in course of time, began \nTo put forth fair and pleasantly. \n\n\nThe rains of heaven, the persuading \nsun \n\nCame down alike on each and every \none. \n\n\n393 \n\n\n\n\n\n394 \n\n\n$oto Peauttful are tfje jfeet \n\n\nYet some trees wilful grew, and some \nStrong vines grew gaily in the \nsun, \n\nWith gaudy leaves, that ever come \nTo naught. And yet, each flaunt\xc2\xac \ning one \n\nDid flourish on triumphantly and \nglow \n\nLike sunset clouds in all their moving \nshow. \n\nBut lo! the harvest found them not. \nThe soul had perished from them. \nMould \n\n\nAnd muck and leaf lay there to rot, \nAnd furnish nourishment untold \n\nTo patient tree and lowly creeping \nvine \n\nThat grew as grew the Husbandman\xe2\x80\x99s \ndesign. \n\nHear then this lesson; hear and heed: \nI say that chaff shall perish; say \n\nMan\xe2\x80\x99s soul is like unto a seed \nTo grow unto the Judgment Day. \n\nIt grows and grows if he will have it \ngrow; \n\nIt perishes if he must have it so. \n\n\nHOW BEAUTIFUL ARE THE FEET \n\n\nO star-built bridge, broad milky way! \n\nO star-lit, stately, splendid span! \n\nIf but one star should cease to stay \nAnd prop its shoulders to God\xe2\x80\x99s \nplan\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe man who lives for self, I say, \nHe lives for neither God nor man. \n\nI count the columned waves at war \nWith Titan elements; and they, \n\nIn martial splendor, storm the bar \n\n\nAnd shake the world, these bits of \nspray. \n\nEach gives to each, and like the star \nGets back its gift in tenfold pay. \n\nTo get and give and give amain \nThe rivers run and oceans roll. \n\nO generous and high-born rain \nWhen raining as a splendid whole! \nThat man who lives for self, again, \n\nI say, has neither sense nor soul. \n\n\nTHE SERMON ON THE MOUNT \n\n\nI think the birds in that far dawn \nWere still. The bustling town below \nLay listening. Its strength was \ndrawn \n\nTo him, as tides that inward flow. \n\nAll Galilee lay still. Far fields of \ncorn \n\nLay still to hear that silent, sacred \nmom. \n\n\nBe comforted; and blessed be \nThe meek, the merciful, the pure \nOf heart; for they shall see, shall \nhear \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s mercy. So shall peace endure \nWith God\xe2\x80\x99s peacemakers. They \nare His, and they \nShall be His children in the Judg\xc2\xac \nment Day. \n\n\n\n\n\n395 \n\n\n3n tfje \xc2\xa7&ucat of \xc2\xaefjp jfatc \n\nIN THE SWEAT OP THY FACE \n\n\nWhat sound was that? A pheasant\xe2\x80\x99s \nwhir? \n\nWhat stroke was that? Lean low \nthine ear. \n\nIs that the stroke of the carpenter, \nThat far, faint echo that we hear? \n\nIs that the sound that sometime \nBedouins tell \n\nOf hammer stroke as from His hand \nit fell? \n\nIs it the stroke of the carpenter, \nThrough eighteen hundred years \nand more \n\nStill sounding down the hallowed stir \nOf patient toil; as when He wore \n\nThe leathern dress,\xe2\x80\x94the echo of a \nsound \n\nThat thrills for aye the toiling, sensate \nground? \n\n\nHear Mary weaving! Listen! Hear \nThe thud of loom at weaving \ntime \n\nIn Nazareth. I weave this dear \nTradition with my lowly rhyme. \n\nBelieving everywhere that she may \nhear \n\nThe sound of toil, sweet Mary bends \nan ear. \n\nYea, this the toil that Jesus knew; \nYet we complain if we must bear. \n\nAre we more dear? Are we more \ntrue? \n\nGive us, O God, and do not spare! \n\nGive us to bear as Christ and Mary \nbore \n\nWith toil by leaf-girt Nazareth of \nyore! \n\n\nTHE CHRIST IN EGYPT \n\n\nO land of temples, land of tombs! \n\nO tawny land, O lion dead! \n\nO silent land of silent looms; \n\nOf kingly garments torn to shred! \nO land of storied wonder still, as \nwhen \n\nFair Joseph stood the chiefest of all \nmen! \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x99\xa6 \n\nThe Christ in Egypt! Egypt and \nHer mystic star-built Pyramids! \nHer shoreless, tiger seas of sand! \n\nHer Sphynx with fixed and weary \nlids! \n\n\nHer red and rolling Nile of yellow \nsheaves \n\nWhere Moses cradled \'mid his lily \nleaves. \n\n\nHer lorn, dread temples of the dead \nHad waited, as mute milestones \nwait \n\nBy some untraversed way unread, \nUntil the King, or soon or late, \n\nShould come that tomb-built w y ay and \nsilent pass \n\nTo read their signs above the sand- \nsown grass. \n\n\n\n\n396 Stoatttng tfje &e\xc2\xa3fumttton at ilamafe \n\n\nBehold! Amid this majesty \nOf ruin, at the dust-heaped tomb \n\nOf vanity came Christ to see \nEarth\xe2\x80\x99s emptiness, the dark death \nroom \n\nOf haughtiness, of kingly pomp, of \ngreed, \n\nOf gods of gold or stone, or storied \ncreed. \n\n\nAnd this His first abiding-place! \n\nAnd these dread scenes His child\xc2\xac \nhood\xe2\x80\x99s toys! \n\nWhat wonder at that thoughtful \nface? \n\nThat boy face never yet a boy\xe2\x80\x99s? \n\nWhat wonder that the elders mar\xc2\xac \nvelled when \n\nA boy spake in the Temple unto men? \n\n\nAWAITING THE RESURRECTION AT KARNAK \n\n\nLorn land of silence, land of awe! \nLorn, lawless land of Moslem \nwill,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe great Law-giver and the law \nHave gone away together. Still \n\nThe sun shines on; still Nilus darkly \nred \n\nSteals on between his awful walls of \ndead. \n\nAnd sapphire skies still bend as when \nProud Karnak\xe2\x80\x99s countless columns \npropped \n\nThe corners of the world; when men \nKept watch where massive Cheops \ntopped \n\nTheir utmost reach of thought, and \nsagely drew \n\nTheir star-lit lines along the trackless \nblue. \n\nBut Phthah lies prostrate evermore; \nAnd Thoth and Neith all are gone; \n\n\nAnd huge Osiris hears no more, \nThebes\xe2\x80\x99 melodies; nor Mut at On; \n\nYet one lone obelisk still lords the \nspot \n\nWhere Plato sat to learn. But On is \nnot. \n\nNor yet has Time encompassed all; \nYou trace your finger o\xe2\x80\x99er a name \n\nThat mocks at age within the wall \nOf fearful Kamak. Sword nor \nflame \n\nShall touch what men have jour\xc2\xac \nneyed far to touch \n\nAnd felt eternity in daring such! \n\n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98Juda Melchi Shishak! \xe2\x80\x9d Read \nThe Holy Book; read how that he \n\nWith chariot and champing steed \nInvaded far and fair Judea. \n\nYea, read the chronicle of red hands \nlaid \n\nOn \xe2\x80\x9cshields of gold which Solomon \nhad made.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaebe Wee of Wl \n\nTHE VOICE OF TOIL \n\n\n397 \n\n\nCome, lean an ear, an earnest ear, \nTo Nature\xe2\x80\x99s breast, some stilly eve, \n\nAnd you shall hear, shall surely hear \nThe Carpenter, and shall believe; \n\nShall surely hear, shall hear for aye, \nwho will, \n\nThe patient strokes of Christ resound\xc2\xac \ning still. \n\nThe thud of loom, the hum of wheel, \nThat steady stroke of Carpenter! \n\nAnd was this all? Did God reveal \nNo gleam of light to Him, to her? \n\nNo gleam of hopeful light, sweet \ntoiling friend, \n\nSave that which burneth dimly at \nthe end. \n\nThat beggar at the rich man\xe2\x80\x99s gate! \nThat rich man moaning down in \nhell! \n\nAnd all life\xe2\x80\x99s pity, all life\xe2\x80\x99s hate! \n\nYea, toil lay on Him like a spell. \n\n\nStop still and think of Christ, of \nMary there, \n\nHer lifted face but one perpetual \nprayer. \n\nI can but hope at such sore time, \nWhen all her soul went out so fond, \n\nShe touched the very stars sublime \nAnd took some sense of worlds \nbeyond; \n\nAnd took some strength to ever toil \nand wait \n\nThe glories bursting through God\xe2\x80\x99s \nstar-built gate. \n\nAnd He so silent, patient, sad, \n\nAs seeing all man\xe2\x80\x99s sorrows through! \n\nHow could the Christ be wholly glad \nTo know life\xe2\x80\x99s pathos asHeknew,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo know, and know that all the \nbeauteous years \n\nMan still will waste in battle, blood \nand tears? \n\n\nTHE FOUNDATION STONES \n\n\nBe thou not angered. Go thy way \nFrom God\xe2\x80\x99s high altar to thy foe; \nNor think to kneel and truly pray \nTill thou art reconciled and know \nThou hast forgiven him; as thou must \nbe \n\nForgiven of the sins that burthen \nthee. \n\nAnd if thine eye tempt thee to shame \nTurn thou aside; pluck it away! \n\n\nAnd with thy right hand deal the \nsame, \n\nNor tempt thy soul to sin this \nday. \n\nYea, thou art very weak. Thou \ncouldst not make \n\nOne hair turn white or black, for \nthine own sake. \n\nAnd whosoever smite thy cheek, \nTurn thou that he may smite again. \n\n\n\n\n39\xc2\xa7 \n\n\n\xc2\xaef>e Jfirst Hato of <@ofc \n\n\nThe truly brave are truly meek, \n\nAnd bravely bear both shame and \npain. \n\nThey slay, if truly brave men ever \nslay, \n\nTheir foes, with sweet forgiveness, \nday by day. \n\nAnd if a man would take thy coat, \nGive him thy cloak and count it \nmeet. \n\nBread cast on waters can but float \nIn sweet forgiveness to thy feet; \n\nSo thou, by silent act like this, shalt \npreach \n\nSuch sermons as not flame nor sword \ncan teach. \n\nLay not up treasures for yourselves \nOn earth, and stint and starve the \nsoul \n\nBy heaping granaries and shelves \nAnd high store-houses; for the \nwhole \n\n\nTHE FIRST \n\nLook back, beyond the Syrian sand, \nBeyond the awful flames that burst \nO\xe2\x80\x99er Sinai! That first command \nOutside the gates, God\xe2\x80\x99s very first, \n\n\nOf wealth is this: to grow and grow \nand grow \n\nIn faith; to know and ever seek to \nknow. \n\nTherefore give not too much of \nthought \n\nFor thy tomorrows. Birds that \ncall \n\nSweet melodies sow not, reap not, \nAnd yet the Father feedeth all. \n\nTherefore toil trusting, loving; watch \nand pray, \n\nAnd pray in secret; pray not long, \nbut say: \n\nGive us our daily bread this day, \nForgive our sins as we forgive, \n\nLead us not in temptation\xe2\x80\x99s way, \nDeliver us that we may live; \n\nFor thine the kingdom is, has ever \nbeen, \n\nAnd thine the power, the glory, and \n\xe2\x80\x94 Amen! \n\n\n\\W OF GOD \n\nWas this: \xe2\x80\x9cThou shalt in sweat and \nconstant toil \n\nEat bread till thou returnest to the \nsoil.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nLO! ON THE PLAINS OF BETHEL \n\n\nLo! on the plains of Bethel lay \nAn outworn lad, unhoused, alone, \nHis couch the tawny mother clay, \nHis pillow that storm-haunted stone; \n\n\nThe hollow winds howled down the \nstar-lit plain, \n\nAll white and wild with highborn \nwintry rain. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nf?oto g>ijall jWan grnrelp g>abe J|tss g>oul? 399 \n\n\nYet here God\xe2\x80\x99s ladder was let down, \nYea, only here for aye and aye! \n\nNot in the high-walled, splendid town, \nNot to the throned king feasting \nhigh, \n\nBut far beneath the storied Syrian \nstars \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s ladder fell from out the golden \nbars. \n\n\nAnd ever thus. Take heart! to some \nThe hand of fortune pours her horn \n\nOf plenty, smiling where they come; \nAnd some to wit and some to \nwealth are born, \n\nAnd some are bom to pomp and \nsplendid ease; \n\nBut lo! God\xe2\x80\x99s shining ladder leans to \nnone of these. \n\n\nHOW SHALL MAN SURELY SAVE HIS SOUL? \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHow shall man surely save his \nsoul?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\'Twas sunset by the Jordan. Gates \n\nOf light were closing, and the whole \nVast heaven hung darkened as the \nfates. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98How shall man surely save his \nsoul\xe2\x80\x9d; he said \n\nAs fell the kingly day, discrowned and \ndead. \n\nThe Christ said: \xe2\x80\x9cHear this parable. \nTwo men set forth and journeyed \nfast \n\nTo reach a place ere darkness fell \nAnd closed the gates ere they had \npassed; \n\nTwo worthy men, each free alike of \nsin, \n\nBut one did seek most sure to enter \n\nin. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 And so when in their path did lay \nA cripple with a broken staff, \n\nThe one did pass straight on his way, \nWhile one did stoop and give the \nhalf \n\n\nHis strength, and all his time did \nnobly share \n\nTill they at sunset saw their city fair. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd he who would make sure ran \nfast \n\nTo reach the golden sunset gate, \n\nWhere captains and proud chariots \npassed, \n\nBut lo, he came one moment \nlate! \n\nThe gate was closed, and all night \nlong he cried; \n\nHe cried and cried, but never watch \nreplied. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98Meanwhile, the man who cared to \nsave \n\nAnother as he would be saved \n\nCame slowly on, gave bread and \ngave \n\nCool waters, and he stooped and \nlaved \n\nThe wounds. At last, bent double \nwith his weight, \n\nHe passed, unchid, the porter\xe2\x80\x99s pri\xc2\xac \nvate gate. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nUnber tfj t \xc2\xa9libe ees. \n\n\n400 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHear then this lesson, hear and \nlearn: \n\nHe who would save his soul, I say, \nMust lose his soul; must dare to \nturn \n\n\nUNDER THE \n\nThose shining leaves that lisped and \nshook \n\nAll darkness from them, sensate \nleaves \n\nIn Nature\xe2\x80\x99s never-ending book; \n\nLeaves full of truth as garnered \nsheaves \n\nThat hold till seed-time fruitful seed, \n\nTo grow as grows some small good \ndeed. \n\n\nAnd lift the fallen by the way; \nMust make his soul worth saving by \nsome deed \n\nThat grows, and grows, as grows the \nfruitful seed.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nOLIVE TREES \n\nHow strangely and how vastly still! \nThe harvest moon hung low and \nlarge, \n\nAnd drew across the dreamful hill \nLike some huge star-bound, \nfreighted barge; \n\nSome strange, new, neighbor-world \nit surely seemed, \n\nThe while he gazed and dreamed, yet \nscarcely dreamed. \n\n\nFROM OUT THE GOLDEN DOORS OF DAWN \n\n\nFrom out the golden doors of dawn \nThe wise men came, of wondrous \nthought, \n\nWho knew the stars. From far upon \nThe shoreless East they kneeling \nbrought \n\nTheir costly gifts of inwrought gems \nand gold, \n\nWhile cloudlike incense from their \npresence rolled. \n\nTheir sweets of flower fields, their \nsweet \n\nDistilments of most sacred leaves \n\nThey laid, low-bending, at His feet, \nAs reapers bend above their \nsheaves\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nAs strong-armed reapers bending \nclamorous \n\nTo gather golden full sheaves kneeling \nthus. \n\nAnd kneeling so, they spake of when \nGod walked His garden\xe2\x80\x99s sacred \nsod, \n\nNor yet had hid his face from men, \nNor yet had man forgotten God. \n\nThey spake. But Mary kept her \nthought apart \n\nAnd, silent, \xe2\x80\x9cpondered all things in \nher heart.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThey spake in whispers long, they laid \nTheir shaggy heads together, drew \n\n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e gmtt Hap jffloUett in ttje \xc2\xa3\xc2\xa7>ea \n\n\n401 \n\n\nSome stained scrolls breathless forth, \nthen made \n\nSuch speech as only wise men \nknew,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nTheir high, red camels on the huge \nhill set \n\nOutstanding, like some night-hewn \nsilhouette. \n\n\nTHE SUN LAY MOLTEN IN THE SEA \n\nThe sun lay molten in the sea In one broad, bright intensity \n\nOf sand, and all the sea was rolled Of gold and gold and gold and gold. \n\n\nHE WALKED THE WORLD WITH BENDED HEAD \n\n\nHe walked the world with bended \nhead. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 4 There is no thing," he moaning said, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThat must not some day join the \ndead." \n\nHe sat where rolled a river deep; \n\nA woman sat her down to weep; \n\nA child lay in her lap asleep. \n\nThe water touched the mother\xe2\x80\x99s \nhand. \n\nHis heart was touched. He passed \nfrom land, \n\nBut left it laughing in the sand. \n\nThat one kind word, that one good \ndeed, \n\n\nWas as if you should plant a seed \nIn sand along death\xe2\x80\x99s sable brede. \n\nAnd looking from the farther shore \nHe saw, where he had sat before, \n\nA light that grew, grew more and \nmore. \n\nHe saw a growing, glowing throng \nOf happy people white and strong \nWith faith, and jubilant with song. \n\nIt grew and grew, this little seed \nOf good sown in that day of need, \nUntil it touched the stars indeed! \n\nAnd then the old man smiling said, \nWith youthful heart and lifted head, \n\xe2\x80\x9cNo good deed ever joins the dead." \n\n\nTHE DAY SAT BY WITH BANNER FURLED \n\n\nThe Day sat by with banner furled; \nHis battered shield hung on the \nwall; \n\nOne great star walked the upper \nworld, \n\n\nAll purple-robed, in Stately Hall; \nSome unseen reapers gathered golden \nsheaves, \n\nThe skies were as the tree of life in \nyellow leaves. \n\n\n26 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n402 \xc2\xaefje 3 \xc2\xaeap ibat Pp tmtfj fanner Jfurleb \n\n\nGod\'s poor of Hebron rested. Then \nStraightway unto their presence \ndrew \n\nA captain with his band of men \n\nAnd smote His poor, and well-nigh \nslew, \n\nSaying, \xe2\x80\x9cHence, ye poor! Behold, \nthe king this night \n\nComes forth with torch and dance and \nloud delight." \n\nHis poor, how much they cared to \nsee! \n\nHow begged they, prone, to see, to \nhear! \n\nBut spake the captain angrily, \n\nAnd drove them forth with sword \nand spear, \n\nAnd shut the gate; and when the \nking passed through, \n\nThese lonely poor\xe2\x80\x94they knew not \nwhat to do. \n\nLo, then a soft-voiced stranger said: \n\xe2\x80\x9c Come ye with me a little space. \n\nI know where torches gold and red \nGleam down a peaceful, ample \nplace; \n\nWhere song and perfume fill the rest\xc2\xac \nful air, \n\nAnd men speak scarce at all. The \nking is there." \n\nThey passed; they sat a grass-set \nhill\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat king hath carpets like to this? \n\nWhat king hath music like the trill \nOf crickets \'mid these silences\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nThese perfumed silences, that rest \nupon \n\nThe soul like sunlight on a hill at \ndawn? \n\nBehold what blessings in the air! \n\nWhat benedictions in the dew! \n\nThese olives lift their arms in prayer; \n\nThey turn their leaves, God reads \nthem through; \n\nYon lilies where the falling water \nsings \n\nAre fairer-robed than choristers of \nkings. \n\nLift now your heads! yon golden \nbars \n\nThat build the porch of heaven, \nseas \n\nOf silver-sailing golden stars\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYea, these are yours, and all of \nthese! \n\nFor yonder king hath never yet been \ntold \n\nOf silver seas that sail these ships of \ngold. \n\nThey turned, they raised their heads \non high; \n\nThey saw, the first time saw and \nknew, \n\nThe awful glories of the sky, \n\nThe benedictions of the dew; \n\nAnd from that day His poor were \nricher far \n\nThan all such kings as keep where \nfollies are. \n\n\n\nCf>c Coil of <\xc2\xa9ob \n\n\n403 \n\n\nTHE TOIL OF GOD \n\n\nBehold the silvered mists that rise \nFrom all-night toiling in the corn. \n\nThe mists have duties up the skies, \nThe skies have duties with the \nmorn; \n\nWhile all the world is full of earnest \ncare \n\nTo make the fair world still more \nwondrous fair, \n\n\nMore lordly fair; the stately mom \nMoves down the walk of golden \nwheat; \n\nHer guards of honor gild the com \nIn golden pathway for her feet; \n\nThe purpled hills she crowns in \ncrowns of gold, \n\nAnd God walks with us as He walked \nof old. \n\n\nTHE BLESSED BEES \n\n\nI think the bees, the blessed bees, \nAre better, wiser far than we. \n\nThe very wild birds in the trees \nAre wiser far, it seems to me; \n\nFor love and light and sun and air \n\nAre theirs, and not a bit of care. \n\nWhat bird makes claim to all God\xe2\x80\x99s \ntrees? \n\nWhat bee makes claim to all God\xe2\x80\x99s \nflowers? \n\nBehold their perfect harmonies, \nTheir common board, the common \nhours! \n\nSay, why should man be less than \nthese, \n\nThe happy birds, the hoarding bees? \n\n\nMAN\xe2\x80\x99S \n\nMan\xe2\x80\x99s books are but man\xe2\x80\x99s alphabet; \nBeyond and on his lessons lie\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nThe birds? What bird hath envied \nbird \n\nThat he sings on as God hath \nwilled? \n\nYet man\xe2\x80\x94what song of man is heard \nBut he is stoned, or cursed, or \nkilled? \n\nThank God, sweet singers of the air, \n\nNo sparrow falls without His care. \n\nO brown bee in your honey house? \nCould we like you but find it best \n\nTo common build, on sweets carouse, \nTo common toil, to common rest, \n\nTo common share our sweets with \nmen\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWe surely would be better then. \n\n\nBOOKS \n\nThe lessons of the violet, \n\nThe large, gold letters of the sky. \n\n\n\n\n\n404 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje \xc2\xaerulp J?rabe \n\nTHE TRULY BRAVE \n\n\nAnd what for the man who went forth \nfor the right, \n\nWas hit in the battle and shorn of a \nlimb? \n\nWhy, honor for him who falls in the \nfight, \n\nFalls wounded of limb and crippled \nfor life; \n\nGive honor, give glory, give pensions \nfor him, \n\nGive bread and give shelter for babes \nand for wife. \n\nBut what for the hero who battles \nalone \n\nIn battles of thought where God set \nhim down; \n\nWho fought all alone and who fell \noverthrown \n\nIn his reason at last from the hardness \nand hate? \n\nWhy, jibe him and jeer him and point \nas you frown \n\nTo that lowly, lone hero who dared \nchallenge fate. \n\n\nWHAT IF WE ALL \n\nWhat if we all lay dead below; \n\nLay as the grass lies, cold and dead \n\nIn God\xe2\x80\x99s own holy shroud of snow, \nWith snow-white stones at foot and \nhead, \n\nWith all earth dead and shrouded \nwhite \n\nAs clouds that cross the moon at \nnight? \n\n\nGod pity, God pardon, and God help \nus all! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThat young man of promise,\xe2\x80\x9d \nwherever he be, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThat young man of promise,\xe2\x80\x9d \nwherever he fall,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFor fall, he must fall, \xe2\x80\x99tis a thousand \nto one,\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nLet us plant him a rose; let us plant \na great tree \n\nTo hide his poor grave from the world \nand the sun. \n\nI tell you \xe2\x80\x99twere better to cherish \nthat soul\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat soldier that battles with thought \nfor a sword, \n\nThat climbs the steep ramparts where \nwrong has control, \n\nAnd falls beaten back by the rude, \ntrampling horde. \n\nAy, better to cherish his words and \nhis worth \n\nThan all the Napoleons that people \nthe earth. \n\n\nLAY DEAD BELOW \n\nWhat if that infidel some night \nCould then rise up and see how \ndead, \n\nHow wholly dead and out of sight \nAll things with snows sown foot and \nhead \n\nAnd lost winds wailing up and down \n\nThe emptied fields and emptied \ntown? \n\n\n\n\nPut Up \xc2\xaefjp g>toorU \n\n\n405 \n\n\nI think that grand old infidel \nWould rub his hands with fiendish \nglee, \n\nAnd say, \xe2\x80\x9cI knew it, knew it well! \n\nI knew that death was destiny; \n\nI ate, I drank, I mocked at God, \nThen as the grass was, and the \nsod." \n\n\nAh me, the grasses and the sod, \nThey are my preachers. Hear \nthem preach \n\nWhen they forget the shroud, and God \nLifts up these blades of grass to \nteach \n\nThe resurrection! Who shall say \nWhat infidel can speak as they? \n\n\nPUT UP THY SWORD \n\n\nAnd who the bravest of the brave; \nThe bravest hero ever bom? \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Twas one who dared a felon\xe2\x80\x99s grave, \nWho dared to bear the scorn of \nscorn. \n\nNay, more than this; when sword was \ndrawn \n\nAnd vengeance waited for His \nword, \n\nHe looked with pitying eyes upon \nThe scene, and said, "Put up thy \nsword." \n\nOh God! could man be found to\xc2\xac \nday \n\nAs brave to do, as brave to say? \n\n\n"Put up thy sword into its sheath.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nPut up thy sword, put up thy \nsword! \n\nBy Cedron\xe2\x80\x99s brook thus spake be\xc2\xac \nneath \n\nThe olive-trees our valiant Lord, \nSpake calm and king-like. Sword \nand stave \n\nAnd torch, and stormy men of death \nMade clamor. Yet He spake not, \nsave \n\nWith loving word and patient \nbreath, \n\nThe peaceful olive-boughs beneath, \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98Put up thy sword within its sheath.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nWHY, KNOW YOU NOT SOUL SPEAKS TO SOUL \n\n\nWhy, know you not soul speaks to \nsoul? \n\nI say the use of words shall pass\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nWords are but fragments of the \nglass, \n\nBut silence is the perfect whole. \n\n\nTHE VOICE OF THE DOVE \n\n\nCome, listen O Love to the voice of \nthe dove, \n\nCome, hearken and hear him say, \n\n\n"There are many To-morrows, my \nLove, my Love, \n\nThere is only one Today." \n\n\n\n\n\n\n406 \n\n\nW fje "^Joicc of tfje \xc2\xa9obe \n\n\nAnd all day long you can hear him \nsay, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c This day in purple is rolled \nAnd the baby stars of the milky \nway, \n\nThey are cradled in cradles of gold.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nNow what is thy secret, serene gray \ndove, \n\nOf singing so sweetly always? \n\xe2\x80\x9cThere are many Tomorrows, my \nLove, my Love, \n\nThere is only one Today.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nf \n\n\n\nENGLISH THEMES \n\n\n407 \n\n\n* \n\n\n/ \n\n\nENGLAND \n\n\nThou, mother of brave men, of \nnations! Thou, \n\nThe white-brow\xe2\x80\x99d Queen of bold \nwhite-bearded Sea! \n\nThou wert of old ever the same asnow, \nSo strong, so weak, so tame, so fierce, \nso bound, so free, \n\nA contradiction and a mystery; \n\n\nSerene, yet passionate, in ways thine \nown. \n\nThy brave ships wind and weave \nearth\xe2\x80\x99s destiny. \n\nThe zones of earth, aye, thou hast set \nand sown \n\nAll seas in bed of blossom\xe2\x80\x99d sail, as \nsome great garden blown. \n\n\nST. PAUL\xe2\x80\x99S \n\n\nI see above a crowded world a cross \nOf gold. It grows like some great \ncedar tree \n\nUpon a peak in shroud of cloud and \nmoss, \n\nMade bare and bronzed in far anti\xc2\xac \nquity. \n\nStupendous pile! The grim Yosemite \nHas rent apart his granite wall, and \nthrown \n\nIts rugged front before us. . . . \nHere I see \n\nThe strides of giant men in cryptic \nstone, \n\nAnd turn, and slow descend where \nsleep the great alone. \n\nThe mighty captains have come \nhome to rest; \n\nThe brave returned to sleep amid the \n\nbrave. \n\n\nThe sentinel that stood with steely \nbreast \n\nBefore the fiery hosts of France, and \ngave \n\nThe battle-cry that roll\xe2\x80\x99d, receding \nwave \n\nOn wave, the foeman flying back and \nfar, \n\nIs here. How still! Yet louder now \nthe grave \n\nThan ever-crashing Belgian battle- \ncar \n\nOr blue and battle-shaken seas of \nTrafalgar. \n\nThe verger stalks in stiff import\xc2\xac \nance o\xe2\x80\x99er \n\nThe hollow, deep and strange re\xc2\xac \nsponding stones; \n\nHe stands with lifted staff unchid \nbefore \n\n\n409 \n\n\n\n\n4 io \n\n\nSHestoniiufter 8b&ep \n\n\nThe forms that once had crush\xe2\x80\x99d or \nfashion\xe2\x80\x99d thrones, \n\nAnd coldly points you out the coffin\xe2\x80\x99d \nbones: \n\nHe stands composed where armies \ncould not stand \n\n\nA little time before. . . . The hand \ndisowns \n\nThe idle sword, and now instead the \ngrand \n\nAnd golden cross makes sign and \ntakes austere command. \n\n\nWESTMINSTER ABBEY \n\n\nThe Abbey broods beside the turbid \nThames; \n\nHer mother heart is filled with mem\xc2\xac \nories; \n\nHer every niche is stored with storied \nnames; \n\nThey move before me like a mist of \nseas. \n\nI am confused, and made abash\xe2\x80\x99d by \nthese \n\nMost kingly souls, grand, silent, and \nsevere. \n\nI am not equal, I should sore displease \n\nThe living . . . dead. I dare not \nenter; drear \n\nAnd stain\xe2\x80\x99d in storms of grander days \nall things appear. ! \n\n\nI go! but shall I not return \nagain \n\nWhen art has taught me gentler, \nkindlier skill, \n\nAnd time has given force and strength \nof strain? \n\nI go! O ye that dignify and fill \n\nThe chronicles of earth! I would \ninstil \n\nInto my soul somehow the atmo\xc2\xac \nsphere \n\nOf sanctity that here usurps the \nwill; \n\nBut go; I seek the tomb of one\xe2\x80\x94a \npeer \n\nOf peers\xe2\x80\x94whose dust a fool refused \nto cherish here. \n\n\nOH, FOR ENGLAND\xe2\x80\x99S OLD TIME THUNDER! \n\n\nOh, for England\xe2\x80\x99s old sea thunder! \nOh, for England\xe2\x80\x99s bold sea men, \nWhen we banged her over, under \nAnd she banged us back again! \nBetter old-time strife and stresses, \nCloud topt towers, walls, distrust; \n\n\nBetter wars than lazinesses, \n\nBetter loot than wine and lust! \n\nGive us seas? Why, we have oceans! \nGive us manhood, sea men, men! \nGive us deeds, loves, hates, emotions! \nElse give back these seas again. \n\n\nAT LORD BYRON\xe2\x80\x99S TOMB \n\nMoved animate in human form di- \n\n\nO Master, here I bow before a shrine; \nBefore the lordliest dust that ever yet \n\n\nvine. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSt Hort) Upton\xe2\x80\x99s tComfa \n\n\nLo! dust indeed to dust. The mold is set \n\nAbove thee and the ancient walls are \nwet, \n\nAnd drip all day in dank and silent \ngloom, \n\nAs if the cold gray stones could not \nforget \n\nThy great estate shrunk to this som\xc2\xac \nber room, \n\nBut lean to weep perpetual tears \nabove thy tomb. \n\nBefore me lie the oak-crown\xe2\x80\x99d \nAnnesley hills, \n\nBefore me lifts the ancient Annesley \n\nHall \n\nAbove the mossy oaks. ... A \npicture fills \n\nWith forms of other days. A maiden \n\ntall \n\nAnd fair; a fiery restless boy, with all \n\nThe force of man! a steed that frets \nwithout; \n\nA long thin sword that rusts upon the \nwall. . . . \n\nThe generations pass. ... Be\xc2\xac \nhold! about \n\nThe ivied hall the fair-hair\xe2\x80\x99d children \nsport and shout. \n\nA bay wreath, wound by Ina of the \nWest, \n\nHangs damp and stain\xe2\x80\x99d upon the \ndark gray w r all, \n\nAbove thy time-soil\xe2\x80\x99d tomb and \ntatter\xe2\x80\x99d crest; \n\nA bay wreath gather\xe2\x80\x99d by the seas \nthat call \n\nTo orient Cathay, that break and fall \n\nOn shell-lined shores before Tahiti\xe2\x80\x99s \nbreeze. \n\n\n41 1 \n\nA slab, a crest, a wreath, and these are \nall \n\nNeglected, tatter\xe2\x80\x99d, tom; yet only \nthese \n\nThe world bestows for song that \nrivail\xe2\x80\x99d singing seas. \n\nA bay-wreath w r ound by one more \ntruly brave \n\nThan Shastan; fair as thy eternal fame, \n\nShe sat and wove above the sunset \nwave, \n\nAnd wound and sang thy measures \nand thy name. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas wound by one, yet sent w r ith \none acclaim \n\nBy many, fair and warm as flowing \nwine, \n\nAnd purely true, and tall as growing \nflame, \n\nThat list and lean in moonlight\xe2\x80\x99s \nmellow shine \n\nTo tropic tales of love in other tongues \nthan thine. \n\nI bring this idle reflex of thy task, \n\nAnd my few loves, to thy forgotten \ntomb; \n\nI leave them here; and here all pardon \nask \n\nOf thee, and patience ask of singers \nwhom \n\nThy majesty hath silenced. I resume \n\nMy staff, and now my face is to the \nWest; \n\nMy feet are worn; the sun is gone, a \ngloom \n\nHas mantled Hucknall, and the min\xc2\xac \nstrel\xe2\x80\x99s zest \n\nFor fame is broken here, and here he \npleads for rest. \n\n\n\n412 \n\n\nJBeati in tlje Hong, Strong \n\nDEAD IN THE LONG, STRONG GRASS \n\n\nDead! stark dead in the long, strong \ngrass! \n\nBut he died with his sword in his \nhand. \n\nWho says it ? who saw it ? God saw it! \n\nAnd I knew him! St. George! he \nwould draw it, \n\nThough they swooped down in mass \n\nTill they darkened the land! \n\nThen the seventeen wounds in his \nbreast! \n\nAh! these witness best! \n\nTHE PASSING \n\nMy kingly kinsmen, kings of thought, \nI hear your gathered symphonies, \n\nSuch nights as when the world is not, \nAnd great stars chorus through my \ntrees. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xc2\xa9 o \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nWe knew it, as God\xe2\x80\x99s prophets knew, \nWe knew it, as mute red men know, \n\nWhen Mars leapt searching heaven \nthrough \n\nWith flaming torch, that he must \ngo. \n\nThen Browning, he who knew the \nstars, \n\nStood forth and faced insatiate Mars. \n\nThen up from Cambridge rose and \nturned \n\nSweetLowellfromhis Druid trees\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTurned where the great star blazed \nand burned, \n\nAs if his own soul might appease. \n\n\nDead! stark dead in the long, strong \ngrass! \n\nDead! and alone in the great dark \nland! \n\nO mother! not Empress now, mother! \n\nA nobler name, too, than all \nother, \n\nThe laurel leaf fades from thy \nhand! \n\nO mother that waiteth, a mass! \n\nMasses and chants must be said, \n\nAnd cypress, instead. \n\nOF TENNYSON \n\nYet on and on through all the stars \n\nStill searched and searched insatiate \nMars. \n\nThen stanch Walt Whitman saw and \nknew; \n\nForgetful of his \xe2\x80\x9c Leaves of Grass,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHe heard his \xe2\x80\x9c Drum Taps\xe2\x80\x9d and God \ndrew \n\nHis great soul through the shining \npass, \n\nMade light, made bright by burnished \nstaVs; \n\nMade scintillant from flaming Mars. \n\nThen soft-voiced Whittier was heard \nTo cease; was heard to sing no more, \n\nAs you have heard some sweetest bird \nThe more because its song is o\xe2\x80\x99er. \n\nYet brighter up the street of stars \n\nStill blazed and burned and beckoned \nMars. \n\n\n\n\n&iel, tlje i&el\xe2\x80\x99el \n\n\n413 \n\n\nAnd then the king came; king of \nthought, \n\nKing David with his harp and \ncrown. . . . \n\nHow wisely well the gods had \nwrought \n\nThat these had gone and sat them \ndown \n\nTo wait and welcome \xe2\x80\x99mid the \nstars \n\nAll silent in the light of Mars. \n\n\nAll silent . . . So, he lies in state. \n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nOur redwoods drip and drip with \nrain. . . . \n\nAgainst our rock-locked Golden Gate \nWe hear the great, sad, sobbing \nmain. \n\nBut silent all. . . . He passed the \nstars \n\nThat year the whole world turned to \nMars. \n\n\nRIEL, THE REBEL \n\n\nHe died at dawn in the land of \nsnows; \n\nA priest at the left, a priest at the \nright; \n\nThe doomed man praying for his piti\xc2\xac \nless foes, \n\nAnd each priest holding a low dim \nlight, \n\nTo pray for the soul of the dying. \n\nBut Windsor Castle was far away; \n\nAnd Windsor Castle was never so \ngay \n\nWith her gorgeous banners flying! \n\n\nThe hero was hung in the windy \ndawn\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas splendidly done, the telegraph \nsaid; \n\nA creak of the neck, then the shoul\xc2\xac \nders drawn; \n\nA heave of the breast\xe2\x80\x94and the man \nhung dead, \n\nAnd, oh! never such valiant dying! \n\nWhile Windsor Castle was far away \n\nWith its fops and fools on that windy \nday, \n\nAnd its thousand banners flying! \n\n\nMOTHER EGYPT \n\n\nDark-browed, she broods with weary \nlids \n\nBeside her Sphynx and Pyramids, \nWith low and never-lifted head. \n\nIf she be dead, respect the dead; \n\nIf she be weeping, let her weep; \n\nIf she be sleeping, let her sleep; \n\nFor lo, this woman named the stars! \nShe suckled at her tawny dugs \n\n\nYour Moses while you reeked in wars \n\nAnd prowled your woods, nude, \npainted thugs. \n\nThen back, brave England; back in \npeace \n\nTo Christian isles of fat increase! \n\nGo back! Else bid your high priests \nmold \n\n\n\n\n\n4 H \n\n\n!3frica \n\n\nTheir meek bronze Christs to cannon \nbold; \n\nTake down their cross from proud St. \nPaul\xe2\x80\x99s \n\nAnd coin it into cannon-balls! \n\nYou tent not far from Nazareth; \n\nYour camps trench where his child- \nfeet strayed. \n\nIf Christ had seen this work of death! \n\nIf Christ had seen these ships invade! \n\nI think the patient Christ had said, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGo back, brave men! Take up your \ndead; \n\nDraw down your great ships to the \nseas; \n\nRepass the Gates of Hercules. \n\nGo back to wife with babe at breast, \n\nAnd leave lorn Egypt to her rest.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nOr is Christ dead, as Egypt is? \n\nAh, England, hear me yet again; \n\nThere\xe2\x80\x99s something grimly wrong in \nthis\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSo like some gray, sad woman slain. \n\nWhat would you have your mother \ndo? \n\n\nHath she not done enough for you? \n\nGo back! And when you learn to \nread, \n\nCome read this obelisk. Her deed \n\nLike yonder awful forehead is \n\nDisdainful silence. Like to this \n\nWhat lessons have you writ in stone \n\nTo passing nations that shall stand? \n\nWhy, years as hers will leave you \nlone \n\nAnd level as yon yellow sand. \n\nSaint George? Your lions? Whence \nare they? \n\nFrom awful, silent Africa. \n\nThis Egypt is the lion\'s lair; \n\nBeware, brave Albion, beware! \n\nI feel the very Nile should rise \n\nTo drive you from this sacrifice. \n\nAnd if the seven plagues should \ncome? \n\nThe red seas swallow sword and \nsteed? \n\nLo! Christian lands stand mute and \ndumb \n\nTo see thy more than Moslem deed. \n\n\nAFRICA \n\n\nOh! she is very old. I lay, \n\nMade dumb with awe and wonder\xc2\xac \nment, \n\nBeneath a palm before my tent, \nWith idle and discouraged hands, \n\nNot many days ago, on sands \nOf awful, silent Africa. \n\nLong gazing on her ghostly shades, \nThat lift their bare arms in the air, \n\nI lay. I mused where story fades \n\n\nFrom her dark brow and found her \nfair. \n\nA slave, and old, within her veins \nThere runs that warm, forbidden \nblood \n\nThat no man dares to dignify \nIn elevated song. The chains \nThat held her race but yesterday \nHold still the hands of men. Forbid \n\n\n\n\n\nJSIofirton to tfje JSoer# \n\n\n4 i 5 \n\n\nIs Ethiop. The turbid flood \nOf prejudice lies stagnant still, \n\nAnd all the world is tainted. Will \nAnd wit lie broken as a lance \nAgainst the brazen mailed face \nOf old opinion. None advance, \nSteel-clad and glad, to the attack, \nWith trumpet and with song. Look \nback! \n\nBeneath yon pyramids lie hid \nThe histories of her great race. . . . \nOld Nilus rolls right sullen by, \n\nWith all his secrets. Who shall say: \nMy father rear\xe2\x80\x99d a pyramid; \n\nMy brother clipp\xe2\x80\x99d the dragon\xe2\x80\x99s \nwings; \n\nMy mother was Semiramis? \n\nYea, harps strike idly out of place; \nMen sing of savage Saxon kings \nNew-born and known but yesterday, \nAnd Norman blood presumes to \nsay. . . \n\nNay, ye who boast ancestral name \nAnd vaunt deeds dignified by time \nMust not despise her. Who hath \nworn \n\nSince time began a face that is \nSo all-enduring, old like this\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA face like Africa\xe2\x80\x99s? Behold! \n\nThe Sphinx is Africa. The bond \nOf silence is upon her. Old \nAnd white with tombs, and rent and \nshorn; \n\nBOSTON TO \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c For the right that needs assistance, \nFor the wrong that needs resistance, \nFor the glory in the distance, \n\nFor the good that we can do . \xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nWith raiment wet with tears, and \ntorn, \n\nAnd trampled on, yet all untamed; \nAll naked now, yet not ashamed,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe mistress of the young world\xe2\x80\x99s \nprime, \n\nWhose obelisks still laugh at time, \nAnd lift to heaven her fair name, \nSleeps satisfied upon her fame. \n\nBeyond the Sphinx, and still be\xc2\xac \nyond, \n\nBeyond the tawny desert-tomb \nOf Time; beyond tradition, loom \nAnd lift, ghost-like, from out the \ngloom, \n\nHer thousand cities, battle-tom \nAnd gray with story and with \nTime. \n\nHer humblest ruins are sublime; \n\nHer thrones with mosses overborne \nMake velvets for the feet of Time. \n\ny\' \n\nShe points a hand and cries: \xe2\x80\x9cGo \nread \n\nThe letter\xe2\x80\x99d obelisks that lord \nOld Rome, and know my name and \ndeed. \n\nMy archives these, and plunder\xe2\x80\x99d \nwhen \n\nI had grown weary of all men.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nWe turn to these; we cry: \xe2\x80\x9c Abhorr\xe2\x80\x99d \nOld Sphinx, behold, we cannot read!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nTHE BOERS \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cFor Freedom\'s battles once begun, \nBequeathed from bleeding sire to son, \nThough baffled oft, are ever won ."\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nByron. \n\n\n\n\n\n416 \n\n\nBoston to tfje ffloetn \n\n\nThe Sword of Gideon, Sword of God, \nBe with ye, Boers. Brave men of \npeace, \n\nYe hewed the path, ye brake the sod, \nYe fed white flocks of fat increase, \nWhere Saxon foot had never trod; \nWhere Saxon foot unto this day \nHad measured not, had never known, \nHad ye not bravely led the way \nAnd made such happy homes your \nown. \n\nI think God\xe2\x80\x99s house must be such \nhome. \n\nThe priestess Mother, choristers \nWho spin and weave, nor care to \nroam \n\nBeyond this white God\xe2\x80\x99s house of \nhers, \n\nBut spinning sing and spin again. \n\nI think such silent shepherd men \nMost like that few the prophet \nsings\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMost like that few stout Abram drew \nTriumphant o\xe2\x80\x99er the slaughtered \nkings. \n\n\nDefend God\xe2\x80\x99s house! Let fall the \ncrook. \n\nDraw forth the plowshare from the \nsod, \n\nAnd trust, as in the Holy Book, \n\nThe Sword of Gideon and of God; \n\nGod and the right! Enough to fight \n\nA million regiments of wrong. \n\nDefend! Nor count what comes of it. \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s battle bides not with the strong; \n\nAnd pride must fall. Lo! it is writ! \n\nGreat England\xe2\x80\x99s Gold! how stanch \nshe fares, \n\nFame\xe2\x80\x99s wine-cup dressing her proud \nlips\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHer checker-board of battle squares \n\nRimmed round by steel-built battle\xc2\xac \nships ! \n\nAnd yet mean whiles ten thousand \nmiles \n\nShe seeks ye out. Well, welcome \nher! \n\nGive her such welcome with such will \n\nAs Boston gave in battle\xe2\x80\x99s whir \n\nThat red, dread day at Bunker Hill. \n\n\n\nMORE SONGS FROM THE HIGHTS \n\n\n27 \n\n\n417 \n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE \n\nYes, I am dreamer. Yet while you \ndream, \n\nThen I am awake. When a child, \nback through \n\nThe gates of the past I peer\xe2\x80\x99d, and 1 \nknew \n\nThe land I had lived in. I saw a \nbroad stream, \n\nSaw rainbows that compass\xe2\x80\x99d a world \nin their reach; \n\nI saw my beloved go down on the \nbeach; \n\n\nPOET \n\nSaw her lean to this earth, saw her \nlooking for me \n\nAs shipmen looked for loved ship at \nsea. . . . \n\nWhile you seek gold in the earth. \nwhy, I \n\nSee gold in the steeps of the starry \nsky; \n\nAnd which do you think has the \nfairer view \n\nOf God in heaven\xe2\x80\x94the dreamer or \nyou? \n\n\nAND OH, THE VOI \n\nAnd oh, the voices I have heard! \n\nSuch visions where the morning \ngrows\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA brother\xe2\x80\x99s soul in some sweet bird, \n\nA sister\xe2\x80\x99s spirit in a rose. \n\nAnd oh, the beauty I have found! \n\nSuch beauty, beauty everywhere; \n\nTHE WORLD IS A \n\nAye, the world is a better old \nworld today! \n\nAnd a great good mother this earth \nof ours; \n\nHer white tomorrows are a white \nstairway \n\nTo lead us up to the far star flowers\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nES I HAVE HEARD \n\nThe beauty creeping on the ground, \n\nThe beauty singing through the air. \n\nThe love in all, the good, the worth, \n\nThe God in all, or dusk or dawn; \n\nGood will to man and peace on \nearth; \n\nThe morning stars sing on and on. \n\nBETTER WORLD \n\nThe spiral tomorrows that one by \none \n\nW e climb and we climb in the face of \nthe sun. \n\nAye, the world is a braver old world \ntoday! \n\n\n419 \n\n\n\n\n\n420 \n\n\n\xc2\xaebe jfortunate Itelesi \n\n\nFor many a hero dares bear with \nwrong\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWill laugh at wrong and will turn away; \nWill whistle it down the wind with a \nsong\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nDares slay the wrong with his \nsplendid scorn! \n\nThe bravest old hero that ever was \nborn! \n\n\nTHE FORTUNATE ISLES \n\n\nYou sail and you seek for the Fortu\xc2\xac \nnate Isles, \n\nThe old Greek Isles of the yellow \nbird\xe2\x80\x99s song? \n\nThen steer straight on through the \nwatery miles, \n\nStraight on, straight on, and you \ncan\xe2\x80\x99t go wrong. \n\nNay not to the left, nay not to the \nright, \n\nBut on, straight on, and the Isles are \nin sight, \n\nThe old Greek Isles where yellow \nbirds sing \n\nAnd life lies girt with a golden ring. \n\nThese Fortunate Isles they are not so \nfar, \n\nThey lie within reach of the lowliest \ndoor; \n\nYou can see them gleam by the \ntwilight star; \n\nYou can hear them sing by the \nmoon\xe2\x80\x99s white shore\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nNay, never look back! Those leveled \ngrave stones \n\nThey were landing steps; they were \nsteps unto thrones \n\nOf glory for souls that have gone \nbefore, \n\nAnd have set white feet on the fortu\xc2\xac \nnate shore. \n\nAnd what are the names of the \nFortunate Isles? \n\nWhy, Duty and Love and a large \nContent. \n\nLo! these are the Isles of the watery \nmiles, \n\nThat God let down from the firma\xc2\xac \nment. \n\nAye! Duty, and Love, and a true \nman\xe2\x80\x99s trust; \n\nYour forehead to God though your \nfeet in the dust. \n\nAye! Duty to man, and to God mean- \nwhiles, \n\nAnd these, O friend, are the Fortu\xc2\xac \nnate Isles. \n\n\nTO SAVE A SOUL \n\n\nIt seems to me a grandest, thing \nTo save the soul from perishing \nBy planting it where heaven\xe2\x80\x99s rain \nMay reach and make it grow again. \n\n\nIt seems to me the man who leaves \nThe soul to perish is as one \nWho gathers up the empty sheaves \nWhen all the golden grain is done. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n)e lUgfjt of Cfmst\xe2\x80\x99g jface \n\nTHE LIGHT OF CHRIST\xe2\x80\x99S FACE \n\n\n421 \n\n\nBehold how glorious! Behold \n\nThe light of Christ\xe2\x80\x99s face; and such \nlight! \n\nThe Moslem, Buddhist, as of old, \n\nGropes hopeless on in hopeless night. \n\nBut lo, where Christ comes, crowned \nwith flame, \n\nTen thousand triumphs in Christ\xe2\x80\x99s \nname. \n\n\nElijah\xe2\x80\x99s chariot of fire \n\nChained lightnings harnessed to his \ncar! \n\nJove\xe2\x80\x99s thunders bridled by a wire\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nCall unto nations \xe2\x80\x9chere we are!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nLo! all the world one sea of \nlight, \n\nSave where the Paynim walks in \nnight. \n\n\nGOOD BUDDHA SAID \xe2\x80\x9cBE CLEAN, BE CLEAN\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nA free translation from the Chinese. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBeclean, be clean! \xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 Gautama cried, \n\xe2\x80\x9cCome, know the strength of being \nclean; \n\nCome, lie no more, ye who have lied, \nCome, lust no more, no more be \nmean; \n\nBe false no more, be foul no more, \n\nFor I shall judge ye to the core.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThey came, the silken Mandarin, \nThe soldier with his blood-wet \nname, \n\nThe poet with his lust of fame, \n\nThe priest in sandals soaked with \nsin, \n\nThe lawyer with his quibs and lies, \nThe merchant with queer mer\xc2\xac \nchandise. \n\nAnd each so proud, proud and polite! \n\nSo proud and clean! clean out of sight! \nTheir very finger nails so clean \nThey shone like sea shells, pink and \ngreen\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nA sort of ultra-submarine\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhatever ultra-sub may mean. \n\nAnd, too, there came a barefoot boy, \nWho left his long-horned purple \ncow \n\nAmid red poppies at the plow\xe2\x80\x94 \nCame whistling low with quiet joy, \nTo stand aloof with modest mien \nAnd see the strength of being clean. \n\nGautama waved his wand, and lo, \n\nOn each such load of dirt was laid \nHe bowed and sank down, sore \nafraid. \n\nSome sank so low, some trembled so, \nSome sank in such sad, piteous \nplight \n\nTheir red-topt heads sank out of \nsight. \n\nThe Mandarin with silk-tipt tail \nShowed scarce a shining finger nail. \n\n\n\n\n422 \n\n\n\xc2\xaerue (Sreatneste \n\n\nThe white-robed lawyer, lies and \nbrief, \n\nLay hid in dirt past all belief. \n\nThe red-robed merchant could not \nrise \n\nOne jot from out his load of lies. \n\nAnd all lay helpless, all save one, \n\nThat simple-hearted farmer\xe2\x80\x99s son, \n\nWith soiled bare feet and sweat- \nmoiled face, \n\nWho stood soft whistling in his \nplace\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nStill wondering, yet safe, serene, \n\nIn all the strength of being clean. \n\nBut sudden tears came to his eyes, \n\nA flood of tender, piteous tears, \nFor those poor slaves, so bound by \nlies, \n\nAnd writhing in their filth and \nfears. \n\nHe leaned in pity o\'er, when lo, \n\nHis clean tears washed all clean as \nsnow! \n\n\nTRUE GREATNESS \n\n\nHow sad that all great things are \nsad.\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat greatness knows not to be glad. \nThe boundless, spouseless, fearful sea \nPursues the moon incessantly; \n\nAnd Cassar childless lives and dies. \nThe thunder-torn Sequoia tree \nIn solemn isloation cries \nSad chorus with the homeless wind \nAbove the clouds, above his kind, \nAbove the bastioned peak, above \nAll sign or sound or sense of love. \nHow mateless, desolate and drear \nHis lorn, long seven thousand year! \nMy comrades, lovers, dare to be \n\n\nMore truly great than Caesar; he \n\nWho hewed three hundred towns \napart, \n\nYet never truly touched one heart. \n\nThe tearful, lorn, complaining sea \n\nThe very moon looks down upon, \n\nThen changes,\xe2\x80\x94as a saber drawn; \n\nThe great Sequoia lords as lone \n\nAs God upon that fabled throne. \n\nNo, no! True greatness, glory, fame. \n\nIs his who claims not place nor \nname, \n\nBut loves, and lives content, com\xc2\xac \nplete, \n\nWith baby flowers at his feet. \n\n\nON THE FIRING LINE \n\n\nFor glory? For good? For fortune, \nor for fame? \n\nWhy, ho, for the front where the \nbattle is on! \n\nLeave the rear to the dolt, the lazy, \nthe lame; \n\n\nGo forward as ever the valiant \nhave gone. \n\nWhether city or field, whether \nmountain or mine, \n\nGo forward, right on for the firing \nline! \n\n\n\n\n\n\nUlotfjeni of Jllen \n\n\n423 \n\n\nWhether newsboy or plo^boy or cow\xc2\xac \nboy or clerk, \n\nFight forward; be ready, be steady, \nbe first; \n\nBe fairest, be bravest; be best at your \nwork; \n\nExult and be glad; dare to hunger, \nto thirst, \n\nAs David, as Alfred\xe2\x80\x94let dogs skulk \nand whin\'. \xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nThere is room but for men on the \nfiring line. \n\n\nAye, the one place to fight and the one \nplace to fall\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs fall we must all, in God\xe2\x80\x99s good \ntime\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt is where the manliest man is the \nwall, \n\nWhere boys are as men in their \npride and prime, \n\nWhere glory gleams brightest, where \nbrightest eyes shine\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFar out on the roaring red firing \nline. \n\n\nMOTHERS OF MEN \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOh, give me good mothers! Yea, \ngreat, glad mothers, \n\nProud mothers of dozens, indeed \ntwice ten; \n\nFair mothers of daughters and \nmothers of men, \n\nWith old-time clusters of sisters and \nbrothers, \n\n\nWhen grand Greeks lived like to \ngods, and when \n\nBrave mothers of men, strong \nbreasted and broad, \n\nDid exult in fulfilling the purpose of \nGod.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nAFTER THE BATTLE \n\n\nSing banners and cannon and roll \nof drum! \n\nThe shouting of men and the marshal\xc2\xac \ning! \n\nLo! cannon to cannon and earth \nstruck dumb! \n\nOh, battle, in song, is a glorious \nthing! \n\nOh, glorious day, riding down to \nthe fight! \n\nOh, glorious battle in story and song! \n\n\nOh, godlike man to die for the \nright! \n\nOh, manlike God to revenge the \nwrong! \n\nYea, riding to battle, on battle \nday\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhy, a soldier is something more \nthan a king! \n\nBut after the battle! The riding \naway! \n\nAh, the riding away is another thing! \n\n\n\n\n\n424 \n\n\n<\xc2\xa3>ur Zeroes of fEobaj> \n\nOUR HEROES OP TODAY \n\n\nI \n\nWith high face held to her ulti\xc2\xac \nmate star, \n\nWith swift feet set to her mountains \nof gold, \n\nThis new-built world, where the \nwonders are, \n\nShe has built new ways from the ways \nof old. \n\nII \n\nHer builders of worlds are workers \nwith hands; \n\nHer true world-builders are builders \nof these, \n\nThe engines, the plows; writing poems \nin sands \n\nOf gold in our golden Hesperides. \n\nIII \n\nI reckon these builders as gods \namong men: \n\nI count them creators, creators who \nknew \n\nThe thrill of dominion, of conquest, \nas when \n\nGod set His stars spinning their \n\nspaces of blue. \n\nIV \n\nA song for the groove, and a song \nfor the wheel, \n\nAnd a roaring song for the rumbling \ncar; \n\nBut away with the pomp of the sol\xc2\xac \ndier\xe2\x80\x99s steel, \n\nAnd away forever with the trade of \nwar. \n\n\nV \n\nThe hero of time is the hero of \nthought; \n\nThe hero who lives is the hero of \npeace; \n\nAnd braver his battles than ever were \nfought, \n\nFrom Shiloh back to the battles of \nGreece. \n\nVI \n\nThe hero of heroes is the engineer; \n\nThe hero of height and of gnome- \nbuilt deep, \n\nWhose only fear is the brave man\xe2\x80\x99s \nfear \n\nThat some one waiting at home might \nweep. \n\nVII \n\nThe hero we love in this land today \n\nIs the hero who lightens some fellow- \nman\xe2\x80\x99s load\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWho makes of the mountain some \npleasant highway; \n\nWho makes of the desert some blos\xc2\xac \nsom-sown road. \n\nVIII \n\nThen hurrah! for the land of the \ngolden downs, \n\nFor the golden land of the silver horn; \n\nHer heroes have built her a thousand \ntowns, \n\nBut never destroyed her one blade of \ncorn. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n& \xc2\xa9call Carpenter \n\nA DEAD CARPENTER \n\n\n425 \n\n\nWhat shall be said of this soldier \nnow dead? \n\nThis builder, this brother, now resting \nforever? \n\nWhat shall be said of this soldier who \nbled \n\nThrough thirty-three years of silent \nendeavor? \n\nWhy, name him thy hero! Yea, \nwrite his name down \n\nAs something far nobler, as braver \nby far \n\nThan purple-robed Caesar of battle- \ntorn town \n\nWhen bringing home glittering \ntrophies of war. \n\nOh, dark somber pines of my star\xc2\xac \nlit Sierras, \n\nBe silent of song, for the master is \nmute! \n\n\nThe Carpenter, master, is dead and \nlo! there is \n\nSilence of song upon nature\xe2\x80\x99s draped \nlute! \n\nBrother! Oh, manly dead brother \nof mine! \n\nMy brother by toil \xe2\x80\x99mid the toiling \nand lowly, \n\nMy brother by sign of this hard hand, \nby sign \n\nOf toil, and hard toil, that the Christ \nhas made holy: \n\nYea, brother of all the brave mil\xc2\xac \nlions that toil; \n\nBrave brother in patience and silent \nendeavor, \n\nRest on, as the harvester rich from \nhis soil, \n\nRest you, and rest you for ever and \never. \n\n\nQUESTION? \n\n\nIn the days when my mother, the \nEarth, was young, \n\nAnd you all were not, nor the likeness \nof you, \n\nShe walk\xe2\x80\x99d in her maidenly prime \namong \n\nThe moonlit stars in the boundless \nblue \n\nThen the great sun lifted his shin\xc2\xac \ning shield, \n\nAnd he flash\xe2\x80\x99d his sword as the sol\xc2\xac \ndiers do, \n\n\nAnd he moved like a king full over \nthe field, \n\nAnd he looked, and he loved her \nbrave and true. \n\nAnd looking afar from the ultimate \nrim, \n\nAs he lay at rest in a reach of \nlight, \n\nHe beheld her walking alone at \nnight, \n\nWhen the buttercup stars in their \nbeauty swim. \n\n\n\n\n426 \n\n\njUon\xe2\x80\x99t H>top at tfjc Station \xc2\xa9cjfpatc \n\n\nSo he rose up flush\xe2\x80\x99d in his love, \nand he ran, \n\nAnd he reach\xe2\x80\x99d his arms, and around \nher waist \n\nHe wound them strong like a love- \nstruck man, \n\nAnd he kissed and embraced her, \nbrave and chaste. \n\nSo he nursed his love like a babe at \nits birth, \n\n\nAnd he warm\xe2\x80\x99d in his love as the long \nyears ran, \n\nThen embraced her again, and sweet \nmother Earth \n\nWas a mother indeed, and her child \nwas man. \n\nThe sun is the sire, the mother is \nearth! \n\nWhat more do you know? what more \ndo I need? \n\n\nDON\xe2\x80\x99T STOP AT THE STATION DESPAIR \n\n\nWe must trust the Conductor, most \nsurely; \n\nWhy, millions of millions before \nHave made this same journey \nsecurely \n\nAnd come to that ultimate shore. \nAnd we, we will reach it in season; \n\nAnd ah, what a welcome is there! \nReflect then, how out of all reason \nTo stop at the Station Despair. \n\nAye, midnights and many a potion \nOf bitter black water have we \nAs we journey from ocean to ocean\xe2\x80\x94 \nFrom sea unto ultimate sea\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nTo that deep sea of seas, and all \nsilence \n\nOf passion, concern and of care\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat vast sea of Eden-set Islands\xe2\x80\x94 \nDon\xe2\x80\x99t stop at the Station Despair! \n\nGo forward, whatever may follow, \n\nGo forward, friend-led, or alone; \nAh me, to leap off in some hollow \nOr fen, in the night and unknown\xe2\x80\x94 \nLeap off like a thief; try to hide \nyou \n\nFrom angels, all waiting you there! \nGo forward; whatever betide you, \nDon\'t stop at the Station Despair! \n\n\nFOR THOSE WHO FAIL \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAll honor to him who shall win \nthe prize,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe world has cried for a thousand \nyears; \n\nBut to him who tries, and who fails \nand dies, x \n\nI give great honor and glory and \ntears: \n\n\nGive glory and honor and pitiful \ntears \n\nTo all who fail in their deeds sub\xc2\xac \nlime; \n\nTheir ghosts are many in the van of \nyears, \n\nThey were born with Time, in ad\xc2\xac \nvance of their Time. \n\n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaet)e ifttber of 3&est \n\n\n427 \n\n\nOh, great is the hero who wins a \nname, \n\nBut greater many and many a time \n\nSome pale-faced fellow who dies in \nshame, \n\nAnd lets God finish the thought sub\xc2\xac \nlime. \n\n\nAnd great is the man with a sword \nundrawn, \n\nAnd good is the man who refrains \nfrom wine; \n\nBut the man who fails and yet still \nfights on, \n\nLo, he is the twin-bom brother of mine. \n\n\nTHE RIVER OF REST \n\n\nA beautiful stream is the River of \nRest; \n\nThe still, wide waters sweep clear and \ncold, \n\nA tall mast crosses a star in the west, \n\nA white sail gleams in the west \nworld\xe2\x80\x99s gold: \n\nIt leans to the shore of the River of \nRest\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe lily-lined shore of the River of \nRest. \n\nThe boatman rises, he reaches a \nhand, \n\nHe knows you well, he will steer you \ntrue, \n\nAnd far, so far, from all ills upon \nland, \n\n\nFrom hates, from fates that pursue \nand pursue; \n\nFar over the lily-lined River of \nRest\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDear mystical, magical River of Rest. \n\nA storied, sweet stream is this \nRiver of Rest; \n\nThe souls of all time keep its ulti\xc2\xac \nmate shore; \n\nAnd journey you east or journey you \nwest, \n\nUnwilling, or willing, sure footed or \nsore, \n\nYou surely will come to this River of \nRest\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis beautiful, beautiful River of \nRest. \n\n\nDEATH IS DELIGHTFUL \n\n\nDeath is delightful. Death is dawn, \nThe waking from a weary night \nOf fevers unto truth and light. \n\nFame is not much, love is not much, \nYet what else is there worth the touch \nOf lifted hands with dagger drawn? \n\n\nSo surely life is little worth: \nTherefore I say, look up; there\xc2\xac \nfore \n\nI say, one little star has more \nBright gold than all the earth of \nearth. \n\n\n\n\n\n428 \n\n\n\xc2\xaefje iwing of tfje Silence \n\nTHE SONG OF THE SILENCE \n\n\nO, heavens, the eloquent song of the \nsilence! \n\nAsleep lay the sun in the vines, on \nthe sod, \n\nAnd asleep in the sun lay the green- \ngirdled islands, \n\nAs rock\xe2\x80\x99d to their rest in the cradle \nof God, \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s poet is silence. His song is \nunspoken. \n\nAnd yet so profound, so loud, and \nso far, \n\n\nIt fills you, it thrills you with \nmeasures unbroken, \n\nAnd as soft, and as fair, and as far \nas a star. \n\nThe shallow seas moan. From the \nfirst they have mutter\xe2\x80\x99d \nAnd mourn\xe2\x80\x99d, as a child, and have \nwept at their will . . . \n\nThe poems of God are too grand to \nbe utter\xe2\x80\x99d: \n\nThe dreadful deep seas they are \nloudest when still. \n\n\nTOMORROW \n\n\nO thou Tomorrow! Mystery! \n\nO day that ever runs before! \n\nWhat hath thine hidden hand in store \nFor mine, Tomorrow, and for me? \n\nO thou Tomorrow! what hast thou \nIn store to make me bear the Now? \n\nO day in which we shall forget \nThe tangled troubles of today! \n\nO day that laughs at duns, at debt! \n\n\nO day of promises to pay! \n\nO shelter from all present storm I \nO day in which we shall reform! \n\nO day of all days to reform! \nConvenient day of promises! \n\nHold back the shadow of the storm. \nLet not thy mystery be less, \n\nO bless\xe2\x80\x99d Tomorrow! chiefest friend, \nBut lead us blindfold to the end. \n\n\nFINALE \n\n\nAh me! I mind me long agone. \nOnce on a savage snow-bound \nheight \n\nWe pigmies pierced a king. Upon \nHis bare and upreared breast till \nnight \n\nWe rained red arrows and we \nrained \n\n\nHot lead. Then up the steep and \n\nslow \n\nHe passed; yet ever still disdained \nTo strike, or even look below. \n\nWe found him, high above the clouds \nnext morn \n\nAnd dead, in all his silent, splendid \nscorn. \n\n\n\n\n\nJfmale \n\n\n429 \n\n\nSo leave me, as the edge of night \nComes on, a little time to pass, \n\nOr pray. For steep the stony height \nAnd tom by storm, and bare of grass \nOr blossom. And when I lie dead \nOh, do not drag me down once \nmore. \n\n\nFor Jesus\xe2\x80\x99 sake let my poor head \nLie pillowed with these stones. My \nstore \n\nOf wealth is these. I earned them. \nLet me keep \n\nStill on alone, on mine own star-lit \nsteep. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nMISCELLANEOUS LINES \n\n\n431 \n\n\n\n\nTHE MISSOURI \n\n\nWhere ranged thy black-maned, \nwoolly bulls \n\nBy millions, fat and unafraid; \n\nWhere gold, unclaimed in cradlefuls, \n\nSlept \xe2\x80\x99mid the grass roots, gorge, \nand glade; \n\nWhere peaks companioned with the \nstars, \n\nAnd propped the blue with shining \nwhite, \n\nWith massive silver beams and bars, \n\nWith copper bastions, height on \nheight\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThere wast thou born, O lord of \nstrength! \n\nO yellow lion, leap and length \n\nOf arm from out an Arctic chine \n\nTo far, fair Mexic seas are thine! \n\nWhat colors? Copper, silver, gold \n\nWith sudden sweep and fury blent, \n\nEnwound, unwound, inrolled, un\xc2\xac \nrolled, \n\nMad molder of the continent! \n\nWhat whirlpools and what choking \ncries \n\nDOWN THE MISS \n\nSowing the waves with a fiery \nrain, \n\nLeaving behind us a lane of light, \n\nWeaving a web in the woof of night, \n\nCleaving a continent\xe2\x80\x99s w T ealth in \ntwain. \n\n\nFrom out the concave swirl and \nsweep \n\nAs when some god cries out and dies \nTen fathoms down thy tawny deep! \n\nYet on, right on, no time for death, \n\nNo time to gasp a second breath! \n\nYou plow a pathway through the \nmain \n\nTo Morro\xe2\x80\x99s castle, Cuba\xe2\x80\x99s plain. \n\nHoar sire of hot, sweet Cuban seas, \nGray father of the continent, \n\nFierce fashioner of destinies, \n\nOf states thou hast upreared or \nrent, \n\nThou know\xe2\x80\x99st no limit; seas turn \nback, \n\nBent, broken from the shaggy \nshore; \n\nBut thou, in thy resistless track, \n\nArt lord and master evermore. \n\nMissouri, surge and sing and sweep! \n\nMissouri, master of the deep, \n\nFrom snow-reared Rockies to the \nsea \n\nSweep on, sweep on eternally! \n\nSSIPPI AT NIGHT \n\nLighting the world with a way of \nflame, \n\nWriting, even as the lightnings write \n\nHigh over the awful arched forehead \nof night, \n\nJehovah\xe2\x80\x99s dread, unutterable name. \n\n\n28 \n\n\n433 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n434 \n\n\nJ8p tJje Hotoer iflisafetppi \n\nBY THE LOWER MISSISSIPPI \n\n\nThe king of rivers has a dolorous \nshore, \n\nA dreamful dominion of cypress- \ntrees, \n\nA gray bird rising forever more, \n\nAnd drifting away toward the Mexi\xc2\xac \ncan seas\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA lone bird seeking for some lost \nmate, \n\nSo dolorous, lorn and desolate. \n\nThe shores are gray as the sands \nare gray; \n\nAnd gray are the trees in their cloaks \nof moss;\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat gray bird rising and drifting \naway, \n\n\nSlow dragging its weary long legs \nacross\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSo weary, just over the gray wood\xe2\x80\x99s \nbrink ; \n\nIt wearies one, body and soul tothink. \n\nThese vast gray levels of cypress \nwood, \n\nThe gray soldiers\xe2\x80\x99 graves; and so, \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s will\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThese cypress-trees\xe2\x80\x99 roots are still \nrunning blood; \n\nThe smoke of battle in their mosses \nstill\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat gray bird wearily drifting away \n\nWas startled some long-since battle \nday. \n\n\nHER PICTURE \n\n\nI see her now\xe2\x80\x94the fairest thing \nThat ever mocked man\xe2\x80\x99s picturing, \n\nI picture her as one who drew \nAside life\xe2\x80\x99s curtain and looked \nthrough \n\nThe mists of all life\xe2\x80\x99s mystery \nAs from a wood to open sea. \n\nI picture her as one who knew \nHow rare is truth to be untrue\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs one who knew the awful sign \nOf death, of life, of the divine \nSweet pity of all loves, all hates, \nBeneath the iron-footed fates. \n\nI picture her as seeking peace, \n\nAnd olive leaves and vine-set land; \nWhile strife stood by on either hand, \n\n\nAnd wrung her tears like rosaries. \n\nI picture her in passing rhyme \nAs of, yet not a part of, these\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA woman born above her time. \n\nThe soft, wide eyes of wonderment \nThat trusting looked you through \nand through; \n\nThe sweet arched mouth, a bow new \nbent, \n\nThat sent love\xe2\x80\x99s arrows swift and \ntrue. \n\nThat sweet, arched mouth! The \nOrient \n\nHath not such pearls in all her stores, \nNor all her storied, spice-set shores \nHave fragrance such as it hath spent. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nCljmtmas bp tfje (great 3EUber \n\nCHRISTMAS BY THE GREAT RIVER \n\n\n435 \n\n\nOh, lion of the ample earth, \n\nWhat sword can cleave thy sinews \nthrough? \n\nThe south forever cradles you; \n\nAnd yet the great North gives you \nbirth. \n\nGo find an arm so strong, so sure, \nGo forge a sword so keen, so true, \nThat it can thrust thy bosom \nthrough; \n\nThen may this union not endure! \n\nIn orange lands I lean today \nAgainst thy warm tremendous mouth, \nOh, tawny lion of the South, \n\nTo hear what story you shall say. \n\nWhat story of the stormy North, \nOf frost-bound homes, of babes at \nplay, \n\n\nWhat tales of twenty States the day \nYou left your lair and leapt forth: \n\nThe day you tore the mountain\xe2\x80\x99s \nbreast \n\nAnd in the icy North uprose, \n\nAnd shook your sides of rains and \nsnows, \n\nAnd rushed against the South to rest: \n\nOh, tawny river, what of they, \n\nThe far North folk? The maiden \nsweet\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe ardent lover at her feet\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat story of thy States today! \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2., \n\nThe river kissed my garment\xe2\x80\x99s hem \nAnd whispered as it swept away: \n\xe2\x80\x9cGod\xe2\x80\x99s story in all States today \nIs of a babe of Bethlehem.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nHE LOVES AND RIDES AWAY \n\n\nA fig for her story of shame and of \npride! \n\nShe strayed in the night and her feet \nfell astray; \n\nThe great Mississippi was glad that \nday, \n\nAnd that is the reason the poor girl \ndied; \n\nThe great Mississippi was glad, I say, \n\nAnd splendid with strength in his \nfierce, full pride\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd that is the reason the poor girl \ndied. \n\n\nAnd that was the reason, from first \nto last; \n\nDown under the dark, still cypresses \nthere. \n\nThe Father of Waters he held her \nfast. \n\nHe kissed her face, he fondled her \nhair, \n\nNo more, no more an unloved outcast, \n\nHe clasped her close to his great, \nstrong breast, \n\nBrave lover that loved her last and \nbest: \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n436 jfyt Hobeg anb 3 &tbes &toap \n\n\nAround and around in her watery \nworld, \n\nDown under the boughs where the \nbank was steep, \n\nAnd cypress treees kneeled all gnarly \nand curled, \n\nWhere woods were dark as the waters \nwere deep, \n\nWhere strong, swift waters were swept \nand swirled, \n\nWhere the whirlpool sobbed and \nsucked in its breath, \n\nAs some great monster that is choking \nto death: \n\nWhere sweeping and swirling \naround and around \n\nThat whirlpool eddied so dark and so \ndeep \n\nThat even a populous world might \nhave drowned, \n\nSo surging, so vast and so swift its \nsweep\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nShe rode on the wave. And the \ntrees that weep, \n\nThe solemn gray cypresses leaning \no\xe2\x80\x99er; \n\nThe roots that ran blood as they \nleaned from the shore! \n\nShe surely was drowned! But she \nshould have lain still; \n\nShe should have lain dead as the \ndead under ground; \n\nShe should have kept still as the dead \non the hill! \n\nBut ever and ever she eddied around, \n\nAnd so nearer and nearer she drew \nme there \n\nTill her eyes met mine in their cold \n\ndead stare. \n\n\nThen she looked, and she looked as \nto look me through ; \n\nAnd she came so close to my feet on \nthe shore; \n\nAnd her large eyes, larger than ever \nbefore, \n\nThey never grew weary as dead men\xe2\x80\x99s \ndo. \n\nAnd her hair! as long as the moss that \nswept \n\nFrom the cypress trees as they leaned \nand wept. \n\nThen the moon rose up, and she \n\ncame to see, \n\nHer long white fingers slow pointing \nthere; \n\nWhy, shoulder to shoulder the moon \nwith me \n\nOn the bank that night, with her \nshoulders bare, \n\nSlow pointing and pointing that \nwhite face out, \n\nAs it swirled and it swirled, and it \nswirled about. \n\nThere ever and ever, around and \naround, \n\nThose great sad eyes that refused to \nsleep! \n\nReproachful sad eyes that had ceased \nto weep! \n\nAnd the great whirlpool with its \ngurgling sound! \n\nThe reproachful dead that was not \nyet dead! \n\nThe long strong hair from that shapely \nhead! \n\nHer hair was so long! so marvelous \nlong, \n\n\n\n\n\n\n(Queen i \n\nAs she rode and she rode on that \nwhirlpool\xe2\x80\x99s breast; \n\nAnd she rode so swift, and she rode so \nstrong, \n\nNever to rest as the dead should rest. \n\nOh, tell me true, could her hair in the \nwave \n\nHave grown as grow dead men\xe2\x80\x99s in \nthe grave? \n\nFor, hist! I have heard that a \nvirgin\xe2\x80\x99s hair \n\nWill grow in the grave of a virgin \ntrue, \n\nWill grow and grow in the coffin \nthere, \n\nTill head and foot it is filled with hair \n\nAll silken and soft\xe2\x80\x94but what say \nyou? \n\nYea, tell me truly can this be true? \n\nFor oh, her hair was so strangely \nlong, \n\nThat it bound her about like a veil of \nnight, \n\nWith only her pitiful face in sight! \n\nAs she rode so swift, and she rode so \nstrong, \n\n\nTHE QUEEN \n\nI dream\xe2\x80\x99d, O Queen, of you, last \nnight; \n\nI can but dream of thee today. \n\nBut dream? Oh! I could kneel and \npray \n\nTo one, who, like a tender light, \nLeads ever on my lonesome way, \n\nAnd will not pass\xe2\x80\x94yet will not stay. \n\n\nfflp \xc2\xa9reams 437 \n\nThat it wrapped her about, as a \nshroud had done, \n\nA shroud, a coffin, and a veil in one. \n\nAnd oh, that ride on the whirling \ntide! \n\nThat whirling and whirling it is in \nmy head, \n\nFor the eyes of my dead they are not \nyet dead, \n\nThough surely the lady had long since \ndied: \n\nThen the mourning wood by the \nwatery grave; \n\nThe moon\xe2\x80\x99s white face to the face in \nthe wave. \n\nThat moon I shall hate! For she \nleft her place \n\nUnasked up in heaven to show me \nthat face. \n\nI shall hate forever the sounding \ntide; \n\nFor oh, that swirling it is in my head \n\nAs it swept and it swirled with my \ndead not dead, \n\nAs it gasped and it sobbed as a God \nthat had died. \n\n\nF MY DREAMS \n\nI dream\xe2\x80\x99d we roam\xe2\x80\x99d in elden \nland; \n\nI saw you walk in splendid state, \nWith lifted head and heart elate, \n\nAnd lilies in your white right hand, \nBeneath your proud Saint Peter\'s \ndome \n\nThat, silent, lords almighty Rome. \n\n\n\n\n438 \n\n\n\xc2\xae})ose ^Perilous ifcpamssf) \xe2\x82\xacpe\xc2\xa3 \n\n\nA diamond star was in your hair, \n\nYour garments were of gold and \nsnow; \n\nAnd men did turn and marvel so, \n\nAnd men did say, How matchless \nfair! \n\nAnd all men follow\xe2\x80\x99d as you pass\xe2\x80\x99d; \n\nBut I came silent, lone, and last. \n\nAnd holy men in sable gown, \n\nAnd girt with cord, and sandal shod, \n\nDid look to thee, and then to God. \n\nThey cross\xe2\x80\x99d themselves, with heads \nheld down; \n\nThey chid themselves, for fear that \nthey \n\nShould, seeing thee, forget to pray. \n\nMen pass\xe2\x80\x99d, men spake in wooing \nword; \n\nMen pass\xe2\x80\x99d, ten thousand in a line. \n\n\nTHOSE PERILOl \n\nSome fragrant trees, \n\nSome flower-sown seas \nWhere boats go up and down, \nAnd a sense of rest \nTo the tired breast \nIn this beauteous Aztec town. \n\nBut the terrible thing in this Aztec \ntown \n\nThat will blow men\xe2\x80\x99s rest to the \nstormiest skies, \n\nOr whether they journey or they lie \ndown\xe2\x80\x94 x \n\nThose perilous Spanish eyes! \n\n\nYou stood before the sacred shrine, \nYou stood as if you had not heard. \nAnd then you turn\xe2\x80\x99d in calm com\xc2\xac \nmand, \n\nAnd laid two lilies in my hand. \n\nO Lady, if by sea or land \nYou yet might weary of all men, \n\nAnd turn unto your singer then, \n\nAnd lay one lily in his hand, \n\nLo! I would follow true and far \nAs seamen track the polar star. \n\nMy soul is young, my heart is \nstrong; \n\nO Lady, reach a hand today, \n\nAnd thou shalt walk the milky way. \nFor I will give thy name to song. \nYea, I am of the kings of thought, \nAnd thou shalt live when kings are \nnot. \n\n\nvSPANISH EYES \n\nSnow walls without, \n\nDrawn sharp about \nTo prop the sapphire skies! \n\nTwo huge gate posts, \n\nSnow-white like ghosts\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGate posts to paradise! j \n\nBut, oh! turn back from the high- \nwalled town! \n\nThere is trouble enough in this world \nI surmise, \n\nWithout men riding in regiments \ndown\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOh, perilous Spanish eyes! \n\nMexico City, 1880. \n\n\n\n\n\n\n439 \n\n\nfWontpmerp at (Quebec \n\nMONTGOMERY AT QUEBEC \n\n\nSword in hand he was slain; \nThe snow his winding sheet; \nThe grinding ice at his feet\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe river moaning in pain. \n\n\nPity and peace at last; \nFlowers for him today \nAbove on the battlements gray- \nAnd the river rolling past. \n\n\nTHE DEFENSE OF THE ALAMO \n\n\nSanta Ana came storming, as a storm \nmight come; \n\nThere was rumble of cannon; there \nwas rattle of blade; \n\nThere was cavalry, infantry, bugle \nand drum\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFull seven proud thousand in pomp \nand parade, \n\nThe chivalry, flower of all Mexico; \n\nAnd a gaunt two hundred in the \nAlamo! \n\nAnd thirty lay sick, and some were \nshot through; \n\nFor the siege had been bitter, and \nbloody, and long. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSurrender, or die!\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cMen, what \nwill you do?" \n\nAnd Travis, great Travis, drew \nsword, quick and strong; \n\nDrew a line at his feet. ... \xe2\x80\x9c Will \n\nyou come? Will you go? \n\nI die with my wounded, in the \nAlamo." \n\nThen Bowie gasped, \xe2\x80\x9cGuide me over \nthat line! \xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 \n\nThen Crockett, one hand to the \nsick, one hand to his gun, \n\nCrossed with him; then never a word \nor a sign \n\n\nTill all, sick or well, all, all, save \nbut one, \n\nOne man. Then a woman stopped \npraying, and slow \n\nAcross, to die with the heroes of the \nAlamo. \n\nThen that one coward fled, in the \nnight, in that night \n\nWhen all men silently prayed and \nthought \n\nOf home; of tomorrow; of God and \nthe right; \n\nTill dawn; then Travis sent his \nsingle last cannon-shot, \n\nIn answer to insolent Mexico, \n\nFrom the old bell-tower of the Alamo. \n\nThen came Santa Ana; a crescent of \nflame! \n\nThen the red escalade; then the \nfight hand to hand: \n\nSuch an unequal fight as never had \nname \n\nSince the Persian hordes butchered \nthat doomed Spartan band. \n\nAll day\xe2\x80\x94all day and all night, and \nthe morning? so slow, \n\nThrough the battle smoke mantling \nthe Alamo. \n\n\n\n\n440 \n\n\n8 Jflubtan jface on tfje Jltle \n\n\nThen silence! Such silence! Two \nthousand lay dead \n\nIn a crescent outside! And within ? \nNot a breath \n\nSave the gasp of a woman, with gory, \ngashed head, \n\nAll alone, with her dead there, \nwaiting for death; \n\nAnd she but a nurse. Yet when shall \nwe know \n\nAnother like this of the Alamo? \n\nA NUBIAN FACE \n\nOne night we touched the lily \nshore, \n\nAnd then passed on, in night indeed, \n\nAgainst the far white waterfall. \n\n\nShout \xe2\x80\x9cVictory, victory, victory \nho!" \n\nI say, \'tis not always with the hosts \nthat win; \n\nI say that the victory, high or low, \n\nIs given the hero who grapples with \nsin, \n\nOr legion or single; just asking to \nknow \n\nWhen duty fronts death in his \nAlamo. \n\nON THE NILE \n\nI saw no more, shall know no more \n\nOf her for aye. And you who read \n\nThis broken bit of dream will smile, \n\nHalf vexed that I saw aught at all. \n\n\nPETER COOPER \n\n\nHonor and glory forever more \nTo this good man gone to rest; \nPeace on the dim Plutonian shore; \nRest in the land of the blest. \n\n\nI reckon him greater than any \nman \n\nThat ever drew sword in war; \n\n\nNobler, better than king or khan, \nBetter, wiser by far. \n\nAye, wisest he is in this whole wide \nland, \n\nOf hoarding till bent and gray; \n\nFor all you can hold in your cold, \ndead hand \n\nIs what you have given away. \n\n\nTHE DEAD MILLIONAIRE \n\n\nThe gold that with the sunlight \nlies \n\nIn bursting heaps at dawn, \n\nThe silver spilling from the skies \nAt night to walk upon, \n\n\nThe diamonds gleaming in the dew \nHe never saw, he never knew. \n\n\nHe got some gold, dug from the mud, \nSome silver, crushed from stones; \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n(\xc2\xa9arfieltj \n\n\n441 \n\n\nBut the gold was red with dead men\xe2\x80\x99s \nblood, \n\nThe silver black with groans; \n\n\nAnd when he died he moaned aloud \n\xe2\x80\x9cThey\xe2\x80\x99ll make no pocket in my \nshroud.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nGARFIELD \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Bear me out of the battle, for lo, I am sorely wounded .\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nFrom out of the vast, wide \nbosomed West, \n\nWhere gnarled old maples make \narray, \n\nDeep scarred from Redmen gone to \nrest, \n\nWhere unnamed heroes hew the way \nFor worlds to follow in their quest, \nWhere pipes the quail, where squirrels \nplay \n\nThrough tops of trees with nuts for \ntoy, \n\nA boy stood forth clear-eyed and tall, \nA timid boy, a bashful boy, \n\nYet comely as a son of Saul\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA boy all friendless, all unknown, \n\nYet heir apparent to a throne: \n\nA throne the proudest yet on earth \nFor him who bears him noblest, best, \nAnd this he won by simple worth, \nThat boy from out the wooded West. \nAnd now to fall! Pale-browed and \nprone \n\n\nHe lies in everlasting rest. \n\nThe nations clasp the cold, dead \nhand; \n\nThe nations sob aloud at this; \n\nThe only dry eyes in the land \nNow at the last we know are his; \nWhile she who sends a wreath has \nwon \n\nMore conquests than her hosts had \ndone. \n\nBrave heart, farewell. The wheel \nhas run \n\nFull circle, and behold a grave \nBeneath thy loved old trees is done. \nThe druid oaks look up and wave \nA solemn beckon back. The brave \nOld maples welcome, every one. \nReceive him, earth. In center land, \nAs in the center of each heart, \n\nAs in the hollow of God\xe2\x80\x99s hand, \n\nThe coffin sinks. And we depart \nEach on his way, as God deems best \nTo do, and so deserve to rest. \n\nCARNEGIE \n\nBut I\xe2\x80\x99d rather twist \n\n4 \n\nCarnegie\xe2\x80\x99s wrist, \n\nThat open hand in this \n\nThan shake hands with ye all. \n\n\nTO ANDREW \n\nHail, fat king Ned! \n\nHail, fighting Ted, \n\nGrand William, \n\nGrim Oom Paul! \n\n\n\n\n\n442 \n\n\nHtttcoln Park \n\nLINCOLN PARK \n\n\nUnwalled it lies, and open as the sun \nWhen God swings wide the dark \ndoors of the East. \n\nOh, keep this one spot, still this one, \nWhere tramp or banker, laymen or \nhigh priest, \n\n\nMay equal meet before the face of \nGod: \n\nYea, equals stand upon that common \nsod \n\nWhere they shall one day equals be \nBeneath, for aye, and all eternity. \n\n\nRESURGO SAN FRANCISCO \n\n\nThis tall, strong City stands today \nThe fairest, comeliest fashionings \nOf marble, granite, concrete, clay \nThat ever fell from human hand; \nThat ever flourished sea or land, \n\nOr wooed the sea-world\xe2\x80\x99s wide white- \nwings. \n\nThis concrete City stands today, \n\nThe newest, truest, man has wrought; \nThe kindest, cleanest, strongest, yea \nTwice strongest City, deed or \nthought, \n\nThrice strongest ever lost or won\xe2\x80\x94 \nThrice strongest wall, without, within \nThat is or ever yet has been \nBeneath the broad path of the Sun. \n\nBehold her Seven Hills loom white \nOnce more as marble-builded Rome. \nHer marts teem with a touch of home \nAnd music fills her halls at night; \n\nHer streets flow populous, and light \nFloods every happy, hopeful face; \nThe wheel of fortune whirls apace \nAnd old-time fare and dare hold sway. \nFarewell the blackened,toppling wall, \nThe bent steel gird, the somber pall\xe2\x80\x94 \nFarewell forever, let us pray; \nFarewell forever and a day! \n\n\nHow beauteous her lifted brow! \n\nHow heartfelt her harmonious song! \nHow strong her heart, how more than \nstrong \n\nShe stands rewrought, refashioned \nnow! \n\nHer concrete bastions, knit with steel, \nSing symphonies in stately forms, \nMake harmonies that mock at storms, \nMake music that you can but feel. \nAnd yet, and yet what ropes of \nsand, \n\nWhat wisps of straw in God\xe2\x80\x99s right \nhand\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd 3^et, my risen city, yet \nYour prophets must not now forget: \n\nMust not forget how you laid hold \nThis whole west world as all your \nown\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHow sat this sea-bank as a throne, \nHow strewed these very streets with \ngold, \n\nHow laid hard tribute, land and sea, \nHeaped silver, gold incessantly! \n\nThe simple Mexicans\xe2\x80\x99 broad lands \nYou coveted, thrust forth both hands, \nThen bade Ramona plead her cause \nIn unknown language, unknown laws! \n\n\n\n\n&egurgo i?an Jfrancifito \n\n\n443 \n\n\nYou robbed her, robbed her without \nshame: \n\nAy, even of her virtuous name! \n\nNor shall your prophets now forget, \nNow that you stand sublimely \nstrong, \n\nHow when these vast estates were set \nWith granaries that burst in song, \nYou spumed the heathen at your \nfeet \n\nBecause he begged to toil to eat; \nBecause he plead with bended head \nFor work, for work and barely bread. \nYea, how you laughed his lack of \npride, \n\nAnd lied and laughed, and laughed \nand lied \n\nAnd mocked him, in your pride and \nhate, \n\nThen in his gaunt face banged your \nGate! \n\nNay, not forget, now that you rise \nTriumphant, strong as Abram\xe2\x80\x99s song, \nHow that you lied the lie of lies \nAnd wrought the Nipponese such \nwrong, \n\nThen sent your convict chief to plead \nThe President expel them hence. \n\nAh me, what black, rank insolence! \nWhat rank, black infamy indeed! \nBecause their ways, their hands were \nclean, \n\nYou feared the difference between, \nFeared they might surely be preferred \nAbove your howling, convict herd! \n\nTheir sober, sane life put to shame \nYour noisome, drunken penal band \nThat howled in Labor\'s sacred name, \n\n\nNor wrought, nor even lifted hand, \nSave but to stone and mock and moil \nTheir betters who but asked to toil. \nYon harvest-fields cried out as when \nYour country cries for fighting men, \nAnd yet your hordes, by force and \nfraud, \n\nForbade this first, last law of God! \nAnd you! You sat supinely by \nAnd gathered gold, nor reckoned why! \n\nYour great, proud men heaped gold \non gold; \n\nThey heaped deep cellars with such \nhoard \n\nOf costliest wines, rich, rare, and old \nAs never Thebes or Babel stored\xe2\x80\x94 \nThey sat at wine till ghostly \ndawn. . . . \n\nThe ides had come but had not gone; \nFor lo! the writing on the wall \nAnd then the surge, the topple, fall\xe2\x80\x94 \nThen dust, then darkness, then such \nlight \n\nAs never yet lit day or night, \n\nAnd there was neither night nor day, \nFor night and day were burned away! \n\nHear me once more, my city, heed! \n\nI may not kiss again your tears \nNor point your drunken, grasping \ngreed, \n\nFor I am stricken well with years, \nBut do ye as you erst have done, \nDespise His daughter, mock His \nson\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIf still the sow her wallow keeps \nAnd wine runs as a rivulet, \n\nMy harp hangs where the willow \nweeps. \n\n\n\n\n444 \n\n\nCuba lUbre \n\n\nNay, nay, I must not now forget \nThe sin, the shame, the feast, the fall, \nThe red handwriting on the wall. \n\nThen let me not behold once more \nYour flowing cellars, mile on mile, \n\nA sea of flame, without a shore \nOr even one lone, lifted isle. \n\nLet me not hear it, feel it choke, \n\nA wild beast choking in his chain \nThe while he tugs and leaps in vain \nAnd drinks his death of flaming \nsmoke. \n\nSpare me this nightmare, pray you \nspare \n\nThis black three days of blank \ndespair! \n\nSpare me this red-black, surging sea \nOf leaping, choking agony. \n\nI call one witness, only one, \n\nIn proof that God is God, and jus\'t: \nYon high-heaved dome, debris and \ndust. \n\nWith torn lips lifted to the sun, \n\nIn desolation still, lords all\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe rent and ruined City Hall. \n\n\nAnd here throbbed San Francisco\xe2\x80\x99s \nheart, \n\nAnd here her madness held high \nmart\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSold justice, sold black shame, sold \nhell. \n\nAnd here, right here, God\xe2\x80\x99s high hand \nfell, \n\nFell hardest, hottest, first and \nworst\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYour huge high Hall, the most \naccurst! \n\nTherefore I say tempt not the fates. \n\nLove meekness more, love folly less. \n\nThe stranger housed within thy gates \n\nHold sacred in his lowliness. \n\nThat pride which runs before a fall\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBehold God\xe2\x80\x99s Angels fell from pride! \n\nAnd He, the lowly crucified? \n\nYe would have stoned Him, one and \nall. \n\nBeware the pride of race, beware \n\nThe pride of creed, long pompous \nprayer\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWho made your High Priest higher \nthan \n\nThe humblest, honest Chinaman? \n\n\nCUBA LIBRE \n\n\nComes a cry from Cuban water\xe2\x80\x94 \nFrom the warm, dusk Antilles\xe2\x80\x94 \nFrom the lost Atlanta\xe2\x80\x99s daughter, \nDrowned in blood as drowned in \nseas; \n\nComes a cry of purpled anguish\xe2\x80\x94 \nSee her struggles, hear her cries! \nShall she live, or shall she languish? \nShall she sink, or shall she rise? \n\n\nShe shall rise, by all that\xe2\x80\x99s holy! \n\nShe shall live and she shall last; \nRise as we, when crushed and lowly, \nFrom the blackness of the past. \nBid her strike! Lo, it is written,\xe2\x80\x94 \nBlood for blood and life for life. \nBid her smite, as she is smitten; \nBehold, our stars were born of \nstrife! \n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaefic \xc2\xa9call \xc2\xa3?ar \n\n\n445 \n\n\nOnce we flashed her lights of freedom, \n\nLights that dazzled her dark eyes \n\nTill she could but yearning heed \nthem, \n\nReach her hands and try to rise. \n\nThen they stabbed her, choked her, \ndrowned her, \n\nTill we scarce could hear a note. \n\nAh! these rusting chains that bound \nher! \n\nOh! these robbers at her throat! \n\nAnd the kind who forged these \nfetters? \n\nAsk five hundred years for news. \n\nStake and thumbscrew for their \nbetters? \n\n\nTHE \n\n\nA storm burst forth! From out the \nstorm \n\nThe clean, red lightning leapt, \n\nAnd lo! a prostrate royal form . . . \n\nAnd Alexander slept! \n\nDown through the snow, all smoking, \nwarm, \n\nLike any blood, his crept. \n\nYea, one lay dead, for millions dead! \n\nOne red spot in the snow, \n\nFor one long damning line of red, \nWhere exiles endless go\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe babe at breast, the mother\xe2\x80\x99s head \nBowed down, and dying so. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nAnd did a woman do this deed? \n\nThen build her scaffold high, \n\n\nInquisitions! Banished Jews! \nChains and slavery! What reminder \nOf one red man in that land? \n\nWhy, these very chains that bind \nher \n\nBound Columbus, foot and hand! \n\nShe shall rise as rose Columbus, \nFrom his chains, from shame and \nwrong\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nRise as Morning, matchless, won\xc2\xac \ndrous\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nRise as some rich morning song\xe2\x80\x94 \nRise a ringing song and story, \n\nValor, Love personified. . . . \nStars and stripes, espouse her glory, \nLove and Liberty allied. \n\n\nD CZAR \n\nThat all may on her forehead read \n\nHer martyr\xe2\x80\x99s right to die! \n\nRing Cossack round on royal steed! \n\nNow lift her to the sky! \n\nBut see! From out the black hood \nshines \n\nA light few look upon! \n\nLorn exiles, see, from dark, deep \nmines, \n\nA star at burst of dawn! . . . \n\nA thud! A creak of hangman\xe2\x80\x99s \nlines!\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA frail shape jerked and \ndrawn! . . . \n\nThe Czar is dead; the woman dead, \n\nAbout her neck a cord. \n\nIn God\xe2\x80\x99s house rests his royal head\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHers in a place abhorred\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n\n\n446 \n\n\n\xc2\xaef)e iUttle proton fflatt \n\n\nYet I had rather have her bed \nThan thine, most royal lord! \nAye, rather be that woman dead, \nThan thee, dead-living Czar, \n\n\nTo hide in dread, with both hands red, \nBehind great bolt and bar . . . \nYou may control to the North Pole, \nBut God still guides his star. \n\n\nTHE LITTLE BROWN MAN \n\n\nWhere now the brownie fisher-lad? \nHis hundred thousand fishing- \nboats \n\nRock idly in the reedy moats; \n\nHis baby wife no more is glad. \n\nBut yesterday, with all Nippon, \nBeneath his pink-white cherry- \ntrees, \n\nIn chorus with his brown, sweet bees, \nHe careless sang, and sang right on. \nTake care! for he has ceased to sing; \nHis startled bees have taken wing! \n\nHis cherry-blossoms drop like blood; \n\nHis bees begin to storm and sting; \nHis seas flash lightning, and a flood \nOf crimson stains their wide, white \nring; \n\nHis battle-ships belch hell, and all \nNippon is but one Spartan wall! \nAye, he, the boy of yesterday, \n\nNow holds the bearded Russ at bay; \nWhile, blossom\xe2\x80\x99d steeps above, the \nclouds \n\nWait idly, still, as waiting shrouds. \n\nBut oh, beware his scorn of death, \nHis love of Emperor, of isles \nThat boast a thousand bastioned \nmiles \n\nAbove the clouds where never \nbreath \n\n\nOf frost or foe has ventured yet, \n\nOr foot of foreign man has set! \nBeware his scorn of food (his fare \nIs scarcely more than sweet sea- \nair); \n\nBeware his cunning, sprite-like skill\xe2\x80\x94 \nBut most beware his dauntless will. \n\nGoliath, David, once again, \n\nThe giant and the shepherd \nyouth\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe tallest, smallest of all men, \n\nThe trained in tongue, the trained \nin truth. \n\nBeware this boy, this new mad man ; \n\nThat erst mad man of Macedon, \nWho drank and died at Babylon; \n\nThat shepherd lad; the Corsican\xe2\x80\x94 \nThey sat the thrones of earth! Be\xc2\xac \nware \n\nThis new mad man whose drink is \nair! \n\nHis bees are not more slow to strife, \nBut, stirred, they court a common \ndeath! \n\nHe knows the decencies of life\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf all men underneath the sun \nHe is the one clean man, the one \nWho never knew a drunken breath! \nBeware this sober, wee brown man, \nWho yesterday stood but a span \n\n\n\n\n\nCfjilfeoot $as\xc2\xa3( \n\n\n447 \n\n\nBeneath his blossom\xe2\x80\x99d cherry-trees, \nSoft singing with his brother bees! \n\nThe brownie\xe2\x80\x99s sword is as a snake, \n\nA sudden, sinuous copperhead: \n\nIt makes no flourish, no mistake*, \n\nIt darts but once\xe2\x80\x94the man is \ndead! \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis short and black; \xe2\x80\x99tis never seen \nSave when, close forth, it leaps its \nsheath \n\nAnd, snake-like, darts up from be\xc2\xac \nneath. \n\nBut oh, its double edge is keen! \n\nIt strikes but once, then on, right on: \nThe sword is gone\xe2\x80\x94the Russ is gone! \n\n\nCHILKOOT PASS \n\n\nAnd you, too, banged at the Chilkoot, \n\nThat rock-locked gate to the golden \ndoor! \n\nThese thunder-built steeps have \nwords built to suit, \n\nAnd whether you prayed or whether \nyou swore \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twere one where it seemed that an \noath was a prayer\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSeemed God couldn\xe2\x80\x99t care, \n\nSeemed God wasn\xe2\x80\x99t there! \n\nAnd you, too, climbed to the Klon- \ndyke \n\nAnd talked, as a friend, to those \nfive-horned stars! \n\nWith muckluck shoon and with \ntal spike \n\nYou, too, bared head to the bars, \n\nThe heaven-built bars where morning \nis bom, \n\nAnd drank with maiden morn \nFrom Klondyke\xe2\x80\x99s golden horn! \n\nTHE FOURTH IN \n\nSail, sail yon skies of cobalt blue, \n\nO star-built banner of the brave! \n\n\nAnd you, too, read by the North \nLights \n\nSuch sermons as never men say! \n\nYou sat and sat with the midnights \n\nThat sit and that sit all day; \n\nYou heard the silence, you heard the \nroom, \n\nHeard the glory of God in the \ngloom \n\nWhen the icebergs boom and boom! \n\nThen come to my Sunland, my \nsoldier, \n\nAye, come to my heart and to \nstay; \n\nFor better crusader or bolder \n\nBared never a breast to the fray. \n\nAnd whether you prayed or whether \nyou cursed \n\nYou dared the best and you dared \nthe worst \n\nThat ever brave man durst. \n\n\nWe follow you, exult in you \n\nOr Arctic peak or sapphire wave; \n\n\nHAWAIIAN WATERS \n\n\n\n\n\n\n448 \n\n\nILisfjt of tfje iboutfjern Cross! \n\n\nFrom mornlit Maine to dusk Luzon, \nOr set of sun or burst of dawn. \n\nFrom Honolulu\xe2\x80\x99s Sabbath seas, \nFrom battle-torn Manila\xe2\x80\x99s bay \nWe toss you bravely to the breeze \nThis nation\xe2\x80\x99s natal day to stay\xe2\x80\x94 \nTo stay, to lead, lead on and on \nOr set of sun or burst of dawn. \n\n\nO ye who fell at Bunker Hill, \n\nO ye who fought at Brandywine, \nBehold your stars triumphant still; \nBehold where Freedom builds her \nshrine, \n\nWhere Freedom still leads on and \non, \n\nOr set of sun or burst of dawn. \n\n\nLIGHT OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS \n\nA POEM ON THE UNION OF THE OCEANS AT PANAMA \n\n\nEspousal of the vast, void seas, \nWhere God\xe2\x80\x99\xc2\xa7 spirit moved upon \nThe waters ere the burst of dawn \nIs of creation\xe2\x80\x99s majesties\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s six days\xe2\x80\x99 work was not quite \ndone \n\nTill man made these two seas as one. \n\nThe piteous story of men drowned, \nThe beauteous story of the dove, \n\nAnd olive leaf and God\xe2\x80\x99s great love \nStill lives wherever man is found, \nAnd still His rainbow banners rise \nAbove the cloud-embattled skies. \n\nBehold, the gaudy ships of Spain \nWith cross-hilt sword dared distant \nseas, \n\nDared death and the Antipodes, \n\nTo find the farthest, utmost main. \nThey found it\xe2\x80\x94and such ruin laid \nThat e\xe2\x80\x99en dusk Paynim were dis\xc2\xac \nmayed. \n\nThey found it, found the vast void \nseas \n\n\nWhere God had said, \xe2\x80\x9cLet there be \nlight.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThey turned God\xe2\x80\x99s morning into \nnight \n\nWith cross-bone banner to the \nbreeze\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTheir trust was pike and sword and \nshot \n\nAnd all was as if God were not. \n\nThey made a trade of war. They \nlaid \n\nSuch tribute in their greed for gold \n\nOn helpless heathen, young and old, \n\nThat slavery grew a common trade. \n\nThey built great ships, they said all \n\nseas \n\nBe but the passive serfs of these. \n\nThey gathered as in one great breath \n\nHuge battleships of all the seas, \n\nWith not one note of love or peace\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHuge isles of steel all rank with death, \n\nDeath manned and bannered, gold \non gold, \n\nA thousand slaves in each dark hold. \n\n\n\n\nIWgfjt of tfje ^outfjern Cross \n\n\n449 \n\n\nWhich shall prevail, mad men of \nstrife \n\nWith steel-built walls, shot, shell and \nsword, \n\nOr loving angels of the Lord \nWith peace and love and precious life? \n\xe2\x80\x9cPeace, peace on earth, goodwill to \nmen,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nGod\'s angels sang, but what since \nthen? \n\nTwo thousand years of doubts and \nfears \n\nSince angels sang God\xe2\x80\x99s message clear \nTo men who could not choose but \nhear\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd still man\xe2\x80\x99s tyranny and tears, \nAnd still great decks of guns and \ngold\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA thousand slaves in each dark hold! \n\nThey sailed, they met at Panama, \n\nA thousand bannered battleships, \nWith great guns loaded to the lips, \nTo laugh, to mock God\xe2\x80\x99s love and \nlaw; \n\nWhen lo! a peace upon them lay \nLike to that holy natal day. \n\nAnd men all mute with wonderment, \nFamed martial men sword-girt and \nbold, \n\nLooked up and suddenly\xe2\x80\x94behold! \nThe boundless heavens sown and \nblent \n\nWith such soft beauteous blaze of \nlight \n\nAs shepherds knew that natal night. \n\nThe love-lit Southern Cross o\xe2\x80\x99er- \nspread \n\n\nThe heavens as that one great star \nThat led the wise men from afar \nTo find that humble tavern shed \nWhere Mary Mother waited them \nWithin the walls of Bethlehem. \n\nNow great men garmented with gold \nForgot their pride, forgot their state, \nTheir love of war, their piteous hate, \nAnd called their mute slaves from the \nhold. \n\nThe cross of stars gave forth such \nlight \n\nThey could but see and know the \nright. \n\nThe star-built cross stood out so clear \nGreat sword-girt men forgot to say \nBut silent, crossed themselves to \npray, \n\nAnd there leaned, listening, to hear \nHis angels sing as on that morn \nThe Christ at Bethlehem was born. \n\nThe seas lay like a harvest land; \nWhite ships were lilies stately, fair, \nWhite peace lay on them like a \nprayer, \n\nVast peace poured down so bless\xe2\x80\x99d, \nso bland\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe rich unfolding of a rose \nThat only dewy morning knows. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis done! The seven seas are one \nWithout the rending of a sheet, \nWithout one signal of defeat, \nWithout the firing of a gun. \n\nGo home, you useless battleships, \nNor open once your iron lips. \n\n\n29 \n\n\n\n450 \n\n\nHigfit of tfjc H>outf)eni Cross; \n\n\nMark this! God\xe2\x80\x99s spirit moved upon \nThe waters e\xe2\x80\x99er the world was made. \nMark this! Christ said, \xe2\x80\x9cBe not \nafraid.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nMark this! Henceforth no sword is \ndrawn. \n\nMark this! The Deluge, Galilee\xe2\x80\x94 \nAll waters are but one great sea! \n\nMy brave Evangels, forth and preach \nThe love of beauty, cloud or clod, \nThe love that leads to love of God, \nThe God in all, the good in each. \n\nFor God has said of weed or wood, \n\xe2\x80\x9cBehold, it all is very good.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nTeach man the love of man and teach \nThe grace of Faith, Hope, Charity, \nThe bare brown earth, the blossomed \ntree. \n\nTo hear these high priests preach and \npreach \n\nIn sweet persistent harmony\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat chorus like the wind-kissed \ntree? \n\nIs man to be the last on earth \nTo slay his kind, to rend and tear? \nBehold the monstrous great cave bear \nHas passed, her huge paws nothing \nworth, \n\nWith all her kindred beast of prey, \nShall man be last, so less than they? \n\nLet there be light, the light that was \nThat first, vast void and voiceless day \nWhen God pushed darkness far away \nAnd spake the first creative cause. \n\nLet there be light, the light of love, \nThe lift of sun-lit boughs above. \n\n\nCome, let us consecrate the trees \nTo God, with neither creed nor rule. \nEach bough to be a vestibule \nBroad open, breezy as the seas, \n\nA song, a sermon, in each leaf\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis birds they are so wisely brief. \n\nGod loves the man who loves a tree, \nThe plumed tree \xe2\x80\x9cpleasant to the \nsight.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHis birds sing on in sweet delight, \nLow voiced and ever pleasantly, \n\nOf Him who rears it from the seed \nAs next to God in word and deed. \n\nAnd he who plants a stony steep \nOr wards some wooded, watered \nglade. \n\nWhere man may not make them \nafraid, \n\nThe while they nest or clucking \ncreep \n\nThe tall, green, fragrant, growing \nsod, \n\nThey sense in partnership with God. \n\nTo hear the chant of topmost trees \nThat lord Sierra\xe2\x80\x99s silent steep, \n\nWhen earth and sky are hushed in \nsleep, \n\nIs heeding heaven\xe2\x80\x99s mysteries, \n\nSo deeper than the song of seas \nAnd sweeter than man\xe2\x80\x99s harmonies. \n\nI beg, I plead for Light, \xe2\x80\x9cmore \nLight.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nI think if man might only see \nThe beauty, glory, majesty \nOf but the humblest plant in sight, \nHe then might learn to lift his eyes \nUp, up to the majestic skies; \n\n\n\nlUgfjt of tfje S>outfjern Croate \n\n\nAnd seeing there the peace of all, \nThe silent, happy harmony, \n\nHe then might pause a breath and he \nMight let his glad eyes restful fall \nTo earth, and in each fragrant sod \nFirst sense the living soul of God. \n\nAnd seeing good, of all a part, \n\nSome tithe of good, but yet the seed \nOf greater things in word and deed; \nHe then might take man to his heart \nAnd lead him loving into light \nFrom out his narrow walls of night. \n\nMy brave Evangels, pity hate! \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s pity for such fellowkind, \n\nThe blind who lead the doubly blind, \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s pity for such piteous state! \nMan is not wicked, man is weak\xe2\x80\x94 \nHe smites, turn then the other cheek. \n\nThe morning stars forever sing \nFrom out the awful arch of night: \n\xe2\x80\x9cLet there be Light, let there be \nLight, \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s Light, forever pitying!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nPoor man made blind with haste and \nhate, \n\nWho will not see God\xe2\x80\x99s open gate! \n\nMy swordless, brave Evangelist, \n\nLead forth, lead up the shining way \nSaint Paul, that blest, immortal day, \nUprose from out the blinding mist, \nThe kingliest figure man may see \nThis side the Cross of Calvary. \n\nAnd what, when red swords rust and \nrust \n\nAnd glittering ploughshares greet the \nsun? \n\n\n451 \n\nAh me, what deed shall then be \ndone\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat worlds of valor, duty, trust\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhat worlds of thought, what un\xc2\xac \nknown seas \n\nOf shoreless, deep discoveries! \n\nWhen man shall lift his face and look \nStraight in at heaven\xe2\x80\x99s opened door, \nWhat courage to explore, explore \nAnd read God\xe2\x80\x99s beauteous star- \nstrewn book, \n\nWhat songs of conquest, sea and air, \nWhen man shall truly do and dare! \n\nWhat are the stars for, tell me, man? \nI say He made each one, that they, \nBright stars, or dimmest Milky Way, \nAre peopled to His will and plan; \nBehold each street of stars is fair \nAnd peopled with His perfect care. \n\nNo, nature wastes not one brief \nbreath: \n\nShe knows no void, unpeopled place. \nThen tell me not that yon vast space \nIs voiceless as the doors of death, \nThat all is but a desert where \nHis stars stretch upward as a stair. \n\nBelieve it not. As well believe \nThat the wise Vestal Virgins bore \nBrown waters from wild Tiber\xe2\x80\x99s \nshore \n\nUnto their shrine in open sieve. \n\nAs well believe white marble shed \nRed blood the while prone Cassar \nbled. \n\nColumbus of the cobalt blue, \n\nRise up and pierce thy chartless main, \n\n\n\n\n\n\n452 \n\n\nHijjfjt of tfje gboutfjern Cross \n\n\nBring glory, bring glad news again \nAs you were wont of old to do: \n\nBring news of new worlds while men \nscoff\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYon worlds we see but know not of. \n\nFare forth in Faith, devoted, fond, \nForgetful of the mocking shore\xe2\x80\x94 \nExplore, explore and still explore\xe2\x80\x94 \nBeyond, beyond and still beyond: \nYou could not see one dimmest speck \nOf Indies from your Nina\xe2\x80\x99s deck. \n\nYet here above all brooding night, \nLo, every street of heaven strewn \nWith worlds far brighter thanour own, \nAnd each as some brave beacon \nlight;\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nFare forth and light us up the way \nTo Light, to Light and endless Day. \n\nFare forth above earth\xe2\x80\x99s urge and \nroar\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe morning stars sang at earth\xe2\x80\x99s \ndawn\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe morning stars they still sing on\xe2\x80\x94 \nFare forth and hear the stars once \nmore \n\nSing as they sang to light unfurled \nThat primal morning of the world. \n\n\nThe while you pass high heaven\xe2\x80\x99s \ndoor \n\nAnd voyage on so far, so far \nYou speak souls of that utmost star \nAnd still explore, explore, explore, \nThen back to earth; then death shall \nbe \n\nNo more man\xe2\x80\x99s nightmare mystery. \n\nThen shall we know serene, secure, \n\nOf scenes beyond the set of sun\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat life is but a play begun \nThat death is but a change of scene, \nA night of rest, \xe2\x80\x99neath rose and bay \nWith bright morn but a breath away. \n\nThe while brave men all unafraid \nShall conquer elements and space \nAnd speak tall dim forms face to face \nAnd find out why the stars were \nmade: \n\nAye find out whether beck\xe2\x80\x94what \nshores \n\nBeyond the sea-girt, gray Azores. \n\nYea, these the victories of Peace, \n\nThe priceless victories to be \nWhen men forsake their Polar seas \nAnd dare God\xe2\x80\x99s door in rivalry: \n\nWhen mind shall master force ten\xc2\xac \nfold, \n\nAnd fear be as a tale that\xe2\x80\x99s told. \n\n\n\n\n\n\nSEMI-HUMOROUS SONGS \n\n\n453 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIN CLASSIC SHADES \n\n\nAlone and sad I sat me down \nTo rest on Rousseau\xe2\x80\x99s narrow isle \nBelow Geneva. Mile on mile, \n\nAnd set with many a shining town, \nTow\xe2\x80\x99rd Dent du Midi danced the \nwave \n\nBeneath the moon. Winds went and \ncame \n\nAnd fanned the stars into a flame. \n\nI heard the far lake, dark and deep, \nRise up and talk as in its sleep; \n\nI heard the laughing waters lave \nAnd lap against the further shore, \n\nAn idle oar, and nothing more \nSave that the isle had voice, and save \nThat \xe2\x80\x99round about its base of stone \nThere plashed and flashed the foamy \nRhone. \n\nA stately man, as black as tan, \nKept up a stern and broken round \nAmong the strangers on the ground. \n\nI named that awful African \nA second Hannibal. \n\nI gat \n\nMy elbows on the table; sat \nWith chin in upturned palm to scan \nHis face, and contemplate the scene. \nThe moon rode by, a crowned queen. \n\nI was alone. Lo! not a man \nTo speak my mother tongue. Ah me! \nHow more than all alone can be \nA man in crowds! Across the isle \n\n\nMy Hannibal strode on. The while \nDiminished Rousseau sat his throne \nOf books, unnoticed and unknown. \n\nThis strange, strong man, with face \naustere, \n\nAt last drew near. He bowed; he \nspake \n\nIn unknown tongues. I could but \nshake \n\nMy head. Then half achill with fear, \nArose, and sought another place. \nAgain I mused. The kings of thought \nCame by, and on that storied spot \nI lifted up a tearful face. \n\nThe star-set Alps they sang a tune \nUnheard by any soul save mine. \nMont Blanc, as lone and as divine \nAnd white, seemed mated to the \nmoon. \n\nThe past was mine; strong-voiced and \nvast- \n\nStern Calvin, strange Voltaire, and \nTell, \n\nAnd two whose names are known too \nwell \n\nTo name, in grand procession passed. \n\nAnd yet again came Hannibal; \nKing-like he came, and drawing \nnear, \n\nI saw his brow was now severe \nAnd resolute. \n\n\n455 \n\n\n\n\n456 \n\n\nTOjat (Gentle jUtan from Boston \n\n\nIn tongue unknown \nAgain he spake. I was alone, \n\nWas all unarmed; was worn and sad; \nBut now, at last, my spirit had \nIts old assertion. \n\nI arose, \n\nAs startled from a dull repose; \n\nWith gathered strength I raised a \nhand \n\nAnd cried, \xe2\x80\x9cI do not understand.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHis black face brightened as I \nspake; \n\nHe bowed; he wagged his woolly \nhead; \n\nHe showed his shining teeth, and said, \n\xe2\x80\x9cSah, if you please, dose tables heah \nAm consecrate to lager beer; \n\nAnd, sah, what will you have to \ntake?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nNott hat I loved that colored cuss\xe2\x80\x94 \nNay! he had awed me all too much\xe2\x80\x94 \nBut I sprang forth, and with a clutch \nI grasped his hand, and holding thus, \nCried, \xe2\x80\x9cBring my country\xe2\x80\x99s drink for \ntwo! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nFor oh! that speech of Saxon sound \nTo me was as a fountain found \nIn wastes, and thrilled me through \nand through. \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xc2\xbb\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nOn Rousseau\xe2\x80\x99s isle, in Rousseau\xe2\x80\x99s \nshade, \n\nTwo pink and spicy drinks were \nmade, \n\nIn classic shades, on classic ground, \nWe stirred two cocktails round and \nround. \n\n\nTHAT GENTLE MAN FROM BOSTON \n\nAN IDYL OF OREGON \n\n\nTwo noble brothers loved a fair \n\nYoung lady, rich and good to see; \n\nAnd oh, her black abundant hair! \n\nAnd oh, her wondrous witchery! \n\nHer father kept a cattle farm, \n\nThese brothers kept her safe from \nharm: \n\nFrom harm of cattle on the hill; \n\nFrom thick-necked bulls loud bellow\xc2\xac \ning \n\nThe livelong morning, long and shrill, \n\nAnd lashing sides like anything! \n\nFrom roaring bulls that tossed the \nsand \n\nAnd pawed the lilies of the land. \n\n\nThere came a third young man. \nHe came \n\nFrom far and famous Boston town. \nHe was not handsome, was not \n\xe2\x80\x9cgame,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nBut he could \xe2\x80\x9ccook a goose\xe2\x80\x9d as brown \nAs any man that set foot on \nThe mist kissed shores of Oregon. \n\nThis Boston man he taught the \nschool, \n\nTaught gentleness and love alway, \nSaid love and kindness, as a rule, \nWould ultimately \xe2\x80\x9cmake it pay.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHe was so gentle, kind, that he \nCould make a noun and verb agree. \n\n\n\n\nVLi)at (gentle jfflati from JSoston \n\n\n457 \n\n\nSo when one day these brothers \ngrew \n\nAll jealous and did strip to fight, \n\nHe gently stood between the two \nAnd meekly told them \xe2\x80\x99twas not right. \n\xe2\x80\x9cI have a higher, better plan,\xe2\x80\x9d \nOutspake this gentle Boston man. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMy plan is this: Forget this fray \nAbout that lily hand of hers; \n\nGo take your guns and hunt all day \nHigh up yon lofty hill of firs, \n\nAnd while you hunt, my ruffled doves, \nWhy, I will learn which one she \nloves.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe brothers sat the windy hill, \nTheir hair shone yellow, like spun \ngold, \n\nTheir rifles crossed their laps, but still \nThey sat and sighed and shook with \ncold. \n\nTheir hearts lay bleeding far below; \nAbove them gleamed white peaks of \nsnow. \n\nTheir hounds lay crouching slim \nand neat, \n\nA spotted circle in the grass. \n\nThe valley lay beneath their feet; \nThey heard the wide-winged eagles \npass. \n\nTwo eagles cleft the clouds above; \nYet what could they but sigh and \nlove? \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIf I could die,\xe2\x80\x9d the elder sighed, \n\n1 \xe2\x80\x98 My dear young brother here might \nwed.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOh, would to heaven I had died!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nThe younger sighed with bended \nhead. \n\nThen each looked each full in the face \nAnd each sprang up and stood in place. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIf I could die\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94the elder spake, \n\xe2\x80\x9cDie by your hand, the world would \nsay \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas accident\xe2\x80\x94; and for her sake, \nDear brother, be it so, I pray.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n*\xe2\x80\x98 Not that!\xe2\x80\x9d the younger nobly said; \nThen tossed his gun and turned his \nhead. \n\nAnd fifty paces back he paced! \n\nAnd as he paced he drew the ball; \nThen sudden stopped and wheeled \nand faced \n\nHis brother to the death and fall! \nTwo shots rang wild upon the air! \nBut lo! the two stood harmless there! \n\nTwo eagles poised high in the air; \nFar, far below the bellowing \nOf bullocks ceased, and everywhere \nVast silence sat all questioning. \nThespotted hounds ran circling round, \nTheir red, wet noses to the ground. \n\nAnd now each brother came to \nknow \n\nThat each had drawn the deadly ball; \nAnd for that fair girl far below \nHad sought in vain to silent fall. \n\nAnd then the two did gladly \xe2\x80\x9cshake,\xe2\x80\x9d \nAnd thus the elder gravely spake: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Now let us run right hastily \nAnd tell the kind schoolmaster all! \n\nYea! yea! and if she choose not me. \nBut all on you her favors fall, \n\n\n\n\nMilitant proton of Oregon \n\n\n458 \n\nThis valiant scene, till all life ends, \n\nDear brother, binds us best of friends. \n\nThe hounds sped down, a spotted \nline, \n\nThe bulls in tall abundant grass \n\nShook back their horns from bloom \nand vine, \n\nAnd trumpeted to see them pass\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey loved so good, they loved so \ntrue, \n\nThese brothers scarce knew what to \ndo. \n\nThey sought the kind schoolmaster \nout \n\nAs swift as sweeps the light of morn\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThey could but love, they could not \ndoubt \n\nThis man so gentle, \xe2\x80\x9cin a horn,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThey cried: \xe2\x80\x9cNow whose the lily \nhand\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat lady\xe2\x80\x99s of this emer\xe2\x80\x99ld land?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThey bowed before that big-nosed \nman, \n\n\nThat long-nosed man from Boston \ntown; \n\nThey talked as only lovers can, \n\nThey talked, but he would only frown \nAnd still they talked and still they \nplead; \n\nIt was as pleading with the dead. \n\nAt last this Boston man did \nspeak\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 * Her father has a thousand ceows, \nAn hundred bulls, all fat and sleek; \nHe also had this ample heouse.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe brothers\xe2\x80\x99 eyes stuck out thereat \nSo far you might have hung your hat. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI liked the looks of this big \nheouse\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMy lovely boys, won\xe2\x80\x99t you come in? \nHer father had a thousand ceows\'\xe2\x80\x94 \nHe also had a heap o\xe2\x80\x99 tin. \n\nThe guirl? Oh yes, the guirl, you \n\nsee 1 \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe guirl, this morning married me.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nWILLIAM BROWN OF OREGON \n\n\nThey called him Bill, the hired \nman, \n\nBut she, her name was Mary Jane, \nThe squire\xe2\x80\x99s daughter; and to reign \nThe belle from Ber-she-be to Dan \nHer little game. How lovers rash \nGot mittens at the spelling school! \nHow many a mute, inglorious fool \nWrote rhymes and sighed and dyed z \xe2\x80\x94 \nmustache? \n\nThis hired man had loved her long, \nHad loved her best and first and last, \n\n\nHer very garments as she passed \nFor him had symphony and song. \n\nSo when one day with flirt and frown \nShe called him \xe2\x80\x9cBill,\xe2\x80\x9d he raised his \n\nhead, \n\nHe caught her eye and faltering said, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I love you; and my name is Brown. \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nShe fairly waltzed with rage; she \nwept; \n\nYou would have thought the house \non fire. \n\nShe told her sire, the portly squire, \n\n\n\n\n\n459 \n\n\nWilliam Proton of \xc2\xa9regon \n\n\nThen smelt her smelling-salts and \nslept. \n\nPoor William did what could be done; \nHe swung a pistol on each hip, \n\nHe gathered up a great ox-whip \nAnd drove right for the setting sun. \n\nHe crossed the big backbone of \nearth, \n\nHe saw the snowy mountains rolled \nLike mighty billows; saw the gold \nOf great big sunsets; felt the birth \nOf sudden dawn upon the plain; \n\nAnd every night did William Brown \nEat pork and beans and then lie down \nAnd dream sweet dreams of Mary \nJane. \n\nHer lovers passed. Wolves hunt \nin packs, \n\nThey sought for bigger game; some\xc2\xac \nhow \n\nThey seemed to see about her brow \nThe forky signs of turkey tracks. \n\nThe teeter-board of life goes up, \n\nThe teeter-board of life goes down, \nThe sweetest face must learn to \nfrown; \n\nThe biggest dog has been a pup. \n\nO maidens! pluck not at the air; \nThe sweetest flowers I have found \nGrow rather close unto the ground \nAnd highest places are most bare. \nWhy, you had better win the grace \nOf one poor cussed Af-ri-can \nThan win the eyes of every man \nIn love alone with his own face. \n\nAt last she nursed her true desire. \nShe sighed, she wept for William \n\nBrown. \n\n\nShe watched the splendid sun go down \nLike some great sailing ship on fire, \nThen rose and checked her trunks \nright on; \n\nAnd in the cars she lunched and \nlunched, \n\nAnd had her ticket punched and \nand punched, \n\nUntil she came to Oregon. \n\nShe reached the limit of the lines, \nShe wore blue specs upon her nose, \nWore rather short and manly clothes, \nAnd so set out to reach the mines. \nHer right hand held a Testament, \nHer pocket held a parasol, \n\nAnd thus equipped right on she went, \nWent water-proof and water-fall. \n\nShe saw a miner gazing down, \n\nSlow stirring something with a spoon; \n\xe2\x80\x9cO, tell me true and tell me soon, \nWhat has become of William Brown?\xe2\x80\x9d \nHe looked askance beneath her specs, \nThen stirred his cocktail round and \nround, \n\nThen raised his head and sighed pro\xc2\xac \nfound, \n\nAnd said, \xe2\x80\x9cHe\xe2\x80\x99s handed in his \nchecks.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThen care fed on her damaged \ncheek, \n\nAnd she grew faint, did Mary Jane, \nAnd smelt her smelling salts in vain, \nYet wandered on, way-worn and \nweak. \n\nAt last upon a hill alone, \n\nShe came, and there she sat her down; \nFor on that hill there stood a stone, \nAnd, lo! that stone read, \xe2\x80\x9cWilliam \nBrown.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n\n\n\n460 \n\n\nHorace <@reelep\xe2\x80\x99g 30rtoe \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cO William Brown! O William \nBrown! \n\nAnd here you rest at last,\xe2\x80\x9d she said, \n\xe2\x80\x9cWith this lone stone above your \nhead, \n\nAnd forty miles from any town! \n\nI will plant cypress trees, I will, \n\nAnd I will build a fence around, \n\nAnd I will fertilize the ground \nWith tears enough to turn a mill.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nShe went and got a hired man, \n\nShe brought him forty miles from \ntown, \n\nAnd in the tall grass squatted down \nAnd bade him build as she should \nplan. \n\nBut cruel cowboys with their bands \nThey saw, and hurriedly they ran \nAnd told a bearded cattle man \nSomebody builded on his lands. \n\nHe took his rifle from the rack, \n\nHe girt himself in battle pelt, \n\nHORACE GRE \n\nThe old stage-drivers of the brave \nold days! \n\nThe old stage-drivers with their dash \nand trust! \n\nThese old stage-drivers they have \ngone their ways \n\nBut their deeds live on, though their \nbones are dust; \n\nAnd many brave tales are told and \nretold \n\nOf these daring men in the days of old: \n\nOf honest Hank Monk and his \nTally-Ho, \n\n\nHe stuck two pistols in his belt, \n\nAnd mounting on his horse\xe2\x80\x99s back, \nHe plunged ahead. But when they \nshewed \n\nA woman fair, about his eyes \nHe pulled his hat, and he likewise \nPulled at his beard, and chewed and \nchewed. \n\nAt last he gat him down and spake: \n\xe2\x80\x9cO lady, dear, what do you here?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 I build a tomb unto my dear, \n\nI plant sweet flowers for his sake.\xe2\x80\x9d \nThe bearded man threw his two hands \nAbove his head, then brought them \ndown \n\nAnd cried, \xe2\x80\x9cO, I am William Brown, \nAnd this the corner-stone of my \nlands!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nAnd the Prince married her and they \nlived happy ever after. \n\nLEY\xe2\x80\x99S DRIVE \n\nWhen he took good Horace in his \nstage to climb \n\nThe high Sierras with their peaks of \nsnow \n\nAnd \xe2\x80\x99cross to Nevada, \xe2\x80\x9cand come in \non time;\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nBut the canyon below was so deep\xe2\x80\x94 \noh! so deep\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd the summit above was so steep\xe2\x80\x94 \noh! so steep! \n\nThe horses were foaming. The \nsummit ahead \n\n\n\n\nHorace (dreelep\xe2\x80\x99s Bribe \n\n\nSeemed as far as the stars on a still, \nclear night. \n\nAnd steeper and steeper the narrow \nroute led \n\nTill up to the peaks of perpetual \nwhite; \n\nBut faithful Hank Monk, with his \nface to the snow, \n\nSat silent and stem on his Tally-Ho! \n\nSat steady and still, sat faithful and \ntrue \n\nTo the great, good man in his charge \nthat day; \n\nSat vowing the man and the mail \nshould "go through \n\nOn time\xe2\x80\x9d though he bursted both \nbrace and stay; \n\nSat silently vowing, in face of the \nsnow, \n\nHe\xe2\x80\x99d "get in on time\xe2\x80\x9d with his \nTally-Ho! \n\nBut the way was so steep and so \nslow\xe2\x80\x94oh! so slow! \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas silver below, and the bright \nsilver peak \n\nWas silver above in its beauty and \nglow. \n\nAn eagle swooped by, Hank saw its \nhooked beak; \n\nWhen, sudden out-popping a head \nsnowy white\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Mr. Monk, I must lecture in Nevada \ntonight!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nWith just one thought that the \nmail must go through; \n\nWith just one word to the great, good \nman\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n461 \n\nBut weary\xe2\x80\x94so weary\xe2\x80\x94the creaking \nstage drew \n\nAs only a weary old creaking stage \ncan\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhen again shot the head; came \nshrieking outright: \n\n"Mr. Monk, I must lecture in Ne\xc2\xac \nvada tonight! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nJust then came the summit! And \nthe far world below, \n\nIt was Hank Monk\xe2\x80\x99s world. But he \nno word spake; \n\nHe pushed back his hat to that fierce \npeak of snow! \n\nHe threw out his foot to the eagle and \nbrake! \n\nHe threw out his silk! He threw out \nhis reins! \n\nAnd the great wheels reeled as if reel\xc2\xac \ning snow skeins! \n\nThe eagle was lost in his crag up \nabove! \n\nThe horses flew swift as the swift \nlight of morn! \n\nThe mail must go through with its \nmessage of love, \n\nThe miners were waiting his bright \nbugle horn. \n\nThe man must go through! And \nMonk made a vow \n\nAs he never had failed, why, he \nwouldn\xe2\x80\x99t fail now! \n\nHow his stage spun the pines like a \nfar spider\xe2\x80\x99s web! \n\nIt was spider and fly in the heavens \nup there! \n\nAnd the clanging of hoofs made the \nblood flow and ebb, \n\n\n\n\n462 \xc2\xaefjat Jfaitfiful \n\nFor \xe2\x80\x99twas death in the breadth of a \nwheel or a hair. \n\nOnce more popped the head, and the \npiping voice cried: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMr. Monk! Mr. Monk!\xe2\x80\x9d But no \nMonk replied! \n\nThen the great stage it swung, as if \nswung from the sky; \n\nThen it dipped like a ship in the deep \njaws of death; \n\nTHAT FAITHFUL \n\nHuge silver snow-peaks, white as \nwool, \n\nHuge, sleek, fat steers knee deep in \ngrass, \n\nAnd belly deep, and belly full, \n\nTheir flower beds one fragrant mass \n\nOf flowers, grass tall-born and grand, \n\nWhere flowers chase the flying snow! \n\nOh, high held land in God\xe2\x80\x99s right \nhand, \n\nDelicious, dreamful Idaho! \n\nWe rode the rolling cow-sown hills, \n\nThat bearded cattle man and I; \n\nBelow us laughed the blossomed rills, \n\nAbove the dappled clouds blew by. \n\nWe talked. The topic? Guess. \nWhy, sir, \n\nThree-fourths of all men\xe2\x80\x99s time they \nkeep \n\nTo talk, to think, to be of her; \n\nThe other fourth they give to sleep. \n\nTo learn what he might know, or \nhow, \n\nI laughed all constancy to scorn. \n\n\nMtfe of Sbafjo \n\nThen the good man he gasped as men \ngasping for breath, \n\nWhen they deem it is coming their \nhour to die. \n\nAnd again shot the head, like a \nbattering ram, \n\nAnd the face it was red, and the words \nthey were hot: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMr. Monk! Mr. Monk! I don\xe2\x80\x99t \ncare a (mill?) dam. \n\nWhether I lecture in Nevada or not! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nWIFE OF IDAHO \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Behold yon happy, changeful cow! \nBehold this day, all storm at morn, \nYet now \xe2\x80\x99tis changed by cloud and \nsun, \n\nYea, all things change\xe2\x80\x94the heart, the \nhead, \n\nBehold on earth there is not one \nThat changeth not in love,\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 I said. \n\nHe drew a glass, as if to scan \nThe steeps for steers; raised it and \nsighed. \n\nHe craned his neck, this cattle man, \nThen drove the cork home and re\xc2\xac \nplied: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cFor twenty years (forgive these \ntears), \n\nFor twenty years no word of strife\xe2\x80\x94 \nI have not known for twenty years \nOne folly from my faithful wife.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nI looked that tarn man in the face\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat dark-browed, bearded cattle \nman. \n\nHe pulled his beard, then dropped in \nplace \n\n\n\n\n463 \n\n\nSaratoga anl) tfje l&almfet \n\n\nA broad right hand, all scarred and \ntan, \n\nAnd toyed with something shining \nthere \n\nAbove his holster, bright and small. \n\nI was convinced. I did not care \nTo agitate his mind at all. \n\nBut rest I could not. Know I must \nThe story of my stalwart guide; \n\nHis dauntless love, enduring trust; \n\nHis blessed and most wondrous bride. \n\nI wondered, marveled, marveled \nmuch; \n\nWas she of Western growth? Was \nshe \n\nOf Saxon blood, that wife with such \nEternal truth and constancy? \n\nI could not rest until I knew\xe2\x80\x94 \n\xe2\x80\x9cNow twenty years, my man,\xe2\x80\x9d I \nsaid, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIs a long time.\xe2\x80\x9d He turned, he drew \nA pistol forth, also a sigh. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x99Tis twenty years or more,\xe2\x80\x9d sighed \nhe. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNay, nay, my honest man, I vow \n\nSARATOGA AND \n\nThese famous waters smell like\xe2\x80\x94 \nwell, \n\nThose Saratoga waters may \nTaste just a little of the day \nOf judgment; and the sulphur smell \nSuggests, along with other things, \n\nA climate rather warm for springs. \n\nBut restful as a twilight song, \n\nThe land where every lover hath \nA spring, and every spring a path \n\n\nI do not doubt that this may be; \n\nBut tell, oh! tell me truly how?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x99Twould make a poem, pure and \ngrand; \n\nAll time should note it near and far; \nAnd thy fair, virgin, gold-sown land \nShould stand out like some winter \nstar. \n\nAmerica should heed. And then \nThe doubtful French beyond the \nsea\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twould make them truer, nobler men \nTo know how this might truly be.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x99Tis twenty years or more,\xe2\x80\x9d urged \nhe; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNay, that I know, good guide of \nmine; \n\nBut lead me where this wife may be, \nAnd I a pilgrim at a shrine, \n\nAnd kneeling as a pilgrim true\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94 \nHe, leaning, shouted loud and clear: \n\xe2\x80\x9cI cannot show my wife to you; \nShe\xe2\x80\x99s dead this more than twenty \nyear.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nTHE PSALMIST \n\nTo lead love pleasantly along. \n\nOh, there be waters, not of springs\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe waters wise King David sings. \n\nSweet is the bread that lovers \neat \n\nIn secret, sang on harp of gold, \nJerusalem\xe2\x80\x99s high king of old. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cT\'he stolen waters they are sweet!\xe2\x80\x9d \nOh, dear, delicious piracies \nOf kisses upon love\xe2\x80\x99s high seas! \n\n\n\n\n464 \n\n\n& \xc2\xaeurkej> \xc2\xa9unt in GPexafi \n\n\nThe old traditions of our race \nRepeat for aye and still repeat; \n\nThe stolen waters still are sweet \nAs when King David sat in place, \nAll purple robed and crowned in gold, \nAnd sang his holy psalms of old. \n\nOh, to escape the searching sun; \nTo seek these waters over sw r eet; \n\nTo see her dip her dimpled feet \nWhere these delicious waters run\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nTo dip her feet, nor slip nor fall, \n\nNor stain her garment\xe2\x80\x99s hem at all: \n\nNor soil the whiteness of her feet, \nNor stain her whitest garment\xe2\x80\x99s \nhem\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOh, singer of Jerusalem, \n\nYou sang so sweet, so wisely sweet! \nvShake hands! shake hands! I guess \nyou knew \n\nFor all your psalms, a thing or two. \n\n\nA TURKEY HUNT IN TEXAS \n\n(as told at dinner) \n\n\nNo, sir; no turkey for me, sir. \nBut soft, place it there, \n\nLest friends may make question and \nstrangers may stare. \n\nAh, the thought of that hunt in the \ncanon, the blood- \n\nNay, gently, please, gently! You \nopen a flood \n\nOf memories, memories melting me \nso \n\nThat I rise in my place and\xe2\x80\x94excuse \nme\xe2\x80\x94I go. \n\nNo? You must have the story? \nAnd you, lady fair? \n\nAnd you, and you all? Why, it\xe2\x80\x99s \nblood and despair; \n\nAnd \xe2\x80\x99twere not kind in me, not manly \nor wise \n\nTo bring tears at such time to such \nbeautiful eyes. \n\nI remember me now the last time I \ntold \n\nThis story a Persian in diamonds and \ngold \n\n\nSat next to good Gladstone, there was \nWales to the right, \n\nThen a Duke, then an Earl, and such \nladies in white! \n\nBut I stopped, sudden stopped, lest \nthe story might start \nThe blood freezing back to each \nfeminine heart. \n\nBut they all said, \xe2\x80\x9cThe story!\xe2\x80\x9d just \nas you all have said, \n\nAnd the great Persian monarch he \nnodded his head \n\n.Till his diamond-decked feathers fell, \nglittered and rose, \n\nThen nodded almost to his Ishmaelite \nnose. \n\nThe story! Ah, pardon! \xe2\x80\x99Twas \nhigh Christmas tide \nAnd just beef and beans; yet the \nland, far and wide, \n\nWas alive with such turkeys of silver \nand gold, \n\nAs never men bom to the north may \nbehold. \n\n\n\n\n\n9 Gturfeep $utit tit \xc2\xaecxas \n\n\nAnd Apaches? Aye, Apaches, and \nthey took this game \n\nIn a pen, tolled it in. Might not we \ndo the same? \n\nSo two of us started, strewing corn, \nIndian corn, \n\nTow\'rd a great granite gorge with the \nfirst flush of morn; \n\nStarted gay, laughing back from the \nbroad mesa\xe2\x80\x99s breast, \n\nAt the bravest of men, who but \nwarned for the best. \n\nWe built a great pen from the sweet \ncedar wood \n\nTumbled down from a crown where \nthe sentry stars stood. \n\nScarce done, when the turkeys in line \n\xe2\x80\x94such a sight! \n\nPicking com from the sand, russet \ngold, silver white, \n\nAnd so fat that they scarcely could \nwaddle or hobble. \n\nAnd \xe2\x80\x99twas \xe2\x80\x9cQueek, tukee, queek,\xe2\x80\x9d \nand \xe2\x80\x99twas, \xe2\x80\x9cgobble and gobble!\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nAnd their great, full crops they did \nwabble and wabble \n\nAs their bright, high heads they did \nbob, bow and bobble, \n\nDown, up, through the trench, crowd\xc2\xac \ning up in the pen. \n\nNow, quick, block the trench! Then \nthe mules and the men! \n\nSpringing forth from our cove, \nguns leaned to a rock, \n\nHow we laughed! What a feast! We \nhad got the whole flock. \n\n\n465 \n\nHow we worked till the trench was all \nblocked close and tight, \n\nFor we hungered, and, too, the near \ncoming of night, \n\nThen the thought of our welcome. \nThe news? We could hear \n\nAlready, we fancied, the great heart};\' \ncheer \n\nAs we rushed into camp and exult- \ningly told \n\nOf the mule loads of turkeys in silver \nand gold. \n\nThen we turned for our guns. Our \nguns? In their place \n\nTen Apaches stood there, and five \nguns in each face. \n\nAnd we stood! we stood straight \nand stood strong, track solid to \ntrack. \n\nWhat, turn, try to fly and be shot \nin the back? \n\nNo! We threw hats in the air. We \nshould not need them more. \n\nAnd yelled! Yelled as never yelled \nman or Comanche before. \n\nWe dared them, defied them, right \nthere in their lair. \n\nWhy, we leaned to their guns in our \nsplendid despair. \n\nWhat! spared us for bravery, because \nwe dared death? \n\nYou know the tale? Tell it, and \nspare me my breath. \n\nNo, sir. They killed us, killed us \nboth, there and then, \n\nAnd then nailed our scalps to that \nturkey pen. \n\n\n30 \n\n\n\n466 \n\n\nUtelanb \n\n\nUSLAND \n\n\nAnd where lies Usland, Land of \nUs? \n\nWhere Freedom lives, there Usland \nlies! \n\nFling down that map and measure \nthus \n\nOr argent seas or sapphire skies: \n\nTo north, the North Pole; south, as \nfar \n\nAs ever eagle cleaved his way; \n\nTo east, the blazing morning star, \n\nAnd west! West to the Judgment \nDay! \n\nNo borrowed lion, rampt in gold; \n\nNo bleeding Erin, plaintive strains; \n\nNo starving millions, mute and cold; \n\nNo plundered India, prone in \nchains; \n\nTHAT USSIAN \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI am an Ussian true,\xe2\x80\x9d he said; \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cKeep off the grass there, Mister \nBull! \n\nFor if you don\xe2\x80\x99t, I\xe2\x80\x99ll bang your head \n\nAnd bang your belly-full. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNow mark, my burly jingo-man, \n\nSo prone to muss and fuss and cuss, \n\nI am an Ussian, spick and span, \n\nFrom out the land of Us! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe stout man smole a frosty smile\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAn Ussian! Russian, Rusk, or \nRuss? \xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c No, no! an Ussian, every while; \n\nMy land the land of Us.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nNo peaceful farmer, forced to fly \nOr draw his plowshare from the sod, \n\nAnd fighting, one to fifty, die \nFor freedom, fireside, and God. \n\nFear not, brave, patient, free-born \nBoers, \n\nGreat Usland\xe2\x80\x99s heart is yours to\xc2\xac \nday. \n\nAye, England\xe2\x80\x99s heart of hearts is \nyours, \n\nWhatever scheming men may say. \n\nHer scheming men have mines to sell, \nAnd we? Why, meat and corn \nand wheat. \n\nBut, Boers, all brave hearts wish you \nwell; \n\nFor England\xe2\x80\x99s triumph means \ndefeat. \n\n\nOF USLAND \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAw! Usland, Outland? or, maybe, \n\nSome Venezuela I\xe2\x80\x99d forgot. \n\nHand out your map and let me see \n\nWhere Usland is, and what.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe Yankman leaned and spread his \nmap \n\nAnd shewed the land of Us and \nshewed, \n\nThen eyed and eyed that paunchy \nchap, \n\nAnd pulled his chin and chewed. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat do you want?\xe2\x80\x9d A face grew \nred, \n\nAnd red chop whiskers redder grew. \n\n\n\n\nS>apis Plato \n\n\n467 \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI want the earth,\xe2\x80\x9d the Ussian \nsaid, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd all Alaska too. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMy stars swim up yon seas of blue; \nNo Shind am I, Boer, Turk or \nRuss. \n\n\nI am an Ussian\xe2\x80\x94Ussian true; \n\nMy land the land of Us. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMy triple North Star lights me on, \nMy Southern Cross leads ever thus; \nMy sun scarce sets till burst of dawn. \nHands off the land of Us!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nSAYS PLATO \n\n\nSays Plato, \xe2\x80\x9cOnce in Greece the \ngods \n\nPlucked grapes, pressed wine, and \nreveled deep \n\nAnd drowsed below their poppy-pods, \nAnd lay full length the hills asleep. \nThen, waking, one said, \xe2\x80\x98Overmuch \nWe toil: come, let us rise and touch \nRed clay, and shape it into man, \nThat he may build as we shall plan! \xe2\x80\x99 \nAnd so they shaped man, all complete, \nSelf-procreative, satisfied; \n\nTwo heads, four hands, four feet. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd then the gods slept, heedless, \nlong; \n\nBut waking suddenly one day, \n\nThey heard their valley ring with \nsong \n\nAnd saw man reveling as they. \nEnraged, they drew their swords and \nsaid, \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Bow down! bend down!\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x94but man \nreplied \n\nDefiant, fearless, everywhere \nHis four fists shaking in the air. \n\nThe gods descending cleft in twain \nEach man; then wiped their swords on \ngrapes; \n\nAnd let confusion reign. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 And such confusion! each half ran, \nRan here, ran there; or weep or laugh \nOr what he would, each helpless man \nRan hunting for his other half. \n\nAnd from that day, thenceforth the \ngrapes \n\nBore blood and flame, and restless \nshapes \n\nOf hewn-down, helpless halves of \nmen, \n\nRan searching ever; crazed, as when \nFirst hewn in twain, they grasped, let \ngo, \n\nThen grasped again; but rarely found \nThat lost half once loved so.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nNow, right or wrong, or false or \ntrue, \n\n\'Tis Plato\xe2\x80\x99s tale of bitter sweet; \n\nBut I know well and well know you \nThe quest keeps on at fever heat. \n\nLet Love, then, wisely sit and wait! \nThe world is round; sit by the gate, \nLike blind Belisarius: being blind, \nLove should not search; Love shall \nnot find \n\nBy searching. Brass is so like gold, \nHow shall this blind Love know new \nbrass \n\nFrom pure soft gold of old? \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n468 Welcome to tfjc 45 reat American \xe2\x82\xac>cean \n\n\nWELCOME TO THE GREAT AMERICAN OCEAN \n\n\nAloha! Wahwah! Quelle raison? \n\nShip ahoy! What sails are these? \nWhat tuneful Orpheus, what Jason \nCourts Colchis and her Golden \nFleece? \n\nFor never since the oak-keeled Argo \nSuch sweet chords, such kingly cargo. \n\nNever since the mad Magellan \nDared the Philippines and died, \nDid these boundless billows swell in \nSuch surprised and saucy pride. \nAre they laughing, chaffing at you? \nWaiting but to bang and bat you? \n\nDoughty Vikings, dauntless Norse\xc2\xac \nmen, \n\nWhite-maned stallions plunge and \nfret; \n\nRide them, ride them, daring horse\xc2\xac \nmen, \n\nRide or perish in ... . the wet! \nGalleons, doubloons galore \nPaved of old this proud sea floor! \n\nCarabellos, caballeros! \n\nWhere your boasted Totus Munda? \nChile came con tamales. ... \n\nAnd the bull-\xc2\xa3ght of a Sunday! \nThat is all there is to say \nOf all your yesterdays, today. \n\nHeed my heroes, heed the story; \n\nGone the argent galleon; \n\nGone the gold and gone the glory, \nGone the gaudy, haughty Don. \n\nHis sword, his pride, sleep side by \nside, \n\nNor reck, at all, yond ebb or tide. \n\n\nYe who buckle on bright armor, \n\nRead and heed nor boast at all \nTill ye have worn it warm and warmer, \nFronting pride that runs to fall. \nAnd heed, my heroes, where away \nWe all, a span of years today? \n\nBut welcome, walls of flame and \nthunder, \n\nIsles of steel and miles of launches! \nWelcome to these seas of wonder, \nMen of war with olive branches; \nWelcome to dear Crusoe\xe2\x80\x99s seas, \n\nThese sundown seas, this sun-born \nbreeze. \n\nWelcome to the oldest, newest! \n\nHere God\xe2\x80\x99s spirit moved upon \nThe waters, these the broadest, bluest, \nEre that sudden burst of dawn \nDividing day from primal night, \nWhen He said, \xe2\x80\x9cLet there be light.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nBut, beware the wild tornadoes! \n\nEntre nous, they are terrific! \n\nScout that dago\xe2\x80\x99s gay bravados! \n\nCut that silly name, Pacific! \n\nBalboa, wading to his knees, \n\nCried: \xe2\x80\x9cLo, the calm, pacific seas!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nStraightway Cortez hewed his head \noff! \n\nNay, blame not, accuse nor cavil. \nSpite of all that has been said of \nHe should have hewed it to the \nnavel; \n\nAye, cut his neck off to his knees, \nFor naming these \xe2\x80\x9cPacific Seas!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n\n\n\n{Etoo (fflfee \xc2\xa9lb jfllen in \xc2\xa9mar\'# Hanb \n\n\nPacific? No, American! \n\nHer go, her get there, gown or gun! \nHer British, \xe2\x80\x9cGet, and keep who \ncan,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAll places, races, rolled in one. \nPacific Ocean? Mild of motion? \nNever such a silly notion! \n\nSo, beware the sometimes tidal \nWave Tahitian, where bananas \nBathe; where fig-leafed parties bridal \nDine in tree-tops on mananas! \n\n\n469 \n\nSamoa\'s typhoons, too, beware\xe2\x80\x94 \nHer mermaids combing kinky hair. \n\nAye, tidals, typhoons, \xe2\x80\x99clones beware! \n\nBut when you touch sea-set Nippon, \nWhere lift three thousand isles mid\xc2\xac \nair, \n\nAnd each an Eden dear as dawn, \nWith dimpled Eves and dainty elves\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhy, then beware your bloomin\xe2\x80\x99 \nselves. \n\n\nTWO WISE OLD MEN OF OMAR\xe2\x80\x99S LAND \n\n\nThe world lay as a dream of love, \nLay drowned in beauty, drowsed in \npeace, \n\nLay filled with plenty, fat-increase, \nLay low-voiced as a wooing dove. \nAnd yet, poor, blind man was not \nglad, \n\nBut to and fro, contentious, mad, \nRebellious, restless, hard he sought \nAnd sought and sought\xe2\x80\x94he scarce \nknew what. \n\nThe Persian monarch shook his head, \nSlow twirled his twisted, raven beard, \nAs one who doubted, questioned, \nfeared. \n\nThen called his poet up and said: \n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat aileth man, blind man, that \nhe, \n\nStiff-necked and selfish, will not see \nYon gorgeous glories overhead, \nThese flowers climbing to the knee, \nAs climb sweet babes that loving cling \nTo hear a song?\xe2\x80\x94Go forth and sing! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nThe poet passed. He sang all day, \nSang all the year, sang many years; \nHe sang in joy, he sang in tears, \n\nBy desert way or watered way, \n\nYet all his singing was in vain. \n\nMan would not list, man would not \nheed \n\nSave but for lust and selfish greed \nAnd selfish glory and hard gain. \n\nAnd so at last the poet sang \nIn biting hunger and hard pain \nNo more, but tattered, bent and gray, \nHe hanged his harp and let it hang \nWhere keen winds walked with wintry \nrain, \n\nHigh on a willow by the way, \n\nThe while he sought his king to cry \nHis failure forth and reason why. \n\nThe old king pulled his thin white \nbeard, \n\nSlow sipped his sherbet nervously, \n\n\n\n\n470 \n\n\n\xc2\xaetoo Wise \xc2\xa9lli ifflett in \xc2\xa9mar\xe2\x80\x99fi Hanli \n\n\nPeered right and left, suspicious \npeered, \n\nThrummed with a foot as one who \nfeared, \n\nThen fixed hib crown on close; then he \nClutched tight the wide arm of his \nthrone, \n\nAnd sat all sullen, sad and lone. \n\nAt last he savagely caught up \nAnd drained, deep drained, his \njeweled cup; \n\nThen fierce he bade his poet say, \n\nAnd briefly say, what of the day? \n\nThe trembling poet felt his head, \n\nHe felt his thin neck chokingly. \n\xe2\x80\x9cOh, king, this world is good to see! \nOh, king, this world is beautiful!\xe2\x80\x9d \nThe king\'s thin beard was white as \nwool, \n\nThe while he plucked it terribly, \nThen suddenly and savage said: \n\xe2\x80\x9cCut that! cut that! or lose your \nhead!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe poet\'s knees smote knee to knee, \nThe poet\xe2\x80\x99s face was pitiful. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHave mercy, king! hear me, hear \nme! \n\nThis gorgeous world is beautiful, \n\nThis beauteous world is good to see; \nBut man, poor man, he has not time \nTo see one thing at all, save one\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHaste, haste, dull poet, and have \ndone \n\nWith all such feeble, foolish rime! \nNo time? Bah! man, no bit of time \nTo see but one thing? Well, that \none?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThat one, oh, king, that one fair \nthing \n\nOf all fair things on earth to see, \n\nOh, king, oh, wise and mighty king, \nThat takes man\xe2\x80\x99s time continually, \nThat takes man\xe2\x80\x99s time and drinks it \nup \n\nAs you have drained your jeweled \ncup- \n\nIs woman, woman, wilful, fair\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nJust woman, woman, everywhere! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe king scarce knew what next to \ndo; \n\nHe did not like that ugly truth; \n\nFor, far back in his sunny youth, \n\nHe, too, had loved a goodly few. \n\nHe punched a button, punched it \ntwice, \n\nThen as he wiped his beard he said: \n\xe2\x80\x9cOh, threadbare bard of foolish rime, \nIf man looks all his time at her, \n\nSees naught but her, pray tell me, sir, \nWhy, how does woman spend her \ntime?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe singer is a simple bird, \n\nThe simplest ever seen or heard. \n\nIt will not lie, it knows no thing \nSave but to sing and truly sing. \n\nThe poet reached his neck, his head, \nAs if to lay it on the shelf \nAnd quit the hard and hapless trade \nOf simple truth and homely rime \nThat brought him neither peace nor \npelf; \n\nThen with his last, faint gasp he said: \n\xe2\x80\x9cWhy, woman, woman, matron, \nmaid, \n\nShe puts in all her precious time \nIn looking, looking at herself!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\xc2\xaetoo Wise \xc2\xa9lb iHen in \xc2\xa9mar\xe2\x80\x99s ILanb \n\n\n47i \n\n\nA silence then was heard to fall \n\nSo hard it broke into a grin! \n\nThe old king thought a space and \nthought \n\nOf when her face was all in all\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhen love was scarce a wasteful \nsin, \n\nAnd even kingdoms were as naught. \n\nAt last he laughed, and in a \ntrice \n\n\nHe banged the button, banged it \nthrice, \n\nThen clutched his poet\xe2\x80\x99s hand and \nthen \n\nThese two white-bearded, wise old \nmen \n\nThey sat that throne and chinned and \nchinned, \n\nAnd grinned, they did, and grinned \nand grinned! \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nSONGS OF THE AMERICAN SEAS \n\n\n473 \n\n\n\n\n\nCOLUMBUS \n\n\nBehind him lay the gray Azores, \n\nBehind the Gates of Hercules; \n\nBefore him not the ghost of shores; \n\nBefore him only shoreless seas. \n\nThe good mate said: \xe2\x80\x9cNow must \nwe pray, \n\nFor lo! the very stars are gone, \n\nBrave Adm\xe2\x80\x99r\xe2\x80\x99l speak; what shall I \nsay?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhy, say: \xe2\x80\x98Sail on! sail on! and \non!\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMy men grow mutinous day by \nday; \n\nMy men grow ghastly, wan and \nweak.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe stout mate thought of home; a \nspray \n\nOf salt wave washed his swarthy \ncheek. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat shall I say, brave Adm\xe2\x80\x99r\xe2\x80\x99l, \nsay, \n\nIf we sight naught but seas at \ndawn?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhy, you shall say at break of \nday: \n\n\xe2\x80\x98Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!\xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThey sailed and sailed, as winds \nmight blow, \n\nUntil at last the blanched mate \nsaid: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhy, now not even God would \nknow \n\nShould I and all my men fall dead. \n\n\nThese very winds forget their way, \nFor God from these dread seas is \ngone. \n\nNow speak, brave Adm\xe2\x80\x99r\xe2\x80\x99l, speak and \n\n\nHe said: \xe2\x80\x9cSail on! sail on! and \non!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThey sailed. They sailed. Then \nspake the mate: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThis mad sea shows his teeth \ntonight. \n\nHe curls his lip, he lies in wait, \n\nHe lifts his teeth, as if to bite! \n\nBrave Adm\xe2\x80\x99r\xe2\x80\x99l, say but one good \nword: \n\nWhat shall we do when hope is \ngone?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThe words leapt like a leaping sword: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nThen pale and worn, he paced his \ndeck, \n\nAnd peered through darkness. \nAh, that night \n\nOf all dark nights! And then a \nspeck\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA light! A light! At last a light! \n\nIt grew, a starlit flag unfurled! \n\nIt grew to be Time\xe2\x80\x99s burst of \ndawn. \n\nHe gained a world; he gave that \nworld \n\nIts grandest lesson: \xe2\x80\x9cOn!sail on!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n475 \n\n\n\n\n476 \n\n\n3 gums of Creation \n\n\nA SONG OF \n\nThe bravest, manliest man is he \n\nWho braves the brede, who breaks the \nsod, \n\nWho sows a seed, who plants a tree, \nWho turns and tears the barren clod, \n\nIn partnership with God is he \xe2\x80\x94 \nHimself a very part of God, \n\nAye, God\'s anointed, God\'s high \npriest. \n\nAnd he who sees, who knows to see \nAs saw the eager seers of old, \n\nIs of the \'\xe2\x80\x98wise men of the East," \n\nIs richer than all Araby \nIn incense, myrrh and gifts of gold. \n\nThe noblest woman, bravest, best \nOf all brave souls beneath the sun? \n\nI say the queenliest is that one \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSeek north or south or east or west \xe2\x80\x94 \nWho loves to fold the little frock \nAnd hear the cradle rock and rock. \n\nI say the purest woman, best \nBeneath our forty stars, is she \nWho loves her spouse most ardently \nAnd rocks the cradle oftenest \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWho rocks and sings and rocks, and \nthen, \n\nWhen birds are nesting, rocks again. \n\nCANTO I \n\nI \n\nA yucca crowned in creamy bloom, \n\nA yucca freighted with perfume, \nBreathed fragrance up the blossomed \nsteep; \n\nThe warm sea winds lay half asleep, \nLay drowsing in the dreamy wold \n\n\nCREATION \n\nBy Saint Francisco\xe2\x80\x99s tawny Bay, \n\nAs if to fold, forever fold, \n\nWorn, wearied wings and rest \nalway \n\nIn careless, languid Arcady. \n\nII \n\nSome clean, lean Eucalyptus trees, \nWind-torn and tossing to the blue, \nKept ward above the silent two \nWho sat the fragrant sundown seas \nAbove the sounding Golden Gate \nNor questioned overmuch of fate; \nFor she was dowered, gold on gold, \nWith wealth of face and form un\xc2\xac \ntold! \n\nAnd he was proud and passionate. \n\nIII \n\nTen thousand miles of mobile sea\xe2\x80\x94 \nThis sea of all seas blent as one \nWide, unbound book of mystery, \n\nOf awe, of sibyl prophecy, \n\nEre yet a ghost or misty ken \nOf God\xe2\x80\x99s far, first Beginning when \nVast darkness lay upon the deep; \n\nAs when God\xe2\x80\x99s spirit moved upon \nSuch waters cradled in such sleep \nSuch night as never yet knew dawn, \nSuch night as weird atallaph weaves \nBut never mortal man conceives. \n\nIV \n\nHe looked to heaven, God; but \nshe \n\nSaw only his face and the sea. \n\n\n\na \xc2\xa3S>otig of Creation \n\n\n477 \n\n\nHe said\xe2\x80\x94his fond face leaned to \nhers, \n\nThe warmest of God\xe2\x80\x99s worshipers\xe2\x80\x94 \n\xe2\x80\x9cIn the beginning? Where and \nwhen, \n\nBefore the fashioning of men, \n\nSwung first His high lamps to and \nfro, \n\nTo light us as we (please to go? \n\nAnd where the waters, dark deeps \nwhen \n\nGod spake, and said, \xe2\x80\x98Let there be \nlight\xe2\x80\x99? \n\nThey still house where they housed, \nas then, \n\nDark curtained with majestic night\xe2\x80\x94 \nDusk Silence, in travail of Light \nThat knew not man or man\xe2\x80\x99s, at all\xe2\x80\x94 \nSteel battle-ship or wood-built wall. \n\nV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAye, these, these were the waters \nwhen \n\nGod spake and knew His fair first\xc2\xac \nborn\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat silent, new-born baby mom, \nSuch eons ere the noise of men. \n\nHis Southern Cross, high-built about \nThe deep, set in a town of stars, \nCommemorates, forbids a doubt \nThat here first fell God\xe2\x80\x99s golden \nbars\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nRed bars, with soft, white silver \nblent, \n\nBroad sown from sapphire firma\xc2\xac \nment. \n\nVI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBehold what wave-lights leap and \nrun \n\n\nSwift up the shale from out the sea \nInwove with silver, gold and sun! \nLight lingers in the tawny mane \nOf wild oats waving lazily \nFar upon the climbing poppy plain; \nFar up yon steeps of dusk and \ndawn\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBlack night, white light, inwound as \none. \n\nBut when, when fell that far, first \ndawn \n\nWith ways of gold to walk upon? \n\nVII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI know not when, but only know \nThat darkness lay upon yon deep, \nLay cradled, as a child asleep, \n\nAnd that God\xe2\x80\x99s spirit moved upon \nThese waters ere the burst of dawn \nWhen first His high lamps to and \nfro \n\nSwung forth to guide which way to \ngo. \n\nVIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI only know that Silence keeps \nHigh court forever still hereon, \n\nThat Silence lords alone these deeps \nThe silence of God\xe2\x80\x99s, house, and \nkeeps \n\nInviolate yon water\xe2\x80\x99s face. \n\nAs if still His abiding place, \n\nAs ere that far, first burst of dawn \nEre fretful man set sail upon. \n\nIX \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe deeps,\xe2\x80\x9d he mused, \xe2\x80\x9care still as \nwhen \n\n\n\n\n478 \n\n\n& g>oug of Creation \n\n\nDusk Silence kept her curtained bed \nLow moaning for the birth of \ndawn, \n\nWhen she should push black night \naside, \n\nAs some ghoul nightmare most \nabhorred\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhen she might laughing look upon \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s first-born glory, holy Light\xe2\x80\x94 \nAs when fond Eve exulting cried, \n\nIn mother-pain, with mother-pride, \n\xe2\x80\x98Behold the fair first-born of men! \n\nI gat a man-child of the Lord!\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nX \n\nAs one discerning some sweet nook \nOf wild oats, mantling yellow, pink, \nWill pass, then turn and turn to \nlook, \n\nThen pass again to think and think, \nThen try to not turn back again, \n\nBut try and try to quite forget \nAnd, sighing, try and try in vain; \n\nSo you would turn and turn again \nTo her, her girlish woman\xe2\x80\x99s grace\xe2\x80\x94 \nFull-flowered yet fond baby\xe2\x80\x99s face. \n\nXI \n\nHer wide, sweet mouth, an opened \nrose, \n\nPushed out, reached out, as if to \nkiss; \n\nA mobile mouth in proud repose \nThis moment, then unlike to this \nAs storm to calm, as day to night, \n\nAs sullen darkness to swift light; \nThis new-made woman was, the sun \nAnd surged sea interwound in one. \n\n\nXII \n\nHer proud and ample lips pushed \nout \n\nAs kissing sea-winds unaware; \n\nAnd then they arched in angry \npout, \n\nAs if she cared yet did not care. \nThen lightning lit her great, wide \n\neyes, \n\nAs if black thunder walled the skies, \nAnd all things took some touch of \nher, \n\nThe while she stood nor deigned to \nstir: \n\nThe while she saw with vision \ndim\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nSaw all things, yet saw only him. \n\nXIII \n\nSuch eyes as compass all the skies, \nThat see all things yet naught have \nseen; \n\nSuch eyes of love or sorrow\xe2\x80\x99s eyes\xe2\x80\x94 \nA martyr or a Magdalene? \n\nHow sad that all great souls are sad! \nHow sad that gladness is not glad\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat Love\xe2\x80\x99s sad sister is sweet Pain, \nThat only lips of beauty drain \nLife\xe2\x80\x99s full-brimmed, glittering goblet \ndry, \n\nAnd only drain the cup to die! \n\nXIV \n\nThe yellow of her poppy hair \nWas as red gold is, when at rest; \n\nBut when aroused was as the west \nIn sunset flame and then\xe2\x80\x94take care! \nHer tall, free-fashioned, supple form \n\n\n\n21 \xc2\xa3?ong of Creation \n\n\n479 \n\n\nWas now some sudden, tropic storm \nWas now some lily leaned at play. \nWhat sea and sun, sunshine and \nshower, \n\nFull flowered ere the noon of day, \nFull June ere yet the morn of May, \nThis sun-born blossom of an hour\xe2\x80\x94 \nPrecocious Californian flower! \n\nXV \n\nShe answered not but looked away \nWith brown hand arched above her \nbrow,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs peers a boatman from his prow,\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \nTo where white sea-doves wheeled at \nplay. \n\nShe watched them long, then turned \nand sighed \n\nAnd looking in his face she cried, \nWhile blushing prettily, \xe2\x80\x9cBehold, \nThere is no mateless dove, not one! \nAnd see! not one unhappy dove. \n\nTen thousand circling in the sun, \nEntangled as the mesh of fate, \n\nYet each remains as true as gold \nAnd constant courts his pretty mate. \nSee here! See there! Behold, \nabove\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI think each dove would die for \nlove.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nHe watched the shallows spume the \nshore \n\nAnd fleck the shelly, drifting shale, \nThen far at sea his swift eyes swept \nWhere one tall, stately, snow-white \nsail \n\nIts silent course majestic kept \nAnd gloried in its alien mood, \n\nAs his own soul in solitude. \n\n\nXVI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe shallows murmur and com\xc2\xac \nplain, \n\nThe shallows turn with wind and \ntide, \n\nThey fringe with froth and moil the \nmain; \n\nThey wail and will not be denied\xe2\x80\x94 \nPoor, puny babes, unsatisfied! \n\nXVII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe lighthouse clings her beetling \nsteep \n\nAbove the rock-sown, ragged shore \nWhere Scylla and Charybdis roar \nAnd dangers lurk and shallows keep \nMad tumult in the house of sleep. \nThe shallows moan and moan \nalway\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe deeps have not one word to \nsay. \n\nXVIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI reckon Silence as a grace \nThat was ere light had name or \nplace; \n\nA saint enshrined ere hand was laid \nTo fashioning of man or maid. \n\nFor, storm or calm, or sun or shade, \nFair Silence never truth betrayed ; \nFor, ocean deep or dappled sky, \n\nSaint Silence never told a lie.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nCANTO II \n\nI \n\nFrom out the surge of Sutro\xe2\x80\x99s steep, \nBeyond the Gate a rock uprears, \n\n\n\n\n480 \n\n\n& H>ottg of Creation \n\n\nSo sudden, savage, unawares \nThe very billows start and leap, \n\nAs frightened at its lifted face, \n\nSo shoreless, sealess, out of place: \n\nA sea-washed, surge-locked isle, as \nlone \n\nAs lorn Napoleon on his throne\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis Saint Helena throne, where still \nThe dazed world in dumb wonder \nturns \n\nTo his high throned, imperious \nwill \n\nAnd incense burns and ever burns. \nHere huge sea-lions climb and \ncling, \n\nDespite the surge and seethe and \nshock \n\nThe topmost limit of the rock, \n\nAnd one is named Napoleon, king. \nBehold him lord the land, the sea, \n\nIn lone, unquestioned majesty! \n\nII \n\nShe saw, she raised alert her head \nWith eager face and cheery said: \n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat lusty, upheaved, bull-built \nneck! \n\nWhat lungs to lift above the roar! \nWhat captain on his quarter-deck \nTo mock the sea and scorn the \nshore! \n\nI like that scar across his breast, \n\nI like his ardent, lover\xe2\x80\x99s zest! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nIII \n\nThe huge sea-beast uprose, uprose, \n\nAs if to surely topple down; \n\nHe reached his black and bearded \nnose \n\n\nAbove his harem, gray, black, \nbrown, \n\nSleek, shining, wet or steaming \ndry, \n\nAnd mouthed and mouthed against \nthe sky. \n\nIV \n\nWhat eloquence, what hot love pain! \nWhat land but this, what love but \nhis? \n\nWhat isle of bliss but this and this\xe2\x80\x94 \nTo roar and love and roar again? \nWhat land, what love but this his \nown, \n\nLoud thundered from his slippery \nthrone; \n\nLoud thundered in his Sappho\xe2\x80\x99s ear, \n\nAs if she could not, would not hear. \n\nV \n\nAt last her heart was moved and \n\nshe \n\nRaised two bright eyes to his black \nbeard, \n\nThen sudden turned, as if she feared, \nAnd threw her headlong in the sea, \nAnother Sappho, all for love. \n\nWhile Phaon towered still aboye\xe2\x80\x94 \nAn instant only; yet once more \nThat upheaved head, that great bull \nneck, \n\nThat sea-born, bossed, bull-throated \nroar\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA poise, a plunge, a flash, a fleck, \nAnd far down, cavemed in the deep, \nWhere sea-green curtains swing and \nsweep \n\nAnd varicolored carpets creep, \n\n\n\n\n\n9 Iking of Creation \n\n\nSoft emerald or amethyst, \n\nTwo lion lovers kept sweet tryst. \n\nVI \n\nShe looked, looked long, then smiled, \nthen sighed, \n\nA proud, pure soul unsatisfied, \n\nThen sat dense grasses suddenly \nAnd thrust a foot above the sea. \n\nShe threw her backward, arms wide \nout. \n\nAnd up the poppy-spangled steep \nO\'er grass-set cushions sown in gold, \nAs she would sleep yet would not \nsleep. \n\nShe reached her wide hands fast \nabout \n\nAnd grasses, gold and manifold, \n\nOf lowly blossoms, pink and blue, \n\nShe gathered in and laughing threw, \nWith bare-armed, heedless, happy \ngrace\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThrew fragrant handfuls in his face. \nAnd then as if to sleep she lay, \n\nA babe nursed at the breast of \nMay\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLay back with wide eyes to the \nskies \n\nAnd clouds of wondrous butterflies; \nSuch Mariposa blooms in air! \n\nSuch bloomy, golden, poppy hair! \nAnd which were hers or poppy\xe2\x80\x99s \ngold \n\nWithout close care none could have \ntold; \n\nAnd which were butterflies or bloom, \nTo guess there was not guessing \nroom, \n\nThe while, in quest of sweets or \nrest, \n\n31 \n\n\n481 \n\nThey fanned her face, they kissed her \nbreast. \n\nVII \n\nThat face like to a lilt of song\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA face of sea-shell tint, with tide \nOf springtime flowing fast and strong \nAnd fearless in its maiden pride\xe2\x80\x94 \nSuch rich rose ambushed in such \nhair \n\nOf heedless, wind-kissed, poppy gold \nBlown here, blown there, blown any\xc2\xac \nwhere, \n\nSoft-lifting, falling fold on fold, \n\nAs made gold poppies where she lay \nTurn envious, turn green as May! \nWhat wise face yet what wilful face, \nA face that would not be denied \nNo more than gipsy winds that race \nThe sea bank in their saucy pride; \n\nA form that knew yet only knew \nThe natural, the human, true. \n\nVIII \n\nThose two round mounds of Nine\xc2\xac \nveh, \n\nWhat treasures of the past they \nknew! \n\nBut these two round mounds here \nto-day \n\nHold treasures richer far than they, \nAnd prophecies more truly true. \n\nOld Nineveh\xe2\x80\x99s twin mounds are \ndust; \n\nThey only know the ghostly past; \n\nBut these two new mounds hold in \ntrust \n\nThe awful future, hold the vast \nUnbounded empire, land or sea, \n\n\n\n\n\n482 \n\n\na g>ottg of Creation \n\n\nHenceforth, for all eternity. \n\nLet pass dead pasts; far wiser \nturn \n\nAnd delve the future; love and \nlearn. \n\nIX \n\nIt seems she dreamed. She slept, we \nknow, \n\nA happy, quiet little space, \n\nThen thrust a round limb far below \nAnd half-way turned aside her face, \nAnd then she threw her arms wide \nout \n\nIn sleep, and so reached blind about \nAs if for something she might find \nFrom fortune-telling, gipsy wind. \n\nX \n\nThe soft, warm winds from far away \nWere weary, and they crept so near \nThey lay against her willing ear \nAs if they had so much to say. \n\nAnd she, she seemed so glad to hear \nThe while she loving, sleeping lay \nAnd dreamed of love nor dreamed of \ndoubt, \n\nBut laughing thrust her form far \nout \n\nAnd down the fragrant poppy steep \nIn playful, restless, happy sleep. \n\nShe sighed, she heaved her hilly \nbreast, \n\nAs one who would but could not rest. \n\nXI \n\nHow natural, how free, how fair, \n\nThe while the happy winds on wing, \n\n\nAs larger butterflies, laid bare \n\nA rippled, braided rim of white \n\nAnd outstretched ankles exquisite. \n\nWhat arms to hold a babe at breast\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSuch breast as prudist never guessed! \n\nWhat shapely limbs, what everything \n\nThat makes great woman great and \ngood\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat makes for proud, pure mother\xc2\xac \nhood ! \n\nXII \n\nSuch thews as mount the steeps of \nmorn, \n\nSuch limbs as love, not lust shall \nshare, \n\nSuch legs as God has shaped to \nbear \n\nThe weight of ages, worlds unborn; \n\nSuch limbs as Lesbian shrines \nrevealed \n\nWhen comely, longing mothers \nkneeled; \n\nSuch thews as Phidias loved to \nhew, \n\nSuch limbs as Leighton loved to \ndraw \n\nWhen painting tall, Greek girls at \nplay; \n\nSuch legs as blind old Homer saw, \n\nAs Marlowe knew but yesterday, \n\nWhen Helen climbed in dreams for \nhim \n\nHer cloud-topped towers of Ilium. \n\nCANTO III \n\nI \n\nWhite sea-gulls glistened in the \nsun\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n3 ^>ong of Creation \n\n\nTen thousand if a single one\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd every sea-dove knew his mate. \nFar, far at sea, the Farallones \nSent up a million plaintive moans \nFrom sea-beasts moaning love, or \nhate. \n\nThe sun sank weary, flushed and \nworn, \n\nThe warm sea-winds sank tattered, \ntorn, \n\nThe sun and sea lay welded, wed; \nThe day lay crouched upon the \ndeep \n\nHalf closed, as eyes half closed in \nsleep, \n\nHalf closed, as some good book half \nread. \n\nII \n\nThe sea was as an opal sea \nInlaid with scintillating light, \n\nYet close about and left and right \nThe sea lay banked and bossed in \nnight, \n\nAs black as ever night may be \n\nIII \n\nThe sundown sea all sudden then \nLay argent, pallid, white as death. \n\nAs when some great thing dies; as \nwhen \n\nA god gasps in one final breath \nAnd heaves full length his somber \nbed. \n\nThe sundown sea now shone, mobile, \nTranslucent, flaming, molten steel, \nRed, green, then tenfold more than \nred, \n\nAnd then of every hue, a hint \n\n\n483 \n\nOf doubloons spilling from the mint, \nAlternate, changing, manifold, \n\nYet melting, minting all to gold. \n\nIV \n\nFar mountain peaks flashed flecks of \ngold \n\nAnd dashed with dappled flecks the \nskies. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBehold,\xe2\x80\x9d said he, \xe2\x80\x9cthe fleecy fold \nNow slowly, surely, homeward hies. \nSuch cobalt blue, such sheep of \ngold, \n\nSuch gold as hath not place or \nname \n\nIn elsewhere land, because no seer \nHath seen or dauntless prophet told \nWhere stood the loom in primal \npeace \n\nThat wove the fair, first golden \nfleece. \n\nBehold, what gold-flecked flocks of \nLight! \n\nTen million moving sheep of gold, \nWee lambs of gold that nudge their \ndams, \n\nGreat horned, wrinkled, heady \nrams! \n\nV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSlow-shepherded, the golden sheep, \nWith bent horns lowered to the \ndeep, \n\nCome home; the hollows of the sea \nReceive and house them lovingly. \n\nThe little lambs of Light come \nhome \n\nAnd house them in the argent foam, \n\n\n\n\n\nla g>otts of Creation \n\n\n484 \n\nThe while He counts them every \none, \n\nAnd shuts the Gate, for day is done. \n\nVI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAye, day is done, the dying sun \nSinks wounded unto death to-night; \nA great, hurt swan, he sinks to rest, \nHis wings all crimson, blood his \nbreast! \n\nWhat wide, low wings, reached left \nand right, \n\nHe sings, and night and swan are \none\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\nOne huge black swan of Helicon. \n\nVII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat crimson breast, what crimson \nwings \n\nThe while he dies, and dying sings! \nYet safe is housed the happy fold, \nThe golden sheep, the fleece of gold \nThat lured the dauntless Argonaut\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe fleece that daring Jason \nsought.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nVIII \n\nShe waking sighed, soft murmuring, \nAs waters from some wood-walled \nspring: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Oh happy, huge, horn-headed rams, \nTo guide and lead the golden fleece, \nTo ward the fold of fat increase \nFast mated to your golden dams! \nWhat bridal gold, what golden bride, \nWhat golden twin lambs, side by \nside! \n\n\nOh happy, happy nudging lambs, \nThrice happy, happy golden dams! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nIX \n\nHis face Was still against the west; \nFor still a flush of gold was there \nThat would not or that could not \nrest, \n\nBut seemed some night bird of the \nair. \n\nAt last, with half-averted head \nAnd dreamfully, as dreaming, said: \n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat banker gathers yonder gold \nThat sinks, sea-washed, beyond the \ndeeps? \n\nLie there no sands to house and \nhold \n\nThis sunset gold in countless heaps? \nThere sure must be some far, fierce \nland, \n\nSome Guinea shore, some fire-fed \nstrand, \n\nSome glowing, palm-set, pathless \nspot \n\nWhere all this sunset gold is stored, \nAs misers gather hoard on hoard. \nThere sure must be, beyond this \nsea, \n\nSome Argo\xe2\x80\x99s gold, some argosy, \n\nSome golden fleece, long since for\xc2\xac \ngot, \n\nTo wait the coming Argonaut.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nX \n\nShe sprang up sudden, savagely, \n\nAnd flushed, and paled, looked far \n\naway. \n\nGrinding gold poppies with her heel. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xae iking of Creation \n\n\nShe could not say, she could but \nfeel. \n\nShe nothing said, because that they \nWho really feel can rarely say. \n\nAnd then she looked up, forth and \nfar, \n\nAnd pointed to the pale North \nStar, \n\nThe while her color went and came \nFrom pink to white, from frost to \nflame. \n\nXI \n\nFor this, the one forbidden theme, \nThe one hard, dread, unquiet dream \nThat he should go, lead forth and \nfar \n\nBelow the triple Arctic star, \n\nAs he had planned; and now to \nspeak, \n\nTo hint\xe2\x80\x94she heard with pallid \ncheek, \n\nHard had she tried, had fain forgot \nHow strong, strange men were trend\xc2\xac \ning far \n\nAgainst this cold, elusive star, \n\nAnd he their Jason\xe2\x80\x94Argonaut! \n\nCANTO IV \n\nI \n\nHow passing fair, how wondrous fair, \nThis daughter of the yellow sun! \n\nHer sunlit length and strength of \nhair \n\nSeemed sun and gold inwound in \none. \n\nHow strangely silent, unaware, \nUnconscious quite of strength or \ngrace \n\n\n4 8 5 \n\nOr peril of her beauteous face, \n\nShe stood, the first-born of a race, \n\nA proud, new race, scarce yet begun. \nHow tall she stood, free debonair\xe2\x80\x94 \nHow stately and how supple, tall, \nThe time she loosened and let fall \nHer tossed and mighty Titian hair! \n\nII \n\nSo beautiful she was, as one \nFrom out some priceless picture- \nbook! \n\nYou could but love, you had no \nchoice \n\nBut love and turn again to look. \n\nHow young she was and yet how \nold!\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nRed orange ripened in the sun \nWhere never hand had reached as \nyet. \n\nThe calm strength of her lifted face, \nThe low notes of her tuneful voice, \nWere mint-marks of that wondrous \nrace \n\nBut scarcely born nor known as yet \nBeyond yon yellow hills that fret \nWarm sea-winds with their waving \npine. \n\nA princess of that royal line \nOf kings who came and silent passed, \nYet, passing, set bold, royal hand \nAnd mighty mint-marks on the land, \nAnd set it there to last and last, \n\nAs if in bronzen copper cast. \n\nIII \n\nHe, too, was born of men who wooed \nThe savage walks of solitude, \n\n\n\nof Creation \n\n\n& \xc2\xa3>ong \n\n\n486 \n\nAnd hewed close, clean to nature\xe2\x80\x99s \nlaws\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf men who knew not tears or fears, \n\nOf men full-sexed, yet men who \nknew \n\nNot sex till perfect manhood was. \nWhen men had thews of antique \nmen, \n\nAnd one stood with the strength of \nten; \n\nWhen men gat men who dared to \ndo; \n\nGat men of heart who dwelt apart, \nAs Adam dwelt, when giants grew \nAnd men as gods drew ample \nbreath\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs Adams with their thousand \n\nyears, \n\nEre drunkenness of sex had done \nThe silly world to willing death. \n\nIV \n\nWhat royal parentage, what true \nNobility, those men who knew \nThe light, who chased the yellow \nsun \n\nFrom sea to sea triumphantly, \n\nAnd westward fought and westward \nwon, \n\nAs never daring man had done. \n\nV \n\nThey housed with God upon the \nheight; \n\nCompanioned with the peak, the \npine; \n\nThey led the red-lit firing line. \n\nWalled \xe2\x80\x99round by room and room and \nroom, \n\n\nThey read God\xe2\x80\x99s open book at night, \nAnd drank His star-distilled per\xc2\xac \nfume; \n\nBy day they dared the trackless \nwest \n\nAnd chased the battling sun to rest. \n\nVI \n\nSuch sad, mad marches to the sea, \nSuch silent sacrifice, such trust! \n\nSuch months of marching, misery, \nSuch mountains heaped with heroes\xe2\x80\x99 \ndust! \n\nYet what stout thews the fearless \nfew \n\nWho won the sea at last, who knew \nThe cleansing fire and laid hold \nTo hammer out their house of gold! \n\nVII \n\nTheir cities zone their sea of seas, \nTheir white tents top the mountain\xe2\x80\x99s \ncrest. \n\nThe coward? He trenched not with \nthese. \n\nThe weakling? He was laid to rest. \nEach man stood forth a man, such \nmen \n\nAs God wrought not since time \nbegan, \n\nEach man a hero, lion each. \n\nBehold what length of limb, what \nlength \n\nOf life, of love, what daring reach \nTo deep-hived honeycomb! What \nstrength! \n\nHow clean his hands, how stout his \nheart \n\n\n\nill S>ong of Creation \n\n\nTo dare, to do, camp, court or \nmart. \n\nHe stands so tall, so clean, he hears \nThe morning music of the spheres. \n\nVIII \n\nHe loved her, feared her, far apart, \nHe kept his ways and dreamed his \ndreams; \n\nHe sang strange songs, he tuned his \nheart \n\nTo music of the pines that preach \nSuch sermons on such holy themes \nAs only he who climbs can reach. \n\nIX \n\nHe would not selfish pluck one \nrose \n\nTo wear upon his breast a day \nAnd let its perfume pass away \nWith any wind that comes or goes. \nWhy, he might walk God\xe2\x80\x99s garden \nthrough \n\nNor touch one bud nor fright one \nbird. \n\nThe music of the spheres he heard, \nThe harmony he breathed, he knew. \nHe never marred God\xe2\x80\x99s harmony \nWith one harsh thought. The fav\xc2\xac \nored few \n\nWho cared to live above the sod \nAnd lift glad faces up to God \nHe knew loved all as well as he, \n\nHad equal right to rose or tree. \n\nX \n\nAnd he must spare all to the day \nTheir willing feet should pass the way \n\n\n487 \n\nGod in His garden walked at eve. \nAnd as for weaklings who by turn \nWould jest or jeer, he could but \ngrieve, \n\nAnd pity all and silent say: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLet us lead forth, make fair the \nway; \n\nBy time and stress they, too, will \nlearn \n\nWhich way to live, to love, to \nturn.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXI \n\nThe long, lean Polar bear uprose, \nOutreached a paw, a bare, black \nnose, \n\nAs if to still hold hard control, \n\nBy glacier steep or ice-packed main, \nHis mighty battlemented snows. \n\nHe bared his yellow teeth in vain; \nThen backed against his bleak North \nPole \n\nHe sulked and shook his icy chain. \nAnd he who dared not pluck a rose, \nAs if in chorus with his pine, \n\nMust up and lead the battle line \nBeyond the awesome Arctic chine. \n\nXII \n\nNo airy sighs, no tales to tell; \n\nHe knew God is, that all is well, \nThat death is but a name, a date, \n\nA milestone by the stormy road, \nWhere you may lay aside your \nload \n\nAnd bow your face and rest and \nwait, \n\nDefying fear, defying fate. \n\n\n\n\n488 \n\n\n& S>ong of Creation \n\n\nXIII \n\nHow fair is San Francisco Bay \nWhen golden stars consort and \nwhen \n\nThe moon pours silver paths for \nmen, \n\nAnd care walks by the other way! \nHuge ships, black-bellied, lay below \nBroad, yellow flags from silken \nChind, \n\nRound, blood-red banners from Nip\xc2\xac \npon, \n\nLike to her sun at sudden dawn\xe2\x80\x94 \nBrave battle-ships as white as \nsnow, \n\nWith bannered stars tossed to the \nwind, \n\nWarm as a kiss when love is kind. \n\nXIV \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas twilight, such soft, twilight \nnight \n\nAs only Californians know, \n\nWhen faithful love is forth, and \nwhen \n\nThe Bay lies bathed in mellow \nlight; \n\nAnd perfumed breath and softened \nbreeze \n\nBlows far from Honolulu\xe2\x80\x99s seas\xe2\x80\x94 \nFrom sundown seas in afterglow\xe2\x80\x94 \nWhen Song sits at the feet of men \nAnd pipes, low-voiced as mated \ndove, \n\nFor love to measure step with love. \n\nXV \n\nAnd yet, for all the perfumed seas, \nThe peace, the silent harmonies, \n\n\nThe two stood mute, estranged \nbefore \n\nHer high-built, stately, opened door \nHigh up the terraced, plunging hill \nAs hushed as death, as white and \nstill. \n\nXVI \n\nThe moon, amid her yellow fleet, \nWith full, white sail, moved on and \non, \n\nAnd drew, as loving hearts are \ndrawn, \n\nAll seas of earth fast following, \n\nAs slow she sailed her sapphire seas. \nThen, as if pausing, pitying, \n\nShe poured down at their very \nfeet \n\nBroad silver ways to walk upon \nWhich way they would, or east or \n\nwest, \n\nWhich way they would, or worst or \nbest. \n\nXVII \n\nHer voice was low, low leaned her \nhead, \n\nHer two white hands all helpless \nprest \n\nAs if to hush her aching breast, \n\nAs if to bid her aching heart \nTo silent bear its bitter part, \n\nThe while she choking, sobbing said: \n\xe2\x80\x9c Then here, for all our poppy days, \nHere, here, the parting of the ways? \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXVIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAye, so you will it. Here divide \nThe ways, forever and a day. \n\n\n\n9 i?ong of Creation \n\n\n489 \n\n\nYou, you\xe2\x80\x94you women lead the way\xe2\x80\x94 \nYou lead where love hangs crucified, \nWhere love is laid prone in the \ndust\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere cunning, cold men mouth \nsweet lies \n\nAnd make pure love their mer\xc2\xac \nchandise. \n\nYou heedless lead to hollow lands \nOf bloodless hearts and nerveless \nhands; \n\nI will not rival such, nay, nay \nNot look on such, save with disgust. \xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 \n\nXIX \n\nHer head sank lower still: her hair, \nHer heavy hair, great skeins of gold, \nHung loosened, heedless, fold on fold, \nAs if she cared not, could not care; \nShe tried to speak but nothing said; \nShe could but press her aching \nheart, \n\nStep back a pace and shudder, \nstart, \n\nThe while she slowly moved her \nhead, \n\nAs if to say; but nothing said. \n\nXX \n\nHer silence lit his soul with rage, \n\nHe strode before her, forth and back, \n\nA lion strident in his cage, \n\nHard bound within his iron track. \n\nAnd then he paused, shook back his \nhead, \n\nAnd fronting her half savage said: \n\xe2\x80\x9cMy father, yours, each Argonaut \nAn Alexander, to this sea \nCame forth and conquered mightily. \n\n\nXXI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGod, what great loves, what lovers \nwhen \n\nThese westmost states were bom of \nmen, \n\nWhen giants gripped their hands and \ncame \n\nWith nerves of steel and souls of \nflame\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nCould you not wait within yon Gate, \nAs their loves dared to wait and \nwait? \n\nAn hundred thousand Didos sat \nAtlantic\xe2\x80\x99s sea-bank nor forgot, \n\nThe while their lovers westmost \nfought, \n\nBut patient sat as Dido, when \nShe waved ASneas back again \nAnd bravely dared to smile thereat. \n\nXXII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHear me! All Europe, rind to core, \nIs rotting, tumbling, base to top. \nWithhold the gold and silver prop \nOur dauntless fathers hewed of yore \nFrom yonder seamed Sierras\xe2\x80\x99 core, \nAnd such a toppling you may hear \nAs never fell on mortal ear. \n\nXXIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat\xe2\x80\x99s London town but sorrow\xe2\x80\x99s \ntown \n\nAnd sins, such as I dare not name? \nSuch thousands creeping up and \ndown \n\nIts dreary streets in draggled shame! \nWhat\xe2\x80\x99s London but a market pen\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n49 \xc2\xbb \n\n\nS3 g?ong of Creation \n\n\nIts hundred thousand lewd, rude \nmen? \n\nWhat\xe2\x80\x99s London but a town of stone, \nIts thousand thousand women prone? \n\nXXIV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat\xe2\x80\x99s Paris but a painted screen, \nA gaudy gauze that scant conceals \nThe sensuous nakedness between \nThe folds it but the more reveals? \nWhat\xe2\x80\x99s Paris but a circus, fair, \n\nTo tempt this west world\xe2\x80\x99s open \npurse \n\nWith tawdry trinkets, toys bizarre? \nAh, would that she were nothing \nworse! \n\nWhat\xe2\x80\x99s Paris but a piteous mart \nFor west-world mothers crazed to \ntrade \n\nSome silly, simpering, weak maid \nFor thread-bare, out-at-elbows \nrank\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo outworn, weak degenerate \nWhose bank is but the faro bank, \nWhose grave bounds all his real \nestate; \n\nWhose boast, whose only stock in \ntrade, \n\nA duel and a ruined maid! \n\nXXV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat\xe2\x80\x99s Berlin, Dresden, sorry \nRome, \n\nBut traps that take you unaware? \nBehold yon paintings, right at \nhome, \n\nWhere nature paints with patient \ncare \n\n\nSuch splendid pictures, sea and \nshore, \n\nAs all the world should bow before; \nSuch pictures hanging to the skies \nAgainst the walls of Paradise, \n\nFrom base to bastion, as should \nwake \n\nPiave\xe2\x80\x99s painter from the dust; \n\nSuch walls of color crowned in \nsnow, \n\nSuch steeps, such deeps, profoundly \nvast, \n\nAs old-time Art had died to know, \nAnd knowing, died content, as he \nWho looked from Nimo\xe2\x80\x99s steep to \nsee, \n\nJust once, the Promised Land, and \npassed! \n\nAnd yet, for all yon scene, this \n\nsea, \n\nYou will not bide, Penelope? \n\nXXVI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThen go, since you so will it, go! \nMy way lies yonder, forth and far \nBeneath yon gleaming northmost \nstar \n\nO\xe2\x80\x99er silent lands of trackless snow. \nLo, there leads duty, hope, as when \nThis westmost world demanded men: \nSuch men as led the firing line \nWhen blood ran free as festal wine; \nSuch men as when, fast side by side, \nOur fathers fought and fighting \ndied. \n\nXXVII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBut go\xe2\x80\x94good by! Go see again \nThe noisy circus, since you must; \n\n\n\n3 gbottg; of Creation \n\n\n491 \n\n\nIts painted women that disgust, \n\nIts nauseating monkey men; \n\nBut mark you, Beautiful, the moth \nThat loves that luring, sensuous \nlight\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNay, hear! I am not wilful, wroth; \n\nI love with such exceeding might, \n\nMy beautiful, my all, my life, \n\nI would not, could not take to wife \nMy lily tainted by the touch, \n\nThe breath, the very sight of such. \n\nXXVIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cShall I see leprous apes lean o\xe2\x80\x99er \nMy rose, breathe, touch it if they \nmay, \n\nWith breath that is a very stench, \nThe while they bow and bend before \nFamiliar, as with some weak wench, \nAnd smirk in double-meaning \nFrench? \n\nXXIX \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou shrink back angered? Well, \nadieu; \n\nWhat, not a hand? What, not a \ntouch? . . . \n\nMy crime is that I love too much, \nMy crime is that I love too true, \nLove you, love you, not part of \nyou\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYea, how much less the rose that \ndroops \n\nIn fevered halls where folly stoops! \nXXX \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYon splendid, triple, midnight star \nIs mine; I follow fast and sure, \n\n\nBecause it guides so far, so far \nFrom fevered follies that allure \nYour soul, your splendid, spotless \nsoul \n\nTo wreck where siren billows roll\xe2\x80\x94 \nGood night! What, turn aside your \nface \n\nThat I might never see again \nIts lifted glory and proud grace, \n\nAs some brave beacon light! Well, \nthen. . . . \n\nHa, ha! Let\xe2\x80\x99s laugh lest one may \nweep\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHow steep your hill seems, steeps how \nsteep! \n\nHow deep down seems the misty \ntown, \n\nHow lone, how dark, how distant \ndown! \n\nThe moon, too, turns her face, her \nlight, \n\nAs you have turned your face to\xc2\xac \nnight, \n\nAs you have turned your face from \nme, \n\nMy heartless, lost Penelope.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXXXI \n\nThen sudden up she tossed her \nhead, \n\nAnd, face to his face, proudly \nsaid: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cPenelope! To wait and weave! \nPenelope! To wait and wait, \n\nAs waits a dog within his gate; \n\nTo weave and unweave, grieve and \ngrieve, \n\nAs some weak harem favorite \nTight fenced from action, life, and \nlight! \n\n\n\n\n492 \n\n\n& H>ong of Creation \n\n\n\\ \n\n\nXXXII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhy, I should not have sat one \nday \n\nTo that dull-threaded, thudding \nloom, \n\nWith cowards crowding fast for \nroom \n\nTo say what brave men dare not \nsay! \n\nWhy, I had snatched down from the \nwall \n\nHis second sword that sad, first day \n\nAnd set its edge to end it all!\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHad hewn that loom to splinters, \nyea, \n\nHad slashed the warp, enmeshed the \nwoof \n\nAnd called that dog and put to \nproof \n\nEach silly suitor hounding me, \n\nThen hoisted sail and bent to sea! \n\nXXXIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cPenelope! Penelope! \n\nOf all fool tales in history \n\nI think this tale the foolishest! \n\nWhy I, the favored of that land, \n\nHad such fools come to seek my \nhand, \n\nHad ranged in line the sexless list \n\nAnd frankly answered with my fist! \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXXXIV \n\nHe passed. She paused. Each help\xc2\xac \nless hand \n\nFell down, fell heavy down as lead; \n\nShe tried but could not understand. \n\nAt last she raised once more her head, \n\n\nSet firm her lips, stepped back a pace, \nLooked long his far star in the face, \nStood stately, still, as fixed as fate, \nTill all the east flushed sudden red; \nThen as she turned within she said: \n\xe2\x80\x9cI cannot, will not, will not wait.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nHe passed, with set lips, lifted hand, \nHe passed the northmost golden zone \nOf dreamful, yellow poppy land, \n\nAnd silent passed, and so alone! \n\nBeyond the utmost Oregon, \n\nFar, far beyond and still beyond, \nWhere the crisp, clean waters rattle \nO\xe2\x80\x99er the sparkling, shining shale, \nWhere the dusky king, Seattle, \nLorded mountain, wold and vale, \nWhen he drave his galleon \nWhere scarce a battle-ship would \ndare, \n\nFar out, far out, or dusk or dawn, \n\nAn hundred leagues of sea to fare \nAll up or down or anywhere\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhose dusky, tall, breeched oarsmen \nate \n\nRed salmon of an hundred weight. \n\nHis huge white cedar ships were \nwrought \n\nBy flint and flame and ballasted \nWith slabs of virgin copper brought \nFrom hidden mountain mines and \nred \n\nWith dash and dot of native gold\xe2\x80\x94 \nTheir coin, their currency of old. \n\nHere white Tacoma smiles upon \nWild, wood-born blackness every\xc2\xac \nwhere ! \n\nHere hairy monsters prowl and howl \n\n\n\n\n3 \xc2\xa3?cmg of Creation \n\n\n493 \n\n\nTheir whole night long and nothing \ncare, \n\nWhite-fanged or mated cheek by- \njowl. \n\nHere nature is, here man may trace \nFirst footprints of his brutal race. \n\nOn, on, what wood-hung waters these; \nWhat baby cities crowd the seas! \nWhat British ships incessantly \nCross swords with stately shadow \ntrees! \n\nWhat white-maned stallions plunge \nand play \n\nAnd charge and challenge day by \nday \n\nThese baby cities of the wold \nThat sit their shifting sands of \ngold! \n\nWhat black firs climb the cloud- \ncapped steep \n\nAnd bid the bold invaders halt! \n\nWhat robust Britons mount and keep \nTheir topless walls of Esquimalt! \n\nOn, on, what inland seas of wonder, \nSo icy cold, so spicy keen, \n\nSo deep as fate, so clear, so clean! \nYou taste a tingling, spicy breath \nWhat time the avalanche\'s thunder \nGrinds balm and balsam woods to \ndeath \n\nAnd in these wood-walled seas of \nwonder \n\nSwift drowns his dread, earth-shak\xc2\xac \ning thunder; \n\nWhile here and there beneath the \ntrees \n\nWhite ice tents dash and dot the \nseas. \n\n\nBOOK SECOND \n\nCANTO I \n\nI \n\nHis triple star led on and on, \n\nLed up blue, bastioned Chilkoot Pass \nTo clouds, through clouds, above \nwhite clouds \n\nThat droop with snows like beaded \nstrouds\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAbove a world of gleaming glass, \nWhere loomed such cities of the skies \nAs only prophets look upon, \n\nAs only loving poets see, \n\nWith prophet ken of mystery. \n\nII \n\nWhat lone, white silence, left or \nright, \n\nWhat whiteness,something more than \nwhite! \n\nSuch steel blue whiteness, van or \nrear\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSuch silence as you could but hear \nAbove the sparkled, frosted rime, \n\nAs if the steely stars kept time \nAnd sang their mystic, mighty \nrune\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n. . . And oh, the icy, eerie moon! \n\nIII \n\nWhat temples, towers, tombs of \nwhite, \n\nWhite tombs, white tombstones, left \nand right, \n\nThat pushed the passing night \naside \n\n\n\n\n494 \n\n\n$3 g>ong of Creation \n\n\nToward where fallen stars had died\xe2\x80\x94 \nToward white tombs where dead stars \nlay\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhite tombs more white, more bright \nthan they; \n\nWhite tombs high heaped white \ntombs upon\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhite Ossa piled on Pelion! \n\nIV \n\nPale, steel stars flashed, rose, fell \nagain, \n\nThen paused, leaned low, as pitying, \nAnd leaning so they ceased to sing, \nThe while the moon, with mother \ncare, \n\nSlow rocked her silver rocking-chair. \n\nV \n\nNight here, mid-year, is as a span; \nThor comes, a gold-clad king of war, \nComes only as the great Thor can. \nThor storms the battlements and \nThor, \n\nFar leaping, clinging crowned upon, \nThrows battle hammer forth and \nback \n\nUntil the walls blaze in his track \nWith sparks and it is sudden dawn\xe2\x80\x94 \nDawn, sudden, sparkling, as a gem\xe2\x80\x94 \nA jeweled, frost-set diadem \nOf diamond, ruby, radium. \n\nVI \n\nTwo tallest, ice-tipt peaks take \nflame, \n\nTake yellow flame, take crimson, \npink, \n\n\nThen, ere you yet have time to \nthink, \n\nTake hues that never yet had name. \nThen turret, minaret, and tower, \n\nAs if to mark some mystic hour, \n\nOr ancient, lost Masonic sign, \n\nTake on a darkness like to night, \nDeep night below the yellow light \nThat erstwhile seemed some snow- \nwhite tomb. \n\nThen all is set in ghostly gloom, \n\nAs some dim-lighted, storied shrine\xe2\x80\x94 \nAs if the stars forget to stay \nAt court when comes the kingly day. \n\nVII \n\nAnd now the high-built shafts of \nbrass, \n\nGate posts that guard the tomb-set \npass, \n\nPut off their crowns, rich robes, and \nall \n\nTheir sudden, splendid light let fall; \nAnd tomb and minaret and tower \nAgain gleam as that midnight hour. \nWhile day, as scorning still to wait, \nDrives fiercely through the ice-built \n\xe2\x80\xa2 gate \n\nThat guards the Arctic\xe2\x80\x99s outer hem \nOf white, high-built Jerusalem. \n\nVIII \n\nTo see, to guess the great -white \nthrone, \n\nBehold Alaska\xe2\x80\x99s ice-built steeps \nWhere everlasting silence keeps \nAnd white death lives and lords \nalone: \n\nGo see God\xe2\x80\x99s river bom full grown\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n3 is>ong of Creation \n\n\nThe gold of this stream it is good: \nHere grows the Ark\xe2\x80\x99s white gopher \nwood\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA wide, white land, unnamed, un\xc2\xac \nknown, \n\nA land of mystery and moan. \n\nIX \n\nTall, trim, slim gopher trees incline, \nA leaning, laden, helpless copse, \n\nAnd moan and creak and intertwine \nTheir laden, twisted, tossing tops, \nAnd moan all night and moan all day \nWith winds that walk these steeps \nalway. \n\nX \n\nThe melancholy moose looks down, \n\nA tattered Capuchin in brown, \n\nA gaunt, ungainly, mateless monk, \nAn elephant without his trunk, \n\nWhile far, against the gleaming blue, \nHigh up a rock-topt ridge of snow, \nWhere scarce a dream would care to \ngo, \n\nClimb countless blue-clad caribou, \n\nIn endless line till lost to view. \n\nXI \n\nThe rent ice surges, grinds and groans, \nThen gorges, backs, and climbs the \nshore, \n\nThen breaks with sudden rage and \nroar \n\nAnd plunging, leaping, foams and \nmoans \n\nSwift down the surging, seething \nstream\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n495 \n\nMad hurdles of some monstrous \ndream. \n\nXII \n\nTo see God\xe2\x80\x99s river born full grown, \nTo see him burst the womb of earth \nAnd leap, a giant at his birth, \nThrough shoreless whitenesswithwild \nshout\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA shout so sharp, so cold, so dread \nYou see, feel, hear, his sheeted dead\xe2\x80\x94 \n\'Tis as to know, no longer doubt, \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Tis as to know the eld Unknown, \nAye, bow before the great white \nthrone. \n\nXIII \n\nWhite-hooded nuns, steeps gleaming \nwhite, \n\nLean o\xe2\x80\x99er his cradle, left and right, \nAnd weep the while he moans and \ncries \n\nAnd rends the earth with agonies; \nHigh ice-heaved summits where no \nthing \n\nHas yet set foot or flashed a wing\xe2\x80\x94 \nBare ice-built summits where the \nwhite \n\nWide world is but a sea of white\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x96\xa0 \nWhite kneeling nuns that kneel and \nfeed \n\nThe groaning ice god in his greed, \nAnd feed, forever feed, man\xe2\x80\x99s soul. \nThe full-grown river bounds right \non \n\nFrom out his birthplace tow\xe2\x80\x99rd the \nPole; \n\nHe knows no limit, no control: \n\n\n\n\n496 \n\n\n01 \xc2\xa3i>ong of Creation \n\n\nHe scarce is here till he is gone\xe2\x80\x94 \nThis sudden, mad, ice-bom Yukon. \n\nXIV \n\nBeyond white plunging Chilkoot \nPass, \n\nThat trackless Pass of stately tombs, \nOf midday glories, midnight glooms, \nOf morn\xe2\x80\x99s great gate posts, girt in \nbrass\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThis courtier, bom to nature\xe2\x80\x99s court, \nThis comrade, peer of peaks, still \nkept \n\nCompanion with the stars and leapt \nAnd laughed, the gliding sea of glass \nBeneath his feet in merry sport. \n\nXV \n\nThen mute red men, the quick canoe, \nThen o\xe2\x80\x99er the ice-born surge and \non, \n\nTill gleaming snows and steeps were \ngone, \n\nTill wide, deep waters, swirling, \nblue, \n\nReceived the sudden, swift canoe, \nThat leapt and laughed and laughing \nflew. \n\nXVI \n\nThen tall, lean trees, girth scarce a \nspan, \n\nWith moss-set, moss-hung banks of \ngold \n\nMost rich in hue, more gorgeous \nthan \n\nSilk carpetings of Turkestan: \n\nDeep yellow mosses, rich as gold, \n\n\nMore gorgeous than the eye of man \nHath seen save in this wonderland\xe2\x80\x94 \nThen flashing, tumbling, headlong \n\nwaves \n\nBelow white, ice-bound, ice-built \nshores\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe river swept a stream of white \nWhere basalt bluffs made day like \nnight. \n\nAnd then they heard no sound, the \noars \n\nWere idle, still as grassy graves. \n\nXVII \n\nAnd then the mad, tumultuous moon \nSpilt silver seas to plunge upon, \nPossessed the land, a sea of white. \nThat white moon rivaled the red \ndawn \n\nAnd slew the very name of night, \nAnd walked the grave of after\xc2\xac \nnoon\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat vast, vehement, stark mad \nmoon! \n\nXVIII \n\nThe wide, still waters, sedgy shore, \n\nA lank, brown wolf, a hungry howl, \n\nA lean and hungry midday moon; \nAnd then again the red man\xe2\x80\x99s oar\xe2\x80\x94 \nA wide-winged, mute, white Arctic \nowl, \n\nA black, red-crested, screeching loon \nThat knew not night from middle \nnoon, \n\nNor gold-robed sun from lean, lank \nmoon\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat crazy, black, red-crested loon. \n\n\n\n\n8 \xc2\xa3S>ong of Creation \n\n\n497 \n\n\nXIX \n\nSwift narrows now, and now and \nthen \n\nA broken boat with drowning men; \nThe wide, still marshes, dank as \ndeath, \n\nWhere honked the wild goose long \nand loud \n\nWith unabated, angry breath. \n\nBlack swallows twittered in a cloud \nAbove the broad mosquito marsh, \nThe wild goose honked, forlorn and \nharsh; \n\nHonked, fluttered, flew in warlike \nmood \n\nAbove her startled, myriad brood, \nThe while the melancholy moose, \n\nAs if to mock the honking goose, \nForsook his wall, plunged in the \nwave \n\nAnd sank, as sinking in a grave, \n\nSank to his eyes, his great, sad eyes, \nAnd watched, in wonder, mute \nsurprise, \n\nWatched broken barge and drowning \nmen \n\nDrift, swirl, then plunge the gorge \nagain. \n\nXX \n\nAgain that great white Arctic owl, \n\nAs pitying, it perched the bank \nWhere swirled a barge and swirling \nsank\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA drowned man swirling with white \nface \n\nLow lifting from the swift whirlpool. \nThat distant, doleful, hilltop howl\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat screaming, crimson-crested fool! \n\n\nAnd oh, that eerie, ice-made moon \nThat hung the cobalt tent of blue \nAnd looked straight down, to look \nyou through, \n\nThat dead man swirling in his place, \nThat honking, honking, huge gray \ngoose, \n\nThat solitary, sad-eyed moose, \n\nThat owl, that wolf, that human \nloon, \n\nAnd oh, that death\xe2\x80\x99s head, hideous \nmoon! \n\nXXI \n\nAnd this the Yukon, night by night, \nThe yellow Yukon, day by day; \n\nA land of death, vast, voiceless, \nwhite, \n\nA graveyard locked in ice-set clay, \n\nA graveyard to the Judgment Day. \n\nXXII \n\nOn, on. the swirling pool was gone, \nOn, on, the boat swept on, swept on, \nThat moon was as a thousand moons! \nTwo dead men swirled, one swept, \none sank\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTwo wolves, two owls, two yelling \nloons! \n\nAnd now three loons! How many \nmoons? \n\nHow many white owls perch the \nshore? \n\nThree lank, black wolves along the \nbank \n\nThat watch the drowned men swirl or \nsink! \n\nThree screeching loons along the \nbrink\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\n\n\n49 \xc2\xab \n\n\n!3 g>ong of Creation \n\n\nThat moon disputing with the dawm \n\nThat dared the yellow, dread \nY ukon! \n\nXXIII \n\nAnd why so like some lorn graveyard \n\nWhere only owls and loons may say \n\nAnd life goes by the other way? \n\nAye, why so hideous and so hard, \n\nSo deathly hard to look upon? \n\nBecause this cold, wild, dread Yukon, \n\nOf gold-sown banks, of sea white \nwaves, \n\nIs but one land, one sea of graves. \n\nXXIV \n\nBehold where bones hang either \nbank! \n\nGreat tusks of beasts before the \nflood \n\nThat floated here and floating sank\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\'Mid ice-locked walls and ice-hung \nsteep, \n\nWith muck and stone and moss and \nmud, \n\nWhere only death and darkness \nkeep! \n\nLo, this is death-land! Heap on \nheap, \n\nBy ice-strown strand or rock-built \nsteep, \n\nBy moss-brown walls, gray, green or \nblue, \n\nThe Yukon cleaves a graveyard \nthrough! \n\nThree thousand miles of tusk and \nbone, \n\nStrown here, strown there, all heed\xc2\xac \nless strown, \n\n\nAll strown and sown just as they lay \nThat time the fearful deluge passed, \nSafe locked in ices to the last, \n\nSafe locked, as records laid away, \n\nTo wait, to wait, the Judgment Day. \n\nXXV \n\nHe landed, pierced the ice-locked \nearth, \n\nHe burned it to the very bone\xe2\x80\x94 \nBurned and laid bare the deep bed\xc2\xac \nstone \n\nPlaced at the building, at the birth \nOf morn, and here, there, everywhere, \nSuch bones of bison, mastodon! \n\nSuch tusky monsters without name! \nGreat ice-bound bones with flesh \nscarce gone, \n\nSo fresh the wild dogs nightly came \nTo fight about and feast upon. \n\nAnd gold along the bedrock lay \nSo bounteous below the bones \nMen barely need to turn the stones \nTo fill their skins, within the day, \nWith rich, red gold and go their way. \n\nXXVI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe gold of that place it is good.\xe2\x80\x9d \nLo, here God laid the Paradise! \n\nLo. here each witness of the flood, \nTight jailed in ice eternal, lies \nTo wait the bailiff\xe2\x80\x99s chorus call: \n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98Come into court, come one, come \nall!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nBut why so cold, so deathly cold \nThe battered beasts, the scattered \ngold, \n\nThe pleasant trees of Paradise, \n\nDeep locked in everlasting ice? \n\n\n\n\n& iking of Creation 499 \n\n\nXXVII \n\nOyez! the red man\xe2\x80\x99s simple tale; \n\nHe says that once, o\xe2\x80\x99er hill and vale \nRipe fruits hung ready all the year; \nThat man knew neither frost nor \nfear, \n\nThat bison wallowed to the eyes \nIn grass, that palm trees brushed the \nskies \n\nWhere birds made music all day long. \nThat then a great chief shaped a \nspear \n\nBone-tipt and sharp and long and \nstrong, \n\nAnd made a deadly moon-shaped \nbow, \n\nAnd then a flint-tipt arrow wrought. \nThen cunning, snake-like, creeping \nlow, \n\nAs creeps a cruel cat, he sought \nAnd in sheer wantonness he shot \nA large-eyed, trusting, silly roe. \n\nAnd then, exultant, crazed, he slew \nTen bison, ten tame bear and, too, \n\nA harmless, long-limbed, shambling \nmoose; \n\nThat then the smell of blood let loose \nThe passions of all men and all \nUprose and slew, or great or small\xe2\x80\x94 \nUprose and slew till hot midday \nAll four-foot creatures in their way; \nThen proud, defiant, every one, \nShook his red spear-point at the sun. \n\nXXVIII \n\nThen God said, through a mist of \ntears, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat would ye, braves made mad \nwith blood?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nAnd then they shook their bone-tipt \nspears \n\nAnd cried, \xe2\x80\x9cThe sun it is not good! \nToo hot the sun, too long the \nday; \n\nBreak off and throw the end away! \xe2\x80\x9d \nXXIX \n\nThen God, most angered instantly, \nDrew down the day from out the sky \nAnd brake the day across his knee \nAnd hurled the fragments hot and \nhigh \n\nAnd far down till they fell upon \nThe bronzing waves of dread Yukon, \nNor spared the red men one dim ray \nOf light to lead them on their way. \n\nXXX \n\nAnd then the red men filled the lands \nWith wailing for just one faint ray \nOf light to guide them home that \nthey \n\nMight wash and cleanse their blood- \nred hands. \n\nXXXI \n\nBut God said, \xe2\x80\x9cYonder, far away \nDown yon Yukon, your broken day! \nGo gather it from out the night! \nThat fitful, fearful Northern Light, \nIs all that ye shall ever know \nTo guide henceforth the way you go. \n\nXXXII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou shall not see my face again, \nBut you shall see cold death instead. \n\n\n\n\na g>ong of Creation \n\n\n500 \n\nThis land hath sinned, this land is \ndead; \n\nYou drenched your beauteous land in \nblood, \n\nAnd now behold the wild, white rain \nShall fall until a drowning flood \nShall fill all things above, below, \n\nTo wash away the smell of blood, \nAnd birds shall die and beasts be \ndumb, \n\nWhen cold, the cold of death shall \ncome \n\nAnd weave a piteous shroud of snow, \nIn graveyard silence, ever so.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXXXIII \n\nThe red men say that then the rain \nDrowned all the fires of the world, \nThen drowned the fires of the moon; \nThat then the sun came not again, \nSave in the middle summer noon, \nWhen hot, red lances they had hurled \nAre hurled at them like fiery rain, \nTill Yukon rages like a main. \n\nXXXIV \n\nWith bated breath these skin-clad \nmen \n\nTell why the big-nosed moose fore\xc2\xac \nknew \n\nThe flood; how, bandy-legged, he \nflew \n\nFar up high Saint Elias: how \nDown in the slope of his left horn, \nThe raven rested, night and morn; \nHow, in the hollow of his right, \n\nThe dove-hued moose-bird nestled \nlow \n\n\nUntil they touched the utmost \nheight; \n\nHow dove and raven soon took \nflight \n\nAnd winged them forth and far \naway; \n\nBut how the moose did stay and stay, \nHis great sad eyes all wet with tears, \nAnd keep his steeps two thousand \nyears. \n\nXXXV \n\nHe heard the half nude red men say, \nClose huddled to the flame at night, \nHow in the hollow of a palm \nA woman and a water rat, \n\nThat dreadful, darkened, drowning \nday, \n\nCrept close and nestled in their \nfright; \n\nAnd how a bear, tame as a lamb, \nCame to them in the tree and sat \nThe long, long drift-time to the sea, \nThe while the wooing water rat \nMade love to her incessantly; \n\nHow then the bear became a priest \nAnd married them at last; how then \nTo them was bom the shortest, \nleast \n\nOf all the children of all men, \n\nAnd yet most cunning and most \nbrave \n\nOf all who dare the bleak north \nwave. \n\nXXXVI \n\nWhat tales of tropic fruit! No tale \nBut of some soft, sweet sensuous \nclime, \n\n\n\n& sl>ong of Creation \n\n\n501 \n\n\nOf love and lovely maiden\xe2\x80\x99s trust\xe2\x80\x94 \nSome peopled, pleasant, palm-hung \nvale \n\nOf everlasting summer time\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd, then the deadly sin of lust; \nForbidden fruit, shame and disgust! \n\nXXXVII \n\nAnd whence the story of it all, \n\nThe palm land, love land and the \nfall? \n\nWas\xe2\x80\x99t born of ages of desire \nFrom such sad children of the snows \nFor something fairer, better, higher? \nGod knows, God knows, God only \nknows. \n\nBut I should say, hand laid to heart \nAnd head made bare, as I would \nswear, \n\nThese piteous, sad-faced children \nthere \n\nKnew Eden, the expulsion, knew \nThe deluge, knew the deluge true! \n\nXXXVIII \n\nAnd what though this be surely so? \nJust this: I know, as all men know, \nAs few before this surely knew\xe2\x80\x94 \nJust this, and count it great or \nsmall, \n\nThe best of you or worst of you, \n\nThe Bible, lid to lid, is true! \n\nCANTO II \n\nI \n\nThe year waxed weary, gouty, old; \nThe crisp days dwindled to a span, \n\n\nThe dying year it fell as cold \nAs dead feet of a dying man. \n\nThe hard, long, weary work was \ndone, \n\nThe dark, deep pits probed to the \nbone, \n\nAnd each had just one tale to tell. \nTen thousand argonauts as one, \nAgnostic, Christian, infidel, \n\nAll said, despite of creed or class. \n\nAll said as one, \xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98As surely as \nThe Bible is, the deluge was, \nWhate\xe2\x80\x99er the curse, whate\xe2\x80\x99er the \ncause!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nII \n\nWhat merry men these miners were, \nAnd mighty in their pent-up force! \nThey wrought for her, they fought \nfor her, \n\nFor her alone, or night or day, \n\nIn tent or camp, their one discourse \nThe Love three thousand miles away, \nThe Love who waked to watch and \npray. \n\nIII \n\nYet rude were they and brutal they, \nTheir love a blended love and lust, \nBom of this later, loveless day; \n\nYou could but love them for their \ntruth, \n\nTheir frankness and their fiery youth, \nAnd yet turn from them in disgust, \nTo loathe, to pity, and mistrust. \n\nIV \n\nThe Siege of Troy knew scarce such \nmen, \n\n\n\n502 \n\n\na il>ong of Creation \n\n\nSuch hardy, daring men as they, \n\nThe coward had not voyaged then, \nThe weak had died upon the way. \n\nV \n\nThey sang, they sang some like to \nthis, \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I say risk all for one warm kiss; \n\nI say \xe2\x80\x99twere better risk, the fall, \n\nLike Romeo, to venture all \nAnd boldly climb to deadly bliss." \n\nVI \n\nI like that savage, Sabine way; \n\nWhat mighty minstrels came of it! \nTheir songs are ringing to this day, \nThe bravest ever sung or writ; \n\nTheir loves the love of Juliet, \n\nOf Portia, Desdemona, yea, \n\nThe old true loves are living yet; \nAnd we, we love, we weep, we sigh, \nIn love with loves that will not die. \n\nVII \n\nThen take her, lover, sword in hand, \nHot-blooded and red-handed, clasp \nHer sudden, stormy, tall and grand, \nAnd lift her in your iron grasp \nAnd kiss her, kiss her till she cries \nFrom keen, sweet, happy, killing \npain. \n\nAye, kiss her till she seeming dies; \nAye, kiss her till she dies, and then, \nWhy kiss her back to life again! \n\nVIII \n\n1 love all things that truly love, \n\nI love the low-voiced cooing dove \n\n\nIn wooing time, he woos so true, \n\nHis soft notes fall so overfull \nOf love they thrill me through and \nthrough. \n\nBut when the thunder-throated bull \nUpheaves his head and shakes the \nair \n\nWith eloquence and battle\xe2\x80\x99s blare, \nAnd roars and tears the earth to \nwoo, \n\nI like his warlike wooing too. \n\nIX \n\nYet best to love that lover is \nWho loves all things beneath the \nsun, \n\nThen finds all fair things in just one, \nAnd finds all fortune in one kiss. \n\nX \n\nHow wisely born, how more than \nwise, \n\nHow wisely learned must be that soul \nWho loves all earth, all Paradise, \n\nAll people, places, pole to pole, \n\nYet in one kiss includes the whole! \n\nXI \n\nGive me a lover ever bold, \n\nA lover clean, keen, sword in hand, \nLike to those white-plumed knights of \nold \n\nWhose loves held honor in the land; \nThose men with hot blood in their \nveins \n\nAnd hot, swift, iron hand to kill\xe2\x80\x94 \nThose women loving well the chains \n\n\n\n9 \xc2\xa3?ong of Creation \n\n\n503 \n\n\nThat bound them fast against their \nwill; \n\nYet loved and lived\xe2\x80\x94are living still. \n\nXII \n\nEnough: the bronzed man launched \nhis boat, \n\nA faithful dwarf clutched at the oar, \nAnd Boreas began to roar \nAs if to break his burly throat. \n\nXIII \n\nDown, down by basalt palisade, \nDown, down by bleakest ice-piled \nisle! \n\nThe mute, dwarf water rat afraid ? \nThe water rat it could but smile \nTo hear the cold, wild waters roar \nAgainst his savage Arctic shore. \n\nXIV \n\nBut now he listened, gave a shout, \n\nA startled cry, akin to fear. \n\nThe hand of God had reached swift \nout \n\nAnd locked, as in an iron vise, \n\nThe whole white world in blue-black \nice, \n\nAnd daylight scarce seemed living \nmore. \n\nThe day, the year, the world, lay \ndead. \n\nWith star-tipt candles foot and \nhead; \n\nGreat stars, that burn a whole half \nyear, \n\nStood forth, five-horned, and near, so \nnear! \n\n\nXV \n\nThe ghost-white day scarce drew a \nbreath, \n\nThe dying day shrank to a span; \nThere was no life save that of man \nAnd woolly dogs\xe2\x80\x94man, dogs, and \ndeath! \n\nThe sun, a mass of molten gold, \nSurged feebly up, then sudden rolled \nRight back as in a beaten track \nAnd left the white world to the moon \nAnd five-homed stars of gleaming \ngold; \n\nSuch stars as sang in silent rune\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd oh, the cold, such killing cold \nAs few have felt and none have told! \n\nXVI \n\nAnd now he knew the last dim light \nLay on yon ice-shaft, steep and far, \nWhere stood one bold, triumphant \nstar, \n\nAnd he would dare the gleaming \nheight, \n\nWould see the death-bed of the day, \nWhatever fate might make of it. \n\nA foolish thing, yet were it fit \nThat he who dared to love, to say, \nTo live, should look the last of Light \nFull in the face, then go his way \nAll silent into lasting night \nAs he had left her, on her height? \n\nXVII \n\nHe climbed, he climbed, he neared at \nlast \n\nThe Golden Fleece of flitting Light! \nW*hen sudden as an eagle\xe2\x80\x99s flight\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n504 \n\n\n& H>ottg of Creation \n\n\nAn eagle frightened from its nest \nThat crowns the topmost, rock-reared \ncrest\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt swooped, it drooped, it, dying, \npassed. \n\nXVIII \n\nAs when some sunny, poppy day \nThe Mariposa scatters gold \nThe while he takes his happy flight, \nLike star dust when the day is old, \nSo passed his Light and all was night. \n\nXIX \n\nSome star-like scattered flecks of gold \nFlashed from the far and fading \nwings \n\nThat keptthe sky, like living things\xe2\x80\x94 \nThen oh, the cold, the cruel cold! \n\nThe light, the life of him had past, \nThe spirit of the day had fled; \n\nThe lover of God\xe2\x80\x99s first-born, Light, \nDescended, mourning for his dead. \nThe last of light, the very last \nHe deemed that he should look upon \nUntil God\xe2\x80\x99s everlasting dawn \nBeyond this dread half year of night \nHad fled forever from his sight. \n\nXX \n\n\'Twas death to go, thrice death to \nstay. \n\nTurn back, go southward, seek the \nsun? \n\nYea, better die in search of light, \n\nDie boldly, face set forth for day, \n\nAs many dauntless men have done, \n\n\nThan wail at fate and house with \nnight. \n\nXXI \n\nSome woolly dogs, a low, dwarf- \nchief\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis trained thews stood him now in \nstead\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nBroad snow-shoes, skins, a laden \nsled.\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat moon was as a brazen thief \nThat dares to mock, laugh, and \ncarouse! \n\nIt followed, followed everywhere; \n\nHe hid his face, that moon was there. \nSuch painful light, such piteous pain! \nIt broke into his very brain, \n\nAs breaks a burglar in a house. \n\nXXII \n\nScarce seen, a change came, slow, so \nslow! \n\nThat moon sank slowly out of sight, \nThe lower world of gleaming white \nTook on a somber band of woe, \n\nA wall of umber \xe2\x80\x99round about, \nvSo dim at first you could but doubt, \nThat change there was, day after \nday\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNay, nay, not day, I can but say \nSleep after sleep, sleep after sleep\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat band grew darker, deep, more \n\ndeep, \n\nUntil there girt a dense dark wall, \n\nA low, black wall of ebon hue, \nOppressive, deathlike as a pall; \n\nIt walked with you, close compassed \nyou, \n\n\n\n\n8 ibong of Creation \n\n\n505 \n\n\nWhile not one thread of light shot \nthrough. \n\nAbove the black a gird of brown \nSoft blending into amber hue, \n\nAnd then from out the cobalt blue \nGreat, massive, golden stars swung \ndown \n\nLike tow\xe2\x80\x99rd lights of mountain town. \n\nXXIII \n\nAt last the moon moved gaunt and \nslow, \n\nHalf veiled her hollow, hungry face \nIn amber, kept unsteady pace \nHigh up her star-set wall of snow, \nNor scarcely deigned to look below. \n\nXXIV \n\nThen far beyond, above the night, \nAbove tihe umber, amber hue, \n\nAbove the lean moon\xe2\x80\x99s blare and \nblight, \n\nOne mighty ice shaft shimmered \nthrough; \n\nOne gleaming peak, as white, as lone \nAs you could think the great white \nthrone \n\nStood up against the cobalt blue, \nAnd kept companion with the stars \nDespite dusk walls or umber bars. \n\nXXV \n\nThat wall, that hideous prison wall, \nThat blackness, umber, amber hue, \n\nIt cumbers you, encircles you, \n\nIt mantles as a hearse\xe2\x80\x99s pall. \n\nYour eyes lift to the star-pricked \nsky, \n\n\nYou lift your frosted face, you pray \nThat e\xe2\x80\x99en the sickly moon might \nstay \n\nA time, if but to see you die. \n\nYet how it blinds you, body, soul! \nYou can no longer keep control. \n\nYour feebled senses fall astray: \n\nYou cannot think, you dare not say. \n\nXXVI \n\nAnd now such under gleam of light, \nSuch blazing, flaming, frightful glare; \nSuch sudden, deadly, lightning gleam, \nSome like a monstrous, mad night\xc2\xac \nmare\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSuch hideous light, born of such \nnight! \n\nIt burst, with changeful interval, \nFrom out the ice beneath the wall, \nFrom out the groaning, surging \nstream \n\nThat breathed, or tried to breathe, in \nvain, \n\nThat struggled, strangled, shrieked \nwith pain! \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas as if he of Patmos read, \n\nSat by with burning pen and said, \nWith piteous and prophetic voice, \n\xe2\x80\x9cThe earth shall pass with rustling \nnoise.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXXVII \n\nSwift out the ice-crack, fiery red, \nSwift up the umber wall and back, \nThen \xe2\x80\x99round and \xe2\x80\x99round, up, down \nand back, \n\nThe sudden lightning sped and sped, \nUntil the walls hung burnished red, \nAn instant red, then yellow, white, \n\n\n\n5\xc2\xb06 \n\n\n3 H>ong of Creation \n\n\nWith something more than earthly- \nlight. \n\nXXVIII \n\nIt blinds your eyes until they burn, \nUntil you dare not look or turn, \n\nBut think of him who saw and told \nThe story of, the glory of, \n\nThe jasper walls, the streets of gold, \nWhere trails God\xe2\x80\x99s unseen garments\xe2\x80\x99 \nhem \n\nThe holy New Jerusalem. \n\nXXIX \n\nThen while he trudged he tried to \nthink\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd then another sudden light, \n\nOr red or yellow, blue or white, \n\nBurst up from out the very brink \nOf where he passed and, left or right, \nIt burnished yet again the walls! \nThen up, straight up against the stars \nThat seemed as jostled, rent with \njars! \n\nThen silent night. Where next and \nwhen? \n\nThen blank, black interval, and \nthen\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd oh, those blank, dread intervals, \nThis writing on the umber walls! \n\nXXX \n\nThe blazing Borealis passed, \n\nThe umber walls fell down at last \nAnd left the great cathedral stars,\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe five-homed stars, blent, burn\xc2\xac \nished bars \n\n\nOf gold, red, gleaming, blinding \ngold\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd still the cold, the killing cold! \n\nXXXI \n\nThe moon resumed all heaven now, \nShe shepherded the stars below \nAlong her wide, white steeps of snow, \nNor stooped nor rested, where or how. \nShe bared her full white breast, she \ndared \n\nThe sun e\xe2\x80\x99er show his face again. \n\nShe seemed to know no change, she \nkept \n\nCarousal constantly, nor slept, \n\nNor turned aside a breath, nor \nspared \n\nThe fearful meaning, the mad pain, \nThe weary eyes, the poor, dazed brain \nThat came at last to feel, to see. \n\nThe dread, dead touch of lunacy. \n\nXXXII \n\nHow loud the silence! Oh, how loud! \nHow more than beautiful the shroud \nOf dead Light in the moon-mad north \nWhen great torch-tipping stars stand \nforth \n\nAbove the black, slow-moving pall \nAs at some fearful funeral! \n\nXXXIII \n\n9 \n\nThe moon blares as mad trumpets \nblare \n\nTo marshaled warriors long and loud: \nThe cobalt blue knows not a cloud, \nBut oh, beware that moon, beware \n\n\nj \n\n\n\n& \xc2\xa7j>otig of Creation \n\n\n507 \n\n\nHer ghostly, graveyard, moon-mad \nstare! \n\nXXXIV \n\nBewarewhite silence more than white! \nBeware the five-horned starry rune; \nBeware the groaning gorge below; \nBeware the wide, white world of \nsnow, \n\nWhere trees hang white as hooded \nnun\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNo thing not white, not one, not one, \nBut most beware that mad white \nmoon. \n\nXXXV \n\nAll day, all day, all night, all night\xe2\x80\x94 \nNay, nay, not yet or night or day. \nJust whiteness, whiteness, ghastly \nwhite \n\nMade doubly white by that mad moon \nAnd strange stars jangled out of tune! \n\nXXXVI \n\nAt last he saw, or seemed to see, \nAbove, beyond, another world. \n\nFar up the ice-hung path there curled \nA red-veined cloud, a canopy \nThat topt the fearful ice-built peak \nThat seemed to prop the very porch \nOf God\xe2\x80\x99s house; then, as if a torch \nBurned fierce, there flashed a fiery \nstreak, \n\nA flush, a blush on heaven\xe2\x80\x99s cheek! \n\n* \n\nXXXVII \n\nThe dogs sat down, men sat the sled \nAnd watched the flush, the blush of \nred. \n\n\nThe little woolly dogs they knew, \n\nYet scarce knew what they were \nabout. \n\nThey thrust their noses up and out, \nThey drank the Light, what else to \ndo? \n\nTheir little feet, so worn, so true, \nCould scarce keep quiet for delight. \nThey knew, they knew, how much \nthey knew, \n\nThe mighty breaking up of night! \nTheir bright eyes sparkled with such \njoy \n\nThat they at last should see loved \nLight! \n\nThe tandem sudden broke all rule, \nSwung back, each leaping like a boy \nLet loose from some dark, ugly \nschool\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLeaped up and tried to lick his \nhand\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nStood up as happy children stand. \nXXXVIII \n\nHow tenderly God\xe2\x80\x99s finger set \nHis crimson flower on that height \nAbove the battered walls of night! \n\nA little space it flourished yet, \n\nAnd then His angel, His first-born, \nBurst through, as on that primal \nmorn! \n\nXXXIX \n\nHis right hand held a sword of flame, \nHis left hand javelins of light; \n\nAnd swift down, down, right down he \ncame! \n\nHis bright wings wide as the wide \nsky, \n\n\n\nm ibcmg of Creation \n\n\n508 \n\nAnd right and left, and hip and thigh, \nHe smote the marshaled hosts of \nnight \n\nWith all his majesty and might. \n\nXL \n\nThe scared moon paled and she forgot \nHer pomp and pride and turned to \nfly. \n\nThe ice-heaved palisades, the high \nHeaved peaks that propped God\xe2\x80\x99s \nhouse, the stars \n\nThat flamed above the prison bars, \nAs battle stars with fury fraught, \nWere burned to ruin and were not. \n\nXLI \n\nThen glad earth shook her raiment \nwide, \n\nAnd free and far, and stood up tall, \nAs some proud woman, satisfied, \nForgets, and yet remembers all. \n\nShe stood exultant, till her form, \n\nA queen above some battle storm, \nBlazed with the glory, the delight \nOf battle with the hosts of night. \nAnd night was broken. Light at last \nLay on the Yukon. Night had \npassed. \n\nCANTO III \n\nI \n\nThe days grew longer, stronger, yet \nThe strong man grew then as a child. \nToo hard the tension and too wild \nThe terror; he could not forget. \n\nAnd now at last when Light was, now \n\n\nHe could not see nor lift his eyes, \nNor lift a hand in any wise. \n\nIt was as when a race is won \nBy some strong favorite athlete, \nThen sinks down dying at your feet. \n\nII \n\nThe red chief led him on and on \nTo his high lodge by gorged Yukon \nAnd housed him kindly as his own, \nBlind, broken, dazed, and so alone! \n\nIII \n\nThe low bark lodge was desolate, \n\nAnd deathly cold by night, by day. \nPoor, hungered children of the snows, \nThey heaped the fire as he froze, \n\nDid all they could, yet what could \nthey \n\nBut pity his most piteous fate \nAnd pitying, silent, watch and wait? \n\nIV \n\nHis face was ever to the wall \nOr buried in his skins; the light\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe could not bear the light of day \nNor bear the heaped-up flame at \nnight\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nNot bear one touch of light at all. \nThere are no pains, no sharp death \nthroes, \n\nSo dread as blindness of the snows. \n\nV \n\nHe thought of home, he thought of \nher, \n\n\nj \n\n\n\n3 \xc2\xa3?ons of Creation \n\n\n509 \n\n\nThought most of her, and pictured \nhow \n\nShe walked in springtime splendor \nwhere \n\nWarm sea winds twined her heavy \nhair \n\nIn great Greek braids piled fold on \nfold, \n\nOr loosely blown, as poppy\xe2\x80\x99s gold. \n\nVI \n\nAnd then he thought of her afar \nMid follies, and his soul at war \nWith self, self will, and iron fate \nGrew as a blackened thing of hate! \nAnd then he prayed forgiveness, \nprayed \n\nAs one in sin, and sore afraid. \n\nVII \n\nAnd praying so he dreamed, he \ndreamed \n\nShe sat there looking in his face, \n\nSat silent by in that dread place, \n\nSat silent weeping, so it seemed, \n\nSat still, sat weeping silently. \n\nHe saw her tears and yet he knew, \nThe blind man knew he could not see, \nScarce hope to see for years and \nyears. \n\nAnd then he seemed to hear her \ntears, \n\nTo hear them steal her loose hair \nthrough \n\nAnd gently fall, as falls the dew \nAnd still, small rain of summer \nmom, \n\nThat makes for harvests, yellow corn. \n\n\nVIII \n\nHe raised his hand, he touched her \nhair; \n\nHe did not start, he did not say; \n\nIt seemed that she was surely there; \nHe only questioned would she stay. \nHow glad he was! Why, now, what \ncare \n\nFor hunger, blindness, blinding pain, \nCould he but touch her hair again? \n\nIX \n\nHe heard her rise, give quick com\xc2\xac \nmand \n\nTo patient, skin-clad, savage men \nTo heap the wood, come, go, and then \nGo feed their woolly friends at hand, \nTo bring fresh stores, still heap fresh \nflame, \n\nThen go, then come, as morning came. \n\nX \n\nAll seemed so real! He dared not \nstir, \n\nLest he might break this dream of her. \nHow holy, holy sweet her voice, \n\nLike benediction o\xe2\x80\x99er the dead! \n\nSo glad he was, so grateful he, \n\nAnd thanking God most fervently, \nForgot his plight, forgot his pain, \nAnd deep at heart did he rejoice; \n\nYet prayed he might not wake again \nTo peril, blindness, piteous pain. \n\nXI \n\nThen, as he hid his face, she came \nAnd leaned quite near and took his \nhand. \n\n\n\ng H>ong of Creation \n\n\n5 io \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas cold, \xe2\x80\x99twas very cold, \'twas \nthin \n\nAnd bony, black, just skin and bone, \nJust bone and wrinkled mummy-skin. \nShe held it out against the flame, \nThen pressed it with her two warm \nhands. \n\nIt seemed as she could feel the sands \nOf life slow sift to shadow land. \n\nClose on his hurt eyes she laid hand, \nThe while she, wearied, nodded, \nslept. \n\nThe flame burned low, the wind\xe2\x80\x99s wild \nmoan \n\nAwakened her. Cold as a stone \nHis starved form, shrunken to a \nshade, \n\nStretched in the darkness, and, dis\xc2\xac \nmayed, \n\nShe put the robes back and she crept \nClose down beside and softly laid \nHer warm, strong form to his and \nslept, \n\nThe while her dusk men vigil kept. \n\nXII \n\nThat long, long night, that needed \nrest! \n\nThen flames at mom; her precious \nstore \n\nHeaped hard by on the earthen floor \nWhile mute brown men, starved men, \nstood by \n\nTo wait the slightest breath or sigh \nOr sign of wakening request\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhat silence, patience, tmst! What \nrest! \n\nOf all good things, I say the best \nBeneath God\xe2\x80\x99s sun is rest, and\xe2\x80\x94rest. \n\n\nXIII \n\nShe slowly wakened from her sleep \nTo find him sleeping, silent, deep! \nWhat food for all, what feast for all, \nTo chief or slave, or great or small, \nRanged round the flaming, glowing \nheap\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSuch lank, lean flank, such hungry \nzest! \n\nSuch reach of limb, such rest, such \nrest! \n\nXIV \n\nWhy, he had gone, had gladly gone \nIn quest of his eternal Light, \n\nBeyond all dolours, that dread night, \nHad she not reached her hand and \ndrawn, \n\nHard drawn him back and held him \nso, \n\nHeld him so hard he could not go. \n\nAnd yet he lingered by the brink, \n\nAs dulled and dazed as you can \nthink\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLong, long he lingered, helpless lay, \n\nA babe, a broken pot of clay. \n\nXV \n\nShe made a broader couch, she sat \nAll day beside and held his hand \nLest he might sudden slip away. \n\nAnd she all night beside him lay, \nLest these last grains of sinking sand \nMight in the still night slip and pass. \nWith none at hand to turn the glass. \n\n\n) \n\n\n\n\n3 il>cmg of Creation \n\n\nXVI \n\nAnd did the red men prate thereat? \nWhy, they had laid them down and \ndied \n\nFor her, those simple dusky sons \nOf nature, children of the snows, \nBom where the ice-bound river runs, \nBorn where the Arctic torrent flows. \nLook you for evil? Look for ill \nOr good, you find just what you will. \n\nXVII \n\nHe spake no more than babe might \nspeak: \n\nHis eyes were as the kitten\xe2\x80\x99s eyes \nThat open slowly with surprise \nThen close as if to sleep a week; \n\nBut still he held, as if he knew, \n\nThe warm, strong hand, the healthful \nhand, \n\nThe dauntless, daring hand and true, \nNor, while he waked, would his un\xc2\xac \nfold, \n\nBut held, as drowning man might \nhold \n\nWho hopes no more of life or land, \n\nBut, as from habit, clutches hand. \n\nXVIII \n\nOnce, as she thought he surely slept, \nShe slowly drew herself aside, \n\nHe thrust his hand as terrified, \nCaught back her hand, kissed it and \nwept. \n\nThen she, too, wept, wept tears like \nrain, \n\nHer first warm, welcome happy tears, \n\n\n511 \n\nDrew in her breath, put by her fears \nAnd knew she had not dared in vain. \n\nXIX \n\nYet day by day, hard on the brink \nHe hung with half-averted head, \n\nAs silent, listless, as the dead, \n\nAs sad to see as you can think. \n\nTheir lorn lodge sat the terraced \nsteep \n\nAbove the wide, wild, groaning \nstream \n\nThat, like some monster in a dream, \nCried out in broken, breathless sleep; \nAnd looking down, night after night, \nShe saw leap forth that sword of \nLight. \n\nXX \n\nShe guessed, she knew the flaming \nsword \n\nThat turned which way to watch and \nward \n\nAnd guard the wall and ever guard \nThe Tree of Life, as it is writ. \n\nThe hand, the hilt, she could not see, \nNor yet the true, life-giving tree, \n\nNor cherubim that cherished it, \n\nBut yet she saw the flaming sword, \nAs written in the Book, the Word. \n\nXXI \n\nShe held his hana, he did not stir, \nAnd as she nightly sat and sat, \n\nShe silent gazed and guessed thereat. \nHis fancies seemed to come to her; \nShe could not see the Tree of Life, \nHow fair it grew or where it grew, \n\n\n\n\n\n512 \n\n\n8 gpottg of Creation \n\n\nBut this she knew and surely knew, \nThat gleaming sword meant holy \nstrife \n\nTo keep and guard the Tree of Life. \n\nXXII \n\nOh, flaming sword, rest not nor rust! \nThe Tree of Life is hewn and torn, \nThe Tree of Life is bowed and worn, \nThe Tree of Life is in the dust. \n\nHew brute man down, hew branch \nand root, \n\nTill he may spare the Tree of Life, \nThe pale, the piteous woman, wife\xe2\x80\x94 \nTill he shall learn, as learn he must, \nTo lift her fair face from the dust. \n\nXXIII \n\nShe watched the wabbly moose at \nmorn \n\nClimb steeply up the further steep, \nHuge, solitary and forlorn. \n\nShe saw him climb, turn, look and \nkeep \n\nScared watch, this wild, ungainly \nbeast, \n\nThis mateless, lost thing and the last \nThat roamed before and since the \nflood\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThat climbed and climbed the top\xc2\xac \nmost hill \n\nAs if he heard the deluge still. \n\nXXIV \n\nThe sparse, brown children of the \nsnow \n\nBegan to stir, as sap is stirred \nIn springtime by the song of bird, \n\n\nAnd trudge by, wearily and slow, \nBeneath their load of dappled skins \nThat weighed them down as weighty \nsins. \n\nXXV \n\nAnd oft they paused, turned and \nlooked back \n\nAlong their desolate white track, \nWith arched hand raised to shield \ntheir eyes\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nLooked back as if for something lost \nOr left behind, of precious cost, \nSad-eyed and silent, mutely wise, \n\nAs just expelled from Paradise. \n\nXXVI \n\nHow sad their dark, fixed faces \nseemed, \n\nAs if of long-remembered sins! \n\nThey listless moved, as if they \ndreamed, \n\nAs if they knew not where to go \nIn all their wide, white world of snow. \nShe could but think upon the day \nGod made them garments from the \nskins \n\nOf beasts, then turned and bade them \ngo, \n\nGo forth as willed they, to and fro. \n\nXXVII \n\nBetween the cloud-capt walls of \n\nsnow \n\nA wide-winged raven, croaking low, \nPassed and repassed, each weary \nday, \n\nAnd would not rest, not go, not stay, \n\n\n\n8 ^>ong of Creation \n\n\n5i3 \n\n\nBut ever, ever to and fro, \n\nAs when forth from the ark of old; \nAnd ever as he passed, each day \nLet fall one croak, so cold, so cold \nIt seemed to strike the ice below \nAnd break in fragments hard as fate; \nIt fell so cold, so desolate. \n\nXXVIII \n\nAt last the sun hung hot and high, \nHung where that heartless moon had \nhung. \n\nA dove-hued moose bird sudden sung \nAnd had glad answerings hard by; \nThe icy steeps began to pour \nMad tumult down the rock-built \nsteep. \n\nThe great Yukon began to roar, \n\nAs if with pain in broken sleep. \n\nThe breaking ice began to groan, \n\nThe very mountains seemed to moan. \n\nXXIX \n\nThen, bursting like a cannon\xe2\x80\x99s boom, \nThe great stream broke its icy bands, \nAnd rushed and ran with outstretched \nhands \n\nThat laid hard hold the willow lands, \nRent wide the somber, gopher gloom \nAnd roared for room, for room, for \nroom! \n\nXXX \n\nThe stalwart moose climbed hard \nhis steep, \n\nClimbed till he wallowed, brisket \ndeep, \n\n\nIn soft\xe2\x80\x99ning, sinking steeps of snow, \nThen raging, turned to look below. \n\nxxxr \n\nHe tossed, shook high his antlered \nhead, \n\nBlew blast on blast through his huge \nnose, \n\nThen, wild with savage rage and \nfright, \n\nHe climbed, climbed to the highest \nheight, \n\nAs if he felt the flood once more \nHad come to swallow sea and shore. \n\nXXXII \n\nThe waters sank, the man uprose, \n\nA boat of skins, his Eskimo, \n\nThen down from out the world of \nsnow \n\nThey passed tow\xe2\x80\x99rd seas of calm \nrepose \n\nWhere wide sails waited, warm sea \nwind, \n\nFor mango isles and tamarind. \n*\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nXXXIII \n\nWhat wonders ward these Arctic \nseas! \n\nWhat dread, dumb, midnight days \nare these! \n\nA wonder world of night and light; \n\nA land of blackness blent with white, \nA land of water, ices, snow, \n\nWhere ice is emperor and floe \nAnd berg and pack and jam and drift \nForever grind and gnaw and lift \n\n\n33 \n\n\n\n\n\n514 \n\n\n8 \xc2\xa3?ona of Creation \n\n\nAnd tide about the bleak North \nPole\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere bull whales bellow, blow and \nblow \n\nGreat rainbows in their lover\xe2\x80\x99s quest \nWith all a sunland lover\xe2\x80\x99s zest! \n\nA land of contradictions and \nA desolated dead man\xe2\x80\x99s land! \n\nA land of neither life nor soul; \n\nA land where isles on isles of bone \nAnd totem towns lie lifeless, lone\xe2\x80\x94 \nTheir tombstones just a totem pole. \n\nXXXIV \n\nTheir cedar boat deep ballasted \nWith bags of bleak, Koyukuk\xe2\x80\x99s gold, \nAn ancient Bedford salt at head, \nDrives through the ice floes, jolly, \nbold ! \n\nWhat isles! Saghalien beyond, \nBleak, blown Saghalien, where bear \nAnd wild men are as one and share \nTheir caves and shaggy coats of hair \nIn close affection, warm and fond. \n\nAt least, so ran the jolly tale \nOf him who steered them on and on \nTow\xe2\x80\x99rd Saghalien from far Yukon\xe2\x80\x94 \nThis Bedford salt who lassoed whales, \nOr said he did, of largest size, \n\nAnd so, according, made his tales \nOf whales to fit in size his lies, \n\nThe while they sailed tow\xe2\x80\x99rd Sag\xc2\xac \nhalien. \n\nXXXV \n\nWhat worlds, these wild Aleutian \nIsles! \n\nWhat wonder worlds, unnamed, un\xc2\xac \nknown ! \n\n\nThey lift a thousand icy miles \nFrom Unalaska, bleak and lone \nAnd bare as icebergs anywhere, \n\nSave where the white fox, black fox, \nred, \n\nStarts from his ice and snow-built \nbed, \n\nAnd like some strange bird flits the \nair. \n\nYou sometimes see the white sea \nbear, \n\nA mother seal with babe asleep \nHeld close to breast in careful keep, \nAnd here a thousand sea birds scream \nAnd see the wide-winged albatross \nIn silence bear his shadow cross \nAs still and restful as a dream\xe2\x80\x94 \nNaught else is here; here life is not; \n\xe2\x80\x99Tis as the land that God forgot. \n\nXXXVI \n\nAnd yet it was not always so; \n\nThis old salt tells a thousand tales \nOf love and joy, of weal and woe, \nThat happened in the long ago \nWhen reindeer ranged the mossy \nvales \n\nThat dot this thousand miles of isles; \nThat here the fond Aleutian maid, \nWith naught to fright or make afraid, \nLived, loved and silent went her way \nAs yon swift albatross in grey. \n\nBut totem towns have naught to say \nOf all her tears and all her smiles. \n\nXXXVII \n\nAnd this, one of so many tales, \n\nThis Bedford salt in quest of whales! \nHe tells of one once favored isle \n\n\n\n& \xc2\xa3s>ong of Creation \n\n\n5*5 \n\n\nFar out, a full five hundred mile, \nWhere dwelt a Russian giant, knave, \nA pirate, priest, and all in one, \n\nWith many wives, and reindeer white \nAs Saint Elias in the sun; \n\nYet every wife was as a slave \nTo herd his white deer night by night \nAnd day by day to pluck away \nEach hair that was not perfect white. \n\nXXXVIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd," says this bearded Bedford \nsalt, \n\nThis man of whales and wondrous \ntales \n\nOf seas of ice and Arctic gales, \n\nThis truthful salt without one fault\xe2\x80\x94 \n\xe2\x80\x9c White reindeer\xe2\x80\x99s milk is yellow gold \nAnd he who drinks it lives for aye; \nHe will not drown, he cannot die, \nNor hunger, thirst, nor yet grow cold, \nBut live and live a thousand lives\xe2\x80\x94 \nTen thousand deer, two thousand \nwives.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXXXIX \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd what the end?\xe2\x80\x9d He turns his \nquid, \n\nThis ancient, sea-baked, Bedford \nman\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe thing bio wed up, you bet it did, \nA bloomin\xe2\x80\x99s big volcano, and \nSo bright that you can stand and \nwrite \n\nYour log most any bloomin\xe2\x80\x99 night, \nFive hundred miles away to-day. \nThem deers? They\xe2\x80\x99re now the milky \nway.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nBut now enough of hairy men, \n\n\nOf monstrous beasts before the flood, \nWhite Arctic chine, black gopher \nwood, \n\nOf flower-fed skies, of ice-sown seas; \nCome, let us court love-land again. \nBehold, how good is love, how fair! \nBehold, how fair is love, how good! \n\nA sense of burning sandalwood \nIs in my nostrils and the air \nIs redolent of cherry trees \nRed, pink, and brown with Nippon \nbees. \n\nBOOK THIRD \n\nCANTO I \n\nI \n\nOf all fair trees to look upon, \n\nOf all trees \xe2\x80\x9cpleasant to the sight,\xe2\x80\x9d \nGive me the Poet\xe2\x80\x99s tree of white\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \nPink cherry trees of blest Nippon \nWith lovers passing to and fro\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nPink cherry lanes of Tokio: \n\nTen thousand cherry trees and each \nHung white with Poet\xe2\x80\x99s plaint and \nspeech. \n\nII \n\nOf all fair lands to look upon, \n\nTo feel, to breathe, at Orient dawn, \n\nI count this baby land the best, \nBecause here all things rest and rest \nAnd all men love all things most fair \nAnd beautiful and rich and rare; \n\nAnd women are as cherry trees \nWith treasures laden, brown with \nbees. \n\n\n\n\n& g>ong of Creation \n\n\n\nhi \n\nOf all loved lands to look upon, \n\nGive me this love land of Nippon, \n\nIts bright, brave men, its maids at \nprayer, \n\nIts peace, its carelessness of care. \n\nIV \n\nA mobile sea of silver mist \nSweeps up for morn to mount upon: \nThen yellow, saffron, amethyst\xe2\x80\x94 \nSuch changeful hues has blest \nNippon! \n\nSee but this sunrise, then forget \nAll scenes, all suns, all lands save one, \nJust matin sun and vesper sun; \n\nThis land of inland seas of light; \n\nThis land that hardly recks of night. \n\nV \n\nThe vesper sun of blest Nippon \nSinks crimson in the Yellow Sea: \n\nThe purple butterfly is gone, \n\nThe rainbow bird housed in his tree\xe2\x80\x94 \nHushed, as the last loved, trembling \nnote \n\nStill thrills his tuneful Orient throat\xe2\x80\x94 \nHushed, as the harper\xe2\x80\x99s weary hand \nWaits morn to waken and command. \n\nVI \n\nFast homeward bound, brown, busy \nfeet \n\nIn wooden shoon clang up the street; \nBut not through all the thousand year \nIn Buddha\xe2\x80\x99s temple may you hear \nOne step, see hue of sun or sea, \n\n\nThough wait you through eternity: \nAll is so still, so soft, subdued\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe very walls are hueless hued. \n\nVII \n\nBehold brown, kneeling penitents! \nWhat perfumed place of silent prayer! \nBurned Senko-ho, sweet frankincense! \nAnd hear what silence everywhere! \nPale, pensive priests pass here and \nthere \n\nAnd silent lisp with bended head \nThe Golden Rule on scrolls of gold \nAs gentle, ancient Buddhists read \nThese precepts sacred unto them, \nAnd watched the world grow old, so \nold, \n\nEre yet the Babe of Bethlehem. \n\nVIII \n\nHow leaps the altar\xe2\x80\x99s forky flame! \nHow dreamful, dense, the sweet \nincense, \n\nAs pale priests bum, in Buddha\xe2\x80\x99s \nname, \n\nRed-written sins of penitents\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMute penitents with bended head \nAnd unsaid sins writ deep in red. \n\nIX \n\nNow slow a priest with staff and scroll, \nBarefoot, as mendicant, and old\xe2\x80\x94 \nYou sudden start, you lift your head, \nYou hear and yet you do not hear, \n\nA sound, a song, so sweet, so dear \nIt well might waken yonder dead. \n\nHis staff has touched the sacred bowl \nOf copper, silver, shot with gold \n\n\n) \n\n\n\n9 H>oug of Creation \n\n\n517 \n\n\nAnd wrought so magic-like of old \nThat all sweet sounds, or east or west, \nSought this still hollow where to rest. \nHear, hear the voice of Buddha\xe2\x80\x99s bell, \nBonsho-no-oto! All is well! \n\nX \n\nAnd you, you, lean, lean low to hear: \nYou doubt your ears, you doubt your \neyes, \n\nYour hand is lifted to your ear. \n\nYou fear, how cruelly you fear \nThe melody may die\xe2\x80\x94it dies\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDies as the swan dies, as the sun \nDies, bathed in dewy benison. \n\nXI \n\nIt lives again; you breathe again! \nWhat cadences that speak, that stir, \nTake form and presence, as of her \nWhom first you loved, ere yet of men. \nIt utters essence as a sound; \n\nAs Santalum sends from the ground \nFor devotee and worshipper \nWhere saints lie buried, balm and \nmyrrh. \n\nXII \n\nBut now so low, so faint, so low \nYou lean to hear yet hardly hear. \nAgain your hand is to your ear, \nYour lips are parted, leaning so, \n\nAnd now again you catch your breath \nSuch breath as when you lie becalmed \nAt sea, and sudden start to feel \nA cooling wave and quickened keel \nAnd see your tall sail court the shore. \n\n\nYou hear, you more than hear, you \nfeel, \n\nAs when the white wave shimmereth. \nYour love is at your side once more, \nAn essence of some song embalmed, \nLong hidden in the house of death\xe2\x80\x94 \nYou breathe it, as your Lady\xe2\x80\x99s \nbreath! \n\nXIII \n\nNow low, so low, so soft, so still, \n\nAs when a single leaf is stirred, \n\nAs when some doubtful matin bird \nDreams russet morning decks his \nhill\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen nearer, clearer, lilts each note \nAnd longer, stronger, swells each \nwave\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTen thousand dead have burst the \ngrave, \n\nAn angel\xe2\x80\x99s song in every throat! \n\nThe forky flame turns and returns \nTo burn and burn red sins away; \nSuch incense on the altar burns \nAs some may breathe but none may \nsay, \n\nThough cherished to their dying day. \n\nXIV \n\nAnd now the sandaled pilgrims fall \nWith faces to the jeweled floor\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe incense darkens as a pall, \n\nAs clouds that darken more and more. \nYou dare not lift your bended head\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe silence is as if the dead \nAlone had passed the temple door. \nAnd now the Bonsho notes, the song! \nSo stronger now, so strong, so strong! \n\n\n\n\n& \xc2\xa3j>ong of Creation \n\n\n\nxv \n\nThe black smokes of the ashen urn \nWhere brown priests burn red sins \naway \n\nBegin to stir, to start, to turn, \n\nTo seek the huge, bossed copper \ndoor\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs evil things that dare not stay. \nThe while the rich notes roll and roar \nTo drive dread, burned sin out before \nCalm Dia-busta, the adored, \n\nAs cherubim with flaming sword. \n\nXVI \n\nAnd far, so far, such rich notes roll \nThat barefoot fishers far at sea \nFall prone and pray all silently \nFor wife and babes that wait the \nstrand, \n\nThe tugging net clutched tight in \nhand, \n\nThe while they bow a space to pray; \nFor every asking, eager soul \nKnows well the time and patiently \nIt lists an hundred Ri away. \n\nXVII \n\nThe thousand pilgrims girt in straw \nThat press Fujame\xe2\x80\x99s holy peak, \nProne, fasting, penitent and meek, \nHear notes as from the stars and pray, \nAs we who know and keep the Law\xe2\x80\x94 \nAs we who walk Jerusalem \nWith pilgrim step and pallid cheek. \nHow earnestly they silent pray \nTo keep their Golden Rule alway, \nTo do no thing, or night or day, \n\n\nThough tempted by a diadem, \n\nThey would not others do to them* \n\nXVIII \n\nAnd wee, brown wives, on high, wild \nsteeps \n\nOf terraced rice or bamboo patch \nWhere toil, hard toil incessant, keeps \nSweet virtue, sweet sleep, and a \nthatch, \n\nThey hear and hold, with closer fold, \nTheir bare, brown babes against the \ncold. \n\nThey croon and croon, with soothing \n\ncare, \n\nTo babes meshed in their mighty hair, \nAnd loving, crooning, breathe a \nprayer. \n\nXIX \n\nThe great notes pass, pass on and on, \nAs light sweeps up the doors of dawn, \nAnd now the strong notes are no \nmore, \n\nBut feebler tones wail out and cry, \n\nAs sad things that have lost their way \nAt night and dare not bide the day \nBut turn back to the shrine to die, \nAnd steal in softly through the door \nAnd gently fade along the floor. \n\nXX \n\nThe barefoot priest slow fades from \nsight, \n\nFaint and more faint the last notes \nfall; \n\nYou hear them now, then not at all, \nAnd now the last note of the night \n\n\nl \n\n\n\n3 iisxmg of Creation \n\n\n5i9 \n\n\nWails out, as when a lover cries \nAt night, and at the altar dies. \n\nXXI \n\nHow sweet, how sad, how piteous \nsweet \n\nThis last note at the bowed monk\xe2\x80\x99s \nfeet \n\nThat dies as dies some saintly light\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat dies so like the sweet swan \ndies\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSo loving sad, so tearful sweet, \n\nThis last, lost note\xe2\x80\x94Good night, \ngood night. \n\nGood night to holy Buddha\xe2\x80\x99s bell\xe2\x80\x94 \nBonsho-no-oto! All is well\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA mist is rising to the eyes! \n\nCANTO II \n\nI \n\nThis water town of Tokio \n\nIs as a church with priests at prayer, \n\nWith restful silence everywhere, \n\nOr night or day, or high or low. \n\nYou something hear a turtle dove, \n\nA locust trilling from his tree \nIn chorus with his mated love, \n\nMay see a raven in the air, \nWide-winged and high, but even he \nIs as a shadow in the stream, \n\nAs dreamful, silent as a dream. \n\nII \n\nThey could but note the silent maids \nThat carried, with a mother\xe2\x80\x99s care, \nThe silent baby, ofttimes bare \n\n\nAs birthtime through their Caran \nshades. \n\nTen thousand babies, everywhere, \nBut not one wail, or day or night, \n\nTo put the locust\xe2\x80\x99s love to flight, \n\nOr mar the chorus of the dove. \n\nAnd why? Why, they were born of \nlove: \n\nBorn soberly, born sanely, clean, \n\nAs Indian babes of old were born \nEre yet the white man\xe2\x80\x99s face was \nseen, \n\nEre yet the sensuous white man came; \nBom clean as love, of lovelight born \nSome long lost Rocky Mountain mom \nWhere snow-topt turrets first took \nflame \n\nAnd flashed God\xe2\x80\x99s image in God\xe2\x80\x99s \nname! \n\nIII \n\nTell me, my flint-scarred pioneer, \n\nMy skin-clad Carson, mountaineer, \nWho met red Sioux, met dusk Modoc, \nRed hand to hand in battle shock \nWhere men but met to dare and die, \nDid ever you once see or hear \nOne poor brown Indian baby qry? \n\nIV \n\nThe long, hot march by ashen plain, \nThe burning trail by lava bed, \n\nBabes lashed to back in corded pain \nUntil the swollen bare legs bled, \n\nBut on and on their mothers led, \n\nIf but to find a place to die. \n\nYet who, of all men that pursued \nThis dying race, year after year, \n\nBy burning plain or beetling wood, \n\n\n\n\n520 \n\n\ngl gbottg of Creation \n\n\nDid ever see, did ever hear, \n\nOne bleeding Indian baby cry? \n\nV \n\nThe starving mother\xe2\x80\x99s breasts were \ndry, \n\nThere scarce was time to stop and \ndrink, \n\nThe swollen legs grew black as ink\xe2\x80\x94 \nThere was not even time to die. \n\nAnd yet, through all this fifty year, \nWhat hounding man did ever hear \nOne piteous Indian baby cry? \n\nVI \n\nNay, they were bom as men were \nborn \n\nFar back in Jacob\xe2\x80\x99s Bible mom; \nWere born of love, born lovingly, \nUnlike the fretful child of lust, \n\nWhen love gat love and trust gat \ntrust\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd trusting, dared to silent die \nIn torture and disdain a tear, \n\nIf mother willed, nor question why. \nYea, I have seen so many die, \n\nThis cruel, hard, half-hundred year, \nAnd I have cried, to see, to hear\xe2\x80\x94 \nBut never heard one baby cry. \n\nVII \n\nShot down in Castle Rocks I lay \nOne midnight, lay as one shot dead, \n\nA lad, and lone, years, years of yore. \nI heard deep Sacramento roar, \n\nSaw Shasta glitter far away\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI never saw such moon before \nAnd yet I could not turn my head, \n\n\nNor move my lips to cry or say. \nRed arrows in both form and face \nHeld form and face tight pinned in \nplace \n\nAgainst the gnarled, black chaparral, \nAs one fast nailed against a wall \nWith scant half room to wholly fall\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe hot, thick, gurgling, gasping \nbreath, \n\nThe thirst, the thirsting unto death! \nVIII \n\nAnd then a child against my feet \nCrawled feebly and crept close to die; \nI moaned, \xe2\x80\x9cOh baby, won\xe2\x80\x99t you cry? \n\xe2\x80\x99Twould be as music piteous sweet \nTb hear in this dread place of death \nJust one lorn cry, just one sweet \nbreath \n\nOf life, here \xe2\x80\x99mid the moonlit dead, \nThe mingled dead, white men and \nred. \n\nIX \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOh, bleeding, blood-red baby, cry \nJust once before I, choking die! \n\nAnd maybe some white man will hear \nIn yonder fortressed camp anear \nAnd bring blest drink for you and I\xe2\x80\x94 \nOh, baby, please, please, baby, cry!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nX \n\nA crackling in the chaparral \nAnd then a lion in the clear \nFrom which the dying babe had crept, \nSwift as a yellow sunbeam, leapt \nAnd stood so tall, so near, so near! \n\nSo cruel near, so sinuous, tall\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSome Landseer\xe2\x80\x99s picture on a wall. \n\n\n\n& IS>ong of Creation \n\n\nXI \n\nI never saw such length of limb, \nSuch arm as God had given him! \n\nHis paws, they swallowed up the \nearth, \n\nHis midnight eyes shot arrows out \nThe while his tail whipped swift \nabout\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHis tail was surely twice his girth! \n\nXII \n\nHis nostrils wide with smell of blood \nReached out above us where he stood \nAnd snuffed the dank, death-laden air \nTill half his yellow teeth were bare. \nHis yellow length was bare and lank\xe2\x80\x94 \nI never saw such hollow flank; \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas as a grave is, as a pall, \n\nA flabby black flank\xe2\x80\x94scarce at all! \n\nXIII \n\nHe sudden quivered, tail to jaws, \nCrouched low, unsheathed his shining \nclaws\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOh, baby, baby, won\xe2\x80\x99t you cry, \n\nJust once before we two must die?\xe2\x80\x9d \nI felt him spring, clutch up, then leap \nSwift down the rock-built, broken \nsteep; \n\nI heard a crunch of bones, but I\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI did not hear that baby cry! \n\nCANTO III \n\nI \n\nI would forget\xe2\x80\x94help me forget, \n\nThe while we fondly linger yet \n\n\n521 \n\nThe flower-field so sweet, so sweet, \nWith Buddha at fair Fuji\xe2\x80\x99s feet. \n\nFair Fuji-san, throned Queen of air! \nFair woman pure as maiden\xe2\x80\x99s prayer; \nAs pure as prayer to the throne \nOf God, as lone as God, as lone \nAs Buddha at her feet in prayer\xe2\x80\x94 \nFair Fuji-san, so more than fair! \n\nII \n\nFair Fuji-san, Kamlcura, and \nReposeful, calm Buddha the blest, \nWith folded hands that rest and rest \nOn eld Kamkura\xe2\x80\x99s blood-soaked sand. \nHere russet apples hang at hand \nSo russet rich that when they fall \n\xe2\x80\x99Tis as if some gold-bounden ball \nSank in the loamy, warm, wet sand \nWhere hana, kusa, carpet earth \nThat never knows one day of dearth. \n\nIII \n\nKamkura, where Samurai bled, \nWhere Buddha sits to rest and rest! \nWas ever spot so beauteous, blest? \nWas ever red rose quite so red? \n\nIV \n\nFair Fuji from her mountain chine \nAbove her curtained courts of pine \nLooks down on calm Kamkura\xe2\x80\x99s sea \nSo tranquil, dreamful, restfully \nYou fold your arms across your breast \nAnd rest with her, with Buddha rest, \nWhile silence musks the warm sea \nair\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nJust silence, silence everywhere. \n\n\n\n\n\n522 \n\n\n& \xc2\xa3>ong of Creation \n\n\nv \n\nHere midst this rest, this pure repose, \n\'This benediction, peace, and prayer, \nThat as religion was, and where \nA breath of senko blessed the air, \nT^he erstwhile children of the snows \nCame silently and sat them down \nWithin a Kusa coigne that lay \nAbove the buried Bushi town, \n\nAbove the dimpled, beauteous Bay \nOf sun and shadow, gold and brown, \nAnd Care blew by the other way\xe2\x80\x94 \nA breath, a butterfly, a fay. \n\nVI \n\nAnd one was as fair as Fuji, fair, \nTrue, trusting as some maid at prayer, \nAye, one as Buddha was, but one \nWas turbulent of blood and was \nAn instant of the earth and sun; \n\nAs when the ice-tied torrent thaws \nAnd sudden leaps from frost and snow \nHeadlong and lawless, far below\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs when the sap flows suddenly \nAnd warms the wind-tost mango tree. \n\nVII \n\nHe caught her hand, he pressed her \nside, \n\nHe pressed her close and very close, \nHe breathed her as you breathe a rose, \nNor was in any wise denied. \n\nHer comely, shapely limbs pushed out \nAs elden on her golden shore; \n\nHer long, strong arms reached round \nabout \n\nAnd bent along the flowered floor, \nWhile full length on her back she lay \n\n\nLike some wild, beauteous beast at \nplay. \n\nVIII \n\nHe thrust him forward, caught her, \ncaught \n\nHer form as if she were of naught. \nHis outstretched face was as a flame, \nHis breath was as a furnace is, \n\nHe kissed her mouth with such mad \nkiss \n\nHer rich, full lips shut tight with \nshame. \n\nIX \n\nAs one of old who tilled the mould, \nTook triple strength from earth and \nthrust \n\nHis burly foeman to the dust, \n\nShe sprang straight up, and springing \nthrew \n\nHim from her with such voltage he \nKnew not how he might, writhing, \nrise, \n\nOr dare to meet again those eyes \nThat seemed to bum him through and \nthrough; \n\nOr daring, how could he undo \nHis coward, selfish deed of shame \nEnforced as in religion\xe2\x80\x99s name? \n\nAnd she so trustful, so alone! \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas as if some sweet, sacred nun \nHad opened wide her door to one \nWho slew her on her altar stone. \n\nX \n\nShe passed and silent passed and slow. \nWhat strength, what length of limb, \nwhat eyes! \n\n\n\nS is>ong of Creation \n\n\n523 \n\n\nShe left him lying low, so low, \n\nSo crested and so surely slain \nHe deemed he never more might rise, \nOr rising, see her face again. \n\nAnd yet, her look was not of hate, \nBut pity, as akin to pain; \n\nAnd when she touched the temple gate \nShe paused, turned, beckoned he \nshould go, \n\nGo wash his hands of carnal clay \nAnd go alone his selfish way\xe2\x80\x94 \nForever, ever and a day! \n\nCANTO IV \n\nI \n\nHow cold she grew, how chilled, how \nchanged, \n\nSince that loathed scene by Nippon\xe2\x80\x99s \nsea! \n\nNo longer flexile, trustful, she \nHeld him aloof, hushed and estranged, \nA fallen star, yet still her star, \n\nAnd she his heaven, earth, his all, \n\nTo follow, worship, near or far, \n\nLet good befall or ill befall. \n\nBut he was silent. He had sold \nHis birthright, sold for even less \nThan any poor, cheap pottage mess, \nHis right to speak forth, warm and \nbold, \n\nAnd look her unshamed in the face. \nMute, penitent, he kept his place, \n\nAs silent as that Nippon saint \nThat knew not prayer, praise, or \nplaint. \n\nII \n\nSaint Silence seems some maid of \nprayer, \n\n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s arm about her when she prays \nAnd where she prays and everywhere, \nOr storm-strewn or sun-down days. \nWhat ill to Silence can befall, \n\nSince Silence knows no ill at all? \n\nIII \n\nSaint Silence seems some twilight sky \nThat leans as with her weight of stars \nTo rest, to rest, no more to roam, \nBut rest and rest eternally. \n\nShe loosens and lets down the bars, \nShe brings the kind-eyed cattle home, \nShe breathes the fragrant field of hay \nAnd heaven is not far away. \n\nIV \n\nThe deeps of soul are still the deeps \nWhere stately Silence ever keeps \nHigh court with calm Nirvana, where \nNo shallows break the noisy shore \nOr beat, with sad, incessant roar, \n\nThe fettered, fevered world of care \nAs noisome vultures fret the air. \n\nV \n\nThe star-sown seas ofthoughtare still, \nAs when God\xe2\x80\x99s plowmen plant their \ncorn \n\nAlong the mellow grooves at morn \nIn patient trust to wait His will. \n\nThe star-sown seas of thought are \nwide, \n\nBut voiceless, noiseless, deep as night; \nDisturb not these, the silent seas \nAre sacred unto souls allied, \n\nAs golden poppies unto bees. \n\n\n\n\nof Creation \n\n\n3 \xc2\xa3\xc2\xa7>ong \n\n\n524 \n\nHere, from the first, rude giants \nwrought, \n\nHere delved, here scattered stars of \nthought \n\nTo grow, to bloom in years unborn, \nAs grows the gold-horned yellow corn. \n\nVI \n\nThey lay low-bosomed on the bay \nOf Honolulu, soft the breeze \nAnd soft the dreamful light that lay \nOn Honolulu\xe2\x80\x99s Sabbath seas\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe ghost of sunshine gone away\xe2\x80\x94 \nRed roses on the dust of day, \n\nPale, pink, red roses in the west \nWhere lay in state dead Day at rest. \n\nVII \n\nTheir dusky boatman set his face \nFrom out the argent, opal sea \nTow\xe2\x80\x99rd where his once proud, warlike \nrace \n\nLay housed in everlasting dust. \n\nHe sang low-voiced, sad, silently, \n\nIn listless chorus with the tide, \nBecause his race was not, because \nHis sun-born race had dared, defied \nThe highest, holiest of His laws \nAnd so fell stricken and so died\xe2\x80\x94 \nDied stricken of dread leprosy \nBegot of lust\xe2\x80\x94prone in the dust\xe2\x80\x94 \nDegenerating love to lust. \n\nVIII \n\nSweet sandal-wood burned bow and \nstem \n\nIn colored, shapely crates of clay; \nSweet sandal-wood long laid away, \n\n\nLong caverned with dead battle kings \nWhose dim ghosts rise betimes and \nbum \n\nThe torch and touch sweet taro \nstrings\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSuch giant, stalwart, stately kings! \n\nIX \n\nSweet sandal-wood, long ages tom \nFrom cloud-capt steeps where \n\nthunders slept, \n\nThen hidden where dead giants kept \nTheir sealed Walhalla, waiting \nmorn\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nDeep-hidden, till such sweet perfume \nBetrayed their long-forgotten tomb. \n\nX \n\nThe sea\xe2\x80\x99s perfume and incense lay \nAbout, above, lay everywhere; \n\nThe sea swung incense through the \nair\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe censer, Honolulu\xe2\x80\x99s Bay. \n\nAnd then the song, the soft, low rune, \nAs sad, as if dead kings kept tune. \n\nXI \n\nThe moon hung twilight from each \nhorn, \n\nSoft, silken twilight, soft to touch \nAs baby lips\xe2\x80\x94and over much \nLike to the baby breath of mom. \nHuge, five-horned stars swung left \nand right \n\nO\xe2\x80\x99er argent, opal, amber night. \n\n\n\n3 \xc2\xa3*>ong of Creation \n\n\n525 \n\n\nXII \n\nWhat changeful, dreamful, ardent \nlight, \n\nWhen Mauna Loa, far afield, \n\nUprose and shook his yellow shield \nBelow the battlements of night; \nBelow the Southern Cross, o\xe2\x80\x99er seas \nThat sang such silent symphonies! \n\nXIII \n\nFar lava peaks still lit the night, \n\nLike holy candles foot and head, \nThat dimly burned above the dead, \nAbove the dead and buried Light. \nThere rose such perfume of the sea, \nSuch Sabbath breath, soft, silently, \nAs when some burning censer swings, \nAs when some surpliced choir sings. \n\nXIV \n\nHe scarce had lived save in such fear, \nBut now yon mitered tongues of flame \nThat tipped the star-lit lava peak \nBrought back some fervor to his \ncheek \n\nAnd made him half forget his shame. \nHe could but heed, he could but hear \nThat call across the walls of night \nFrom triple mitered tongues of Light, \nThat soulful, silent, perfumed night. \nHe said\xe2\x80\x94and yet he said no word; \nNo word he said, yet all she heard, \n\nSo close their souls lay, in such Light, \nThat holy Honolulu night. \n\nXV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLies yonder Nebo\xe2\x80\x99s mount, my \nSoul ?\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\n\nThe Promised Land beyond, beyond \nThe grave of rest, the broken bond, \nWhere manly force must lose control, \nMust press the grapes and fill the \nbowl, \n\nGo round and round, rest, rise up, eat, \nTread grapes, then wash the wearied \nfeet? \n\nXVI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI know I have enough of bliss, \n\nI know full well I should not dare \nTo ask a deeper joy than this, \n\nThis scene, your presence, this soft \nair, \n\nThis incense, this deep sense of rest \nWhere long-sought, sweet Arcadia \nlies \n\nAgainst these gates of Paradise. \n\nXVII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd yet, hear me, I dare ask more. \nLone Adam had all Paradise \nAnd still how poor he was, how poor, \nWith all things his beneath the skies! \nAye, sweet it were to roam or rest, \nTo ever rest and ever roam \nAs you might reck and reckon best; \nBut still there comes a sense of home, \nOf hearthstone, happy babes at play, \nAnd you and I\xe2\x80\x94not far away. \n\nXVIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cNay, do not turn aside your face\xe2\x80\x94 \n1 Be fruitful ye and multiply\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nMeant all; it meant the human race, \nAnd he or she shall surely die \nDespised and pass to nothingness \n\n\n\n526 \n\n\n& &ong of Creation \n\n\nWho does not love the little dress, \nThe heaven in the mother\xe2\x80\x99s eyes, \nThe holy, sacred, sweet surprise \nThe time she tells how truly blest, \nWith face laid blushing to his breast. \n\nXIX \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHow flower-like the little frock\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe daffodil forerunning spring\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe doll-like shoes, socks, everything, \nAnd each a secret, secret stored! \n\nAnd yet each day the little hoard, \nAs careful merchants note their stock, \nIs noted with such happy care \nAs only angel mothers share. \n\nXX \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAt last to hear her rock and rock\xe2\x80\x94 \nBehold her bowed Madonna face! \nShe lifts her baby from its place, \nPulls down the crumpled, dampened \nfrock, \n\nAnd never Cleopatra guessed \nThe queenliness, the joy, the pride, \nShe knows with baby to her breast\xe2\x80\x94 \nHis chub fists churning either side! \n\nXXI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c The bravest breast faith ever bared \nFor brother, country, creed or friend, \nHowever high the aim or end, \n\nWas that brave breast a baby shared \nWith kicking, fat legs half unfrocked \nThe while sweet mother rocked and \nrocked.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nCANTO V \n\nI \n\nAs when first blossoms feel first bees, \nAs when the squirrel hoists full sail \nAnd leaps his world of maple trees \nAnd quirks his saucy, tossy tail; \n\nAs when Vermont\xe2\x80\x99s tall sugar trees \nFirst feel sweet sap, then don their \nleaves \n\nIn haste\xe2\x80\x94a million Mother Eves; \n\nAs when strange winds stir strong- \nbuilt ships \n\nLong ice-bound fast in Arctic seas, \n\nSo she, the strong, full woman now, \nFelt new life thrilling breast and brow \nAnd tingled to her finger tips. \n\nHer limbs pushed out, outreached her \nhead \n\nAs if to say\xe2\x80\x94she nothing said. \n\nBut something of the tender light \nThat lit her girl face that first night, \nThe time she pulling poppies sat \nThe sod and saw the golden sheep \nSafe housed within the hollowed deep, \nWas hers; and how she blushed \nthereat! \n\nYet blushing so, still silent sat. \n\nII \n\nShe would forget his weakness, yet \nTry as she would, could not forget. \nHe knew her thought. She raised her \nhead \n\nAnd searched his soul, and searching \nsaid: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHe who would save the world must \nstand \n\n\n\n& &ong of Creation \n\n\nHard by the world with steel-mailed \nhand \n\nAnd save by smiting hip and thigh. \nThe world needs truth, tall truth and \ngrand, \n\nAnd keen sword-cuts that thrust to \nkill. \n\nThe man who climbed the windy hill \nTo talk, is talking, climbing still, \n\nAnd could not help or hurt a fly. \n\nThe stoutest swimmer and most wise \nSwims somewhat with the sweeping \nstream, \n\nYet leads, leads unseen as a dream. \nThe strong fool breasts the flood and \ndies, \n\nThe weak fool turns his back and \nflies.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nIll \n\nHe did not answer, could not dare \nLift his shamed eyes to her fair face, \nBut looked right, left, looked any\xc2\xac \nwhere, \n\nAnd mused, mused mutely out of \nplace: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIf yonder creedists may not teach, \nFor all their books, and bravely \npreach \n\nThat here, right here, the womb of \nnight \n\nGave us God\'s first-born, holy Light, \nWhy, pity, nor yet blame them quite; \nBecause they know not, cannot read, \nSave as commanded by some creed. \nWhat eons they may have to wait \nWithin their wall, without the gate, \nNor once dare lift their eyes to look \nBeyond their blinding creed and book, \n\n\n527 \n\nWe know not, but we surely know \nYon lava-lifted, star-tipt height \nIs bannered still by that first Light. \nWe know this phosphorescent glow, \nAt every dip of dripping oar, \n\nIs but lost bits of Light below. \nWhere moves God\xe2\x80\x99s spirit as of yore. \nAye, here, right here, from out the \nnight, \n\nGod spake and said: \xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98Let there be \nlight!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nIV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd dare ask doubting, creed-made \nmen \n\nWhy we so surely know and how? \nWhy here \xe2\x80\x98the waters,\xe2\x80\x99 now as then? \nWhy here \xe2\x80\x98the waters,\xe2\x80\x99 then as now? \nWe know because we read, yet read \nSo little that we much must heed. \nWe read: \xe2\x80\x98God\xe2\x80\x99s spirit moved upon \nThe waters\xe2\x80\x99 ere that burst of dawn. \nWhat waters? Why, \xe2\x80\x98The Waters,\xe2\x80\x99 \nthese, \n\nThese soundless, silent, sundown seas. \n\nV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe morning of the world was here, \n\xe2\x80\x99Twas here \xe2\x80\x98He made dry land \nappear,\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nHere \xe2\x80\x98 Darkness lay upon the deep.\xe2\x80\x99 \nWhat deep? This deep, the deepest \ndeep \n\nThat ever rolled beneath the sun \nWhen night and day were then as one \nAnd dreamless day lay fast asleep, \nRocked in this cradle of the deep.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\n\n528 \n\n\n8 gkmg of Creation \n\n\nvr \n\nShe would not, could not be denied \nHer thought, her theme but turned \nonce more, \n\nAs turns the all-devouring tide \nAgainst a stubborn unclean shore, \nWith lifted face and soul aflame, \n\nAnd spake as speaking in God\xe2\x80\x99s \nname\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\nWith face raised to the living God: \n\xe2\x80\x9cHear me! How pitiful the plea \nOf men who plead their temperance, \nOf men who know not one first sense \nOf self-control, yet, fire-shod, \n\nStorm forth and rage intemperately \nAt sins that are but as a breath, \nCompared with their low lives of \ndeath! \n\nVII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd oh, for prophet\xe2\x80\x99s tongue or pen \nTo scourge, not only, and accuse \nThe childless mother, but such men \nAs know their loves but to abuse! \nGive me the brave, c\'^iild-loving Jew, \nThe full-sexed Jew of either sex, \n\nWho loves, brings forth and nothing \nrecks \n\nOf care or cost, as Christians do\xe2\x80\x94 \nDulled souls who will not hear or see \nHow Christ once raised his lowly head \nAnd, all rebuking, gently said, \n\nThe while he took them tenderly, \n\xe2\x80\x98Let little ones come unto me.\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nVIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe true Jew lover keeps the Way. \nFor clean, serene, and contrite heart \n\n\nThe bride and bridegroom kneel apart \nBefore the bridal bed and pray. \n\nIX \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBehold how great the bride\xe2\x80\x99s estate! \nBehold how holy, pure the thought \nThat high Jehovah welcomes her \nIn partnership, to coin, create \nThe fairest form He yet has wrought \nSince Adam\xe2\x80\x99s clay knew breath and \nstir: \n\nTo glory in her daughters, sons; \n\nTo be God\xe2\x80\x99s tabernacle, tent, \n\nThe keeper of the covenant, \n\nThe mother of His little ones! \n\nX \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 Go forth among this homeless race, \nThis landless race that knows no place \nOr name or nation quite its own, \n\nAnd see their happy babes at play, \n\nOr palace, Ghetto, rich or poor, \n\nAs thick as birds about the door \nAt morn, some sunny Vermont May, \nThen think of Christ and these alone. \nYet ye deride, ye jeer, ye jibe, \n\nTo see their plenteous babes; ye say \n\xe2\x80\x98 Behold the Jew and all his tribe!\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nXI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYet Solomon upon his throne \nWas not more kingly crowned than \nthey \n\nThese Jews, these jeered Jews of to\xc2\xac \nday\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nMore surely born to lord, to lead, \n\nTo sow the land with Abram\xe2\x80\x99s seed; \n\n\n\n\n31 \xc2\xa3\xc2\xa7>ong of Creation \n\n\n529 \n\n\nBecause their babes are healthful born \nAnd welcomed as the welcome morn. \n\nXII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHear me this prophecy and heed! \nExcept we cleanse us, kirk and creed, \nExcept we wash us, word and deed, \nThe Jew shall rule us, reign the Jew. \nAnd just because the Jew is true, \n\nIs true to nature, true to truth, \n\nIs clean, is chaste, as trustful Ruth \nWho stood amid the alien corn \nIn tears that far, dim, doubtful \nmorn\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWho bore us David, Solomon\xe2\x80\x94- \nThe Babe, that far, first Christmas \ndawn. \n\nXIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYou shrink, are angered at my \nspeech? \n\nYou dare avert your doubtful face \nBecause I name this chaste, strange \nrace? \n\nSo be it then; there lies the beach, \nAnd up the beach the ways divide. \n\nI would not leave the truth untold \nTo win the whole world to my side, \nNor would I spare your selfish pride, \nYour carnal coarseness, lustful lie, \nFor that would be to let you die. \nCome! yonder lifts the clear, white \nLight \n\nFor seamen, souls sea-tost at night. \n\nXIV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI see the spiked Agave\xe2\x80\x99s plume, \n\nThe pepsin\'s plume, acacia\'s bloom \n\n\nFar up beyond tall cocoa trees, \n\nTall tamarind and mango brown, \nThat gird the pretty, peaceful town. \nThat lane leads up, the church looks \ndown\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nThere lie the ways, now which of \nthese? \n\nBear with me, I must dare be true. \nThe nation, aye, the Christian race, \nNow fronts its stern Sphynx, face to \nface, \n\nAnd I must say, say here to you, \nWhate\xe2\x80\x99er the cost of love, of fame, \nThe Christian is a thing of shame\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \nMust say because you prove it true, \nThe better Christian is the Jew. \n\nXV \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 * I know you scorn the narrow deeds \nOf men who make their god of \ncreeds\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nYon men as narrow as the miles \nThat bank their rare, sweet flower-fed \nisles, \n\nBut come, my Lost Star, come with \nme \n\nTo yon fond church, high-built and \nfair, \n\nFor God is there, as everywhere, \n\nOr Arctic snow or argent sea.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXVI \n\nHe looked far up the mango lane \nBelow the wide-boughed banyan tree; \nHe looked to her, then looked again, \nAs one who tries yet could not see \nBut one steep, narrow, upward way: \n\xe2\x80\x9cYou said two ways, here seems but \none, \n\n\n34 \n\n\n\n\n\n530 \n\n\n3 H>on 0 of Creation \n\n\nOr set of moon or rise of sun, \n\nBut one way to the perfect day, \n\nAnd I will go. And you must stay?\xe2\x80\x9d \nShe looked far up the steep of stone \nAnd said: \xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98Aye, go, but not alone.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXVII \n\nThe boat\xe2\x80\x99s prow pushed the cocoa \nshore, \n\nThe man spake not, but, leaning o\'er, \nStrong-armed, he drew her to his side \nAnd was not anywise denied. \n\nHe pointed to the failing fire, \n\nThat still tipt lava peak and spire, \nWhile stars pinned round the robe of \nnight; \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas here God said, \xe2\x80\x9cLet there be \nLight!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXVIII \n\nA little church, a lava wall, \n\nA soft light looking gently down, \nThe Light of Christ, the second light, \nWhere two as one passed up the town. \nShe gave her hand, she gave her all, \nAnd said, as such brave women might, \nWith ample right, in hallowed cause: \n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98As it in the beginning was, \n\nSo let the man-child be full born \nOf Love, of Light, the Light of Morn!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nBOOK FOUR \n\nCANTO I \n\nI \n\nAnd which of all Hawaii\xe2\x80\x99s isles \nOf sandalwood and singing wilds \n\n\nReceived and housed this maiden \nrare\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nThis bravest, best, since Eve\xe2\x80\x99s des\xc2\xac \npair? \n\nIt matters not; enough to know \nNight-blooming trumpets ever blow \nLove\xe2\x80\x99s tuneful banner to the breeze \nIn chorus with the ardent seas; \n\nThat Juno walks her mountain wall \nIn peacock plumes the whole year \nthrough. \n\nYou hear her gaudy lover call \nFrom dawn till dusk, then see them \nfall \n\nFrom out the clouds far, far below, \nAnd droop and drift slow to and fro\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x96\xa0 \nDusk rainbows blending with the dew. \n\nII \n\nAnd had he won her? He had wed, \nBut now it was that he must woo, \nMust keep alone his widowed bed \nOr sit and woo the whole night \nthrough. \n\nHe plead. He could not touch her \nhand; \n\nHer eyes held anger and command \nAnd memories of a trustful time \nHe would have made her muck and \nslime. \n\nIII \n\nHe plead his perfect life, still plead; \nBut spurning him she mocking said: \n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98You would have trailed me in the \ndust \n\nIn very drunkenness of lust \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd now you dare to meekly plead \n\n\n\n\n3 is>ong of Creation \n\n\n53i \n\n\nYour love of Light, your studious \nyouth, \n\nYour strenuous toil, your quest of \ntruth, \n\nYour perfect life! Indeed! Indeed! \n\nIV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cBehold the pale, wan, outworn wife \nOf him who pleads his perfect life! \nHer step is slow, she waits for death; \nHear, hear her wan babe\xe2\x80\x99s hollow cry! \nHe scarce can cry above a breath. \nPoor babe! begotten but to die, \n\nOr, harder fate, live feebly on, \n\nThe shame of mother, curse of state\xe2\x80\x94 \nHalf-witted, worthless, jest of fate. \n\nV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Behold God\xe2\x80\x99s image, fashioned tall \nAs heaven, stooping down to crawl \nUpon his belly as a snake, \n\nEre yet his sense is well awake, \n\nEre yet his force has come, ere yet \nThe child-wife knows but to regret. \nAnd lo! the greatest is the least; \n\nFor man lies lower than the beast. \n\nVI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Such pity that sweet love should lie \nProne, strangled in its bed of shame, \nAnd no man dare to publish why! \nSuch pity that in slain Love\xe2\x80\x99s name \nThe weak bring forth the weaker, \nbring \n\nThe leper, idiot, anything \nThat lawless passion can beget! \nSweet pitv, pity for them all\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nThe child that cries, child-wife that \ndies, \n\nThe weakling that may linger yet \nA feeble day to feebly fall\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAs food for sword or cannon ball, \n\nFor prison wall or charity \nOr fruit of gruesome gallows tree! \n\nVII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c But pity most poor man, blind man, \nWhose passions stoop him to a span. \nWhy, man, each well-born man was \nbom \n\nTo dwell in everlasting morn, \n\nTo top the mountain as a tower, \n\nA thousand years of pride and power; \nTo face the four winds with the face \nOf youth until full length he lies\xe2\x80\x94 \nStill God-like, even as he dies. \n\nVIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cCould I but teach lorn man to live, \nBut teach low man to truly love, \nCould I but teach blind man to see, \nHow gladly he would turn to me \nAnd give great thanks, and ever giv e \nGlad heed, as to some soft-voiced \ndove. \n\nIX \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c The burning cities of the plain, \n\nThe high-built harlot, Babylon, \n\nThe bannered mur\xe2\x80\x99ls of Rome un \ndone, \n\nThat rose again and fell again \nTo ashes and to heaps of dust, \n\nAll died because man lived in vain, \nBecause man sold his soul to lust. \n\n\n\n9 iking of Creation \n\n\n532 \n\nx \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd count what crimes have come \nof it! \n\nI say all sins, or said or writ, \n\nLie gathered here in this dark pit \nOf man\xe2\x80\x99s licentious, mad desire, \nWhere woman\xe2\x80\x99s form is ruthless \nthrown, \n\nAs on some sacrificial stone, \n\nAnd burned as in a living fire, \n\nTo leave but ashes, rue, and ire. \n\nXI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAye, even crimes as yet unnamed \nAre born of man\xe2\x80\x99s degrading lust. \nThe wildest beast man ever tamed, \n\nOr ever yet has come to know\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe vilest beast would feel disgust \nCould it but know how low, how low \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s image sinks in muck and slime, \nIn crimes so deeper than all crime, \n\nIn slime that hath not yet a name, \nAnd yet man knows no whit of shame! \n\nXII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cPoor, weak, mad man, so halt, so \nblind! \n\nPoor, weak, mad man that must \ncarouse \n\nAnd prostitute what he should house \nAnd husband for his coming kind! \nBehold the dumb beasts at glad mom, \nClean beasts that hold them well in \nhand! \n\nHow nobler thus to lord the land, \nHow nobler thus to love your race, \nTo house its health and strength and \ngrace, \n\n\nThan rob the races yet unborn \nAnd build new Babylon to scorn! \n\nXIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI say that each man has a right, \nThe right the beast has to be born \nFull-flowered, beauteous, free and \nfair \n\nAs wide-winged bird that rides the \nair; \n\nNot as a babe that cries all night, \nCries, cries in darkness for such Light \nAs man should give it at its birth. \n\nI say that poor babe has a right, \n\nThe right, at least, of each wild \nbeast\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAye, red babe, black, white, west or \neast, \n\nTo rise at birth and lord the earth, \nStrong-limbed, long-limbed, robust \nand free \n\nAs supple beast or towering tree. \n\nXIV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGod\xe2\x80\x99s pity for the breasts that bear \nA little babe, then banish it \nTo stranger hands, to alien care, \n\nTo live or die as chance sees fit. \n\nPoor, helpless hands, reached any\xc2\xac \nwhere, \n\nAs God gave them to reach and reach, \nWith only helplessness in each! \n\nP001 little hands, pushed here, pushed \nthere, \n\nAnd all night long for mother\xe2\x80\x99s breast: \nPoor, restless hands that will not rest \nAnd gather strength to reach out \nstrong \n\n\n\n8 S>ong of Creation \n\n\n533 \n\n\nTo mother in the rosy morn! \n\nNay, nay, they gather scorn for scorn \nAnd hate for hate the lorn night \nlong\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nPoor, dying babe! to reach about \nIn blackness, as a thing cast-out! \n\nXV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGod\xe2\x80\x99s pity for the thing of lust \nWho bears a frail babe to be thrust \nForth from her arms to alien thrall, \nAs shutting out the light of day, \n\nAs shutting off God\xe2\x80\x99s very breath! \nBut thrice God\xe2\x80\x99s pity, let us pray, \nFor her who bears no babe at all, \nBut, grinning, leads the dance of \ndeath. \n\nThat sexless, steel-braced breast of \nbone \n\nIs like to some assassin cell, \n\nA whited sepulchre of stone, \n\nA graveyard at the gates of hell, \n\nA mart where motherhood is sold, \n\nA house of murders manifold! \xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nCANTO II \n\nI \n\nHe heard; he could but bow his head \nIn silence, penitence, and shame, \nConfess the truth of all she said \nOf crimes committed in Love\xe2\x80\x99s name, \nNor beg the sacred seal of red \nTo marriage bond and marriage bed. \n\nII \n\nAnd that was all, aye, that was all \nFor days, for days that seemed as \nyears. \n\n\nHe still must woo, put by her fears, \nMake her his friend, let what befall; \nBide her sweet will and, loving, bide \nMeek dalliance with his maiden bride. \n\nIII \n\nOne night in May, such soulful night \nOf cherry blossoms, birds, such birds \nAs burst with song, that sing outright \nBecause so glad they cannot keep \nTheir song, but sing out in their sleep! \nSuch noisy night, a cricket\xe2\x80\x99s night, \n\nA night of Katydids, of dogs \nThat bayed and bayed the vast full \nmoon \n\nIn chorus with glad, tuneful frogs\xe2\x80\x94 \nWith May\xe2\x80\x99s head in the lap of June. \nHow hot, how sultry hot the room! \nTheir garden tree in perfect bloom \nGave out fair Nippon\xe2\x80\x99s full perfume\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe night grew warm and very warm, \nAnd warm her warm, full-bosomed \nform! \n\nIV \n\nHow vital, virile, strong with life, \n\nThe world without, the maiden wife! \nHow wondrous fair the world, how \nfair \n\nThe maid meshed in her mighty hair! \nThe man uprose, caught close a skin, \nA lion\xe2\x80\x99s skin, threw this about \nHis great, Herculean, pent-up form, \nThrust feet into his slippered shoes, \nThen, with a lion\xe2\x80\x99s force and frown \nHe strode the wide room up and \ndown, \n\nThe skin\xe2\x80\x99s claws flapping at his thews. \nHe turned, he caught her suddenly \n\n\n\n534 \n\n\n& \xc2\xa3>ons of Creation \n\n\nAnd instant wrapped her close within; \nThen down the stairs and back and \nout \n\nBeneath the blossomed Nippon tree\xe2\x80\x94 \nAgainst the tree he pressed her form, \nHe was so warm, so very warm\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe held her close as close could be \nAgainst the blossomed cherry tree. \n\nV \n\nHe held with all his might and main\xe2\x80\x94 \nHeld her so hard he shook the tree, \nBecause he trembled mightily \nAnd shook in his hard, happy pain\xe2\x80\x94 \nBecause he quivered as a pine \nWhen tropic storm sweeps up the line, \nAs when some swift horse, harnessed \nlow, \n\nFrets hard and bites the bit to go. \nShe laughed such low, sweet laugh, \nand said, \n\nThe while she raised her pretty head, \n\xe2\x80\x9c Please, please, be gentle good to me, \nAnd please don\xe2\x80\x99t hurt the cherry \ntree.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nVI \n\nThe warm land lay as in a swoon, \n\nFull length, the happy lap of June\xe2\x80\x94 \nA fair bride fainting with delight \nAnd fond forgetfulness with night. \nHow warm the world was and how \nwise \n\nThe world is in its love of life, \n\nIts hate of harshness, hate of strife.. \nIts love of Eden, peace that lies \nIn love-set, leaf-sown Paradise! \n\n\nVII \n\nHow generous, how good is night \nTo give its length to man\xe2\x80\x99s delight\xe2\x80\x94 \nTo give its strength from dusk till \nmom, \n\nTo push the planted yellow corn! \n\nHow warm this garden was, how \nwarm \n\nWith life, with love in any form! \n\nTwo lowly crickets, clad in black, \nCame shyly forth, shrank sudden \nback\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThen chirped in chorus, side by side; \nAnd oh, their narrow world was wide \nAs oceans, light their hearts as air, \nAnd oh, their little world was fair, \nAnd oh, their little world was warm \nBecause each had a lover there, \nBecause they loved and didn\xe2\x80\x99t care. \n\nVIII \n\nHow languid all things with delight, \nWith sensuous longings, sweet desire \nThat burned as with immortal fire, \nImmortal love that bums to live \nAnd, lives to burn, to take, to give, \nCreate, bring forth, and loving share \nWith God the fruitage, flesh or \nflower\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nJust loving, loving, bud or bower, \n\nOr bee or birdling, small or great, \nJust loving, loving to create. \n\nWith just one caution, just one care\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat all creation shall be fair. \n\nIX \n\nThe very garden wall was warm \nWith gorgeous sunshine gone away; \n\n\n) \n\n\n\n8 \xc2\xa3s>ong; of Creation \n\n\nEach vine, with eager, reaching arm, \nClung amorous, tiptoed to kiss, \n\nWith eager lips, the ardent clay \nThat held her to its breast of bliss. \n\nX \n\nBlown cherry blossoms basking lay, \nA perfect pathway of perfume; \n\nThe tiger lily scarce had room \nFor roses bending in a storm \nOf laden sweetness more than sweet. \nThe moon leaned o\xe2\x80\x99er the garden wall, \nThen, smiling, tiptoed up her way, \nThe while she let one full beam fall, \nLove-laden in the sensuous heat, \n\nSo sweet, so warm, so still withal, \nLove heard pink cherry blossoms fall. \n\nXI \n\nA Katydid laid his green thigh \nAgainst another leaf-green form \nAnd so began to sing and sigh, \n\nAs if it were his time to die \nFrom stress and strain of passion\xe2\x80\x99s \nstorm\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHe, too, was warm and very warm. \n\nXII \n\nA tasseled hammock, silken red, \nSwung, hung hard by, and foot and \nhead, \n\nA blossom-laden cherry tree. \n\nThis famed tree of the Japanese, \nWhatever other trees may be, \n\nIs held most sacred of all trees: \n\nNot quite because of its perfume, \n\nNot all because of rich pink bloom, \n\n\n535 \n\nBut much because its blossomed \nboughs \n\nNot only list to lover\xe2\x80\x99s vows, \n\nBut true to lovers, ever true, \n\nRefuse to let one moonbeam through. \n\nXIII \n\nHere, close beneath this Nippon tree, \nThe sweetest tree this side Cathay, \nThe lover\xe2\x80\x99s tree of mystery, \n\nWhere not a thread of moonlight lay, \nWhile waves of moonlight laughed \nand played \n\nAt hide and seek the other way, \n\nHe threw her, full length, from his \narm; \n\nFull length, then raised her drooping \nhead, \n\nThrew back the skin and, blushing \nred, \n\nHe sought to say\xe2\x80\x94He nothing said! \nHe nothing did but blush and blush \nAnd feel his hot blood rush and rush\xe2\x80\x94 \nThe very hammock\xe2\x80\x99s fringe was warm \nThe while he leaned low from his \nplace \n\nAnd felt her warm breath in his face. \n\nXIV \n\nThen, all abashed, he trembled so \nHe clutched the hammock hard and \nfast, \n\nHe held so hard it came, at last, \n\nTo swing, to swing fast to and fro. \nSuch awkwardness! He clutched, \nlet go, \n\nThen clutched so hard he shook each \ntree \n\nTill perfumed silence came to see\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n536 \n\n\n& H>otig of Creation \n\n\nTill fragrance fell upon her hair, \nSuch hair, a storm of pink and snow. \nHow fair, how fair, how sensuous fair, \nHalf hidden in a pink snow-storm; \nAnd yet how warm, how more than \nwarm! \n\nXV \n\nHow shamed he was! His great heart \nbeat \n\nAs beats some signal for retreat. \n\nThis stupid, bravest of brave men, \nConfused, dismayed, hung down his \nhead, \n\nThen turned and helplessly had fled, \nHad she not reached a timid hand \nAnd, half as pleading, half command \nAnd half-way laughing, shyly said. \nProm out her snood of snow and rain, \n\xe2\x80\x9cPlease shake the Nippon trees \nagain!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nXVI \n\nHe shook the trees; a fragrant shower \nOn laughing face and loosened hair\xe2\x80\x94 \nA flash of perfume and of flower\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nO, she was fair and very fair! \n\nThen with a sudden strength he \nplucked \n\nHi > red-ripe cherry from the tree, \nWound \xe2\x80\x99round the skin and loosely \ntucked \n\nThe folds about her modestly, \n\nThen on and up with giant stride \nHe bore his blushing maiden bride, \n\nSo cherry ripe, so cherry red, \n\nAnd laid her in her bridal bed\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x96\xa0 \n\nLaid perfumed bride, laid flesh and \nflower, \n\n\nHalf drowning from the fragrant \nshower. \n\nWhat snows strewn in her ample hair, \nWhat low, light laughter everywhere, \nOr cherry tree, or step or stair! \n\nJust low, soft laughter, cherry bloom, \nJust love and love\xe2\x80\x99s unnamed \nperfume. \n\nXVII \n\nHe tossed the lion\xe2\x80\x99s skin aside, \n\nWith folded arms leaned o\xe2\x80\x99er his \nbride, \n\nTurned low the light, then stood full \nlength, \n\nThen strode in all his supple strength \nThe room a time, tossed back his hair. \nThen to his bride, swift bent to her, \nAnd kneeled, as lowliest worshiper. \n\nXVIII \n\nAnd then he threw him by her side, \nHis long, strong limbs thrown out full \nlength, \n\nHis two fists full of housed-up \nstrength. \n\nWhat pride, what manly, kingly pride \nThat he had conquered, bravely slain \nHis baser self, was self again! \n\nXIX \n\nHe held a hand exceeding small, \n\nHe breathed her perfume, threw her \nhair \n\nAcross her breast with such sweet \ncare \n\nHe scarce did touch her form at all. \nAgain he rose, strode to and fro, \n\n\n\n& \xc2\xa3j>ong of Creation \n\n\n537 \n\n\nCame back and turned the light \nquite low. \n\nXX \n\nHe bowed his face close to her feet; \nNow he would rise, then would not \nrise; \n\nHe bent, blushed to his very eyes, \nThen sudden pushed aside the sheet \nAnd kissed her pink and pearly toes. \nTheir perfume was the perfect rose \nWhen perfect summer, passion, heat, \nPoints both hands of the clock \nstraight up, \n\nAs when we lift and drain the cup, \n\nAs when we lift two hands and pray \nWhen we have lived our bravest day, \nThe horologue of life may stop \nWith both hands pointing to the top. \n\nXXI \n\nThen suddenly, in strength and pride, \nFull length he threw him at her side \nAnd caught again her timid hand, \n\nA bird that had escaped his snare. \nHe caught it hard, he held it there, \nHe begged her pardon, begged and \nprayed \n\nShe would forgive him, then he laid \nHis face to her face and the land \nWas like a fairy land. They lay \nAs children well outworn at play. \n\nXXII \n\nAs children bounding from their bed, \nSo rested, radiant, satisfied \nWith self and selfishness denied, \n\nLife seemed some merry roundelay. \n\n\nThey laughed with early morn, they \nled, \n\nSo full of soul, of strength were they, \nThe laughing dance of love all day. \n\nXXIII \n\nAll day! A month of days, and each \nA song, a sermon, but to teach, \n\nA holy book to teach the truth \nOf endless, laughing, joyous youth. \nHe stood so tall, he stood so strong\xe2\x80\x94 \nAs one who holds the keys yet keeps \nHis treasure housed in shining heaps \nUntil all life was as a song. \n\nXXIV \n\nAt last, one warmest morning, she \nWould scarce let go, said o\xe2\x80\x99er and o\xe2\x80\x99er, \nHeld close his hand, held hard the \ndoor, \n\n11 Good-by! Come early back to me! \xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 \nAnd then, close up beside, as one \nMight eager seek some stout oak tree \nWhen storm is sudden threatened, \nshe \n\nPut up her pretty, pouting mouth, \nHalf closed her laughing, saucy eyes\xe2\x80\x94 \nSuch lips, such roses from the south, \nThe warm, south side of Paradise!\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nXXV \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGood-by! Come early back to me!\xe2\x80\x9d \nWhy, he heard nothing else all day, \nSaw nothing else, knew naught but \nthis, \n\nTheir fond, fond, first full-flowered \nkiss, \n\nWherein she led the rosy way, \n\n\n\n\n8 iking of Creation \n\n\n538 \n\nAs is her right, as it should be. \n\nHe looked his watch hard in its face \nA hundred times, he blushed, he \nsmiled, \n\nDid leave his friends and lightly pace \nThe street, half laughing, as a child. \nA million kisses! He\xe2\x80\x99d had one\xe2\x80\x94 \nScant one, his joy had just begun! \n\nXXVI \n\nCome early? He was at the gate \nAnd through the door ere yet the day \nHad kneeled down in the west to pray \nIts vesper prayer, all brimming o\xe2\x80\x99er \nAnd blushing that he could not wait \nTo kiss her just once more, once more, \nTake breath, then kiss her o\xe2\x80\x99er and \no\xe2\x80\x99er. \n\nXXVII \n\nBy some sweet chance he found her \nthere, \n\nClose fenced against the winding \nstair, \n\nWith no escape, behind, before. \n\nShe put her lips up as to plead \nShe might be spared a little space; \nBut there was mischief in her face, \n\nA world of frolic and of fun, \n\nAnd he could run as he could read, \nAye, he could read as he could rtm. \nAnd then she pushed her full lips out: \n\xe2\x80\x9cYou are so strong, you hold so fast! \nYou know I tried to guard the door.\xe2\x80\x9d \nAnd then she frowned, began to pout \nAnd sighed, \xe2\x80\x9c Dear, dear, \xe2\x80\x99tis not well \ndone! \xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99 \n\nAnd then he caught her close, and \nthen \n\n\nHe kissed her once, twice, thrice \nagain. \n\nXXVIII \n\nThen days and many days of this\xe2\x80\x94 \nAh! man, make merry and carouse \nUpon your way, within your house, \nHold right there in your manly hand, \nYour happy maid who waits your \nkiss; \n\nCarouse on kisses and carouse \nIn soul, the livelong, thronging day \nWhen duty tears you well away, \n\nTo know what waits you at the gate, \nAnd waiting loves and loves to wait. \n\nXXIX \n\nAnd how to kiss? A thousand ways, \nAnd each way new and each way true, \nAnd each way true and each way new \nEach day for thrice ten thousand \ndays. \n\nXXX \n\nHow loyal he who loves, how grand! \nHe does not tell her overmuch, \n\nHe does not sigh or seek to touch \nHer garments\xe2\x80\x99 hem or lily hand; \n\nShe is his soul, his life, his light, \n\nHis saint by day, his shrine by night. \n\nXXXI \n\nTrue love leads home his maiden bride \nLow-voiced and tender, soft and true: \nHe leans to her, to woo, to woo, \n\nAs if she still turned and denied\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\n\n\xc2\xae ^>ong of Creation \n\n\n539 \n\n\nNo selfish touch, no sated kiss \nTo kill and dig the grave of bliss. \n\nXXXII \n\nTrue love will hold his maiden bride \nAs nobles hold inheritance; \n\nHe will not part with one small pence \nOf her fair strength and stately pride, \nBut wait serenely at her side, \nSupremely proud, full satisfied. \n\nXXXIII \n\nWhy, what a glorious thing to view! \nEach morn a maiden at your side, \nThe one fair woman, maid and bride, \nWith all her sweetness waiting you! \nHow wise the miser, more than wise, \nWho knows to count and keep such \nprize! \n\nXXXIV \n\nHow glad the coming home of him \nWho knows a maiden waits and waits, \nAll pulsing, still, within his gates, \n\nTo kiss his goblet\xe2\x80\x99s golden brim; \n\nHow joyous still to woo and woo, \n\nTo read the old new story through! \n\nXXXV \n\nAh me, behold what heritage! \n\nWhat light by which to walk, to live \nThis age when lights resplendent \n\nburn, \n\nThis glorious, shining, new horn age. \nWhen love can bravely give and give \nAnd get thrice tenfold in return, \n\nIf man will only love and learn! \n\n\nXXXVI \n\nAnd now soft colors through the house \nBegan to surely bud and bloom; \n\nThe wise, the fair, far-seeing spouse \nBegan to deck the bridal room; \nBegan to build, as builds a bird, \nWhen first footfalls of spring are \nheard. \n\nXXXVII \n\nSome warm-toned colors on the wall, \nThen gorgeous, grass-like carpetings \nvStrown, sown with lily, pink and all \nThat nature in sweet springtime \nbrings; \n\nThen curtains from the Orient, \n\nThe silken couch, soft as a kiss, \n\nThe music born of love and blent \nBut rarely with such loves as this; \nMute music, where not hand of man \nOr foot of man is seen or heard, \n\nSuch soft, sweet sound as only can \nIn happy blossom time be heard\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nBe heard from happy, nested bird. \n\nXXXVIII \n\nAnd now full twelve o\xe2\x80\x99clock, the noon \nOf faithful, trustful, wedded love, \nThe two hands pointing straight \nabove, \n\nThis vast midnight, this argent June! \nTheir noon was midnight and the \nmoon \n\nCame through the silken sheen and \nlaid \n\nA sword of silver at her side. \n\nAnd peace, sweet, perfect peace was \nhers, \n\n\n\n\n\n540 \n\n\nMitt) Hobe to J>ou attb Pours \n\n\nAs when nor bird nor blossom stirs, \nAnd she was now no more afraid; \nThe moon surrendered to the maid, \nDrew back and softly turned aside, \nAs bridesmaid turning from the bride. \n\nXXXIX \n\nAll voiceless, noiseless, tenderly \nHe pressed beside her, took her \nhand\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nHe took her from the leaning \n\nmoon, \n\nAnd far beyond the amber sea, \n\nThey sailed the seas of afternoon\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \nThe far, still seas, so grandly grand, \nUntil they came to babyland. \n\nAnd there Creation was and there \nWere giants in the land, once \nmore, \n\nLong-lived and valiant as of yore, \nYet gentle, patient as His Prayer. \n\n\nSIT LUX \n\n\nWITH LOVE TO YOU AND YOURS \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd God said, Let there be light.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nRise up! How brief this little day? \nWe can but kindle some dim light \nHere in the darkened, wooded way \nBefore the gathering of night. \n\nCome, let us kindle it. The dawn \nShall find us tenting farther on. \n\nCome, let us kindle ere we go \xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWe know not where; but this we know, \nNight cometh on, and man needs light. \nCome! camp-fire embers, ere we grope \nYon gray archway of night. \n\nLife is so brief, so very brief, \n\nSo rounded in, we scarce can see \nThe fruitage grown amid the leaf \nAnd foliage of a single tree \nIn all God\'s garden; yet we know \nThat goodly fruits must grow and grow \nBeyond our vision. We but stand \nIn some deep hollow of God\'s hand, \nHear some sweet bird its little day, \n\n\nSee cloud and sun a season pass, \n\nAnd then, sweet friend, away! \n\nClouds pass, they come again; and \nwe, \n\nAre we, then, less than these to God? \n\nOh, for the stout faith of a tree \nThat drops its small seeds to the sod, \nSafe in the hollow of God\'s hand, \n\nAnd knows that perish from the land \nIt shall not! Yea, this much we know, \nThat each, as best it can, shall grow \nA s God has fashioned, fair or plain. \n\nTo do its best, or cloud or sun, \n\nOr in His still, small rain. \n\nOh, good to see is faith in God! \n\nBut better far is faith in good: \n\nThe one seems but a sign, a nod, \n\nThe one seems God\'s own flesh and \nblood. \n\nHow many names of God are sungl \nBut good is good in every tongue. \n\n\n\n\n54i \n\n\nMitlj 3lobe to |9ou anb Pouts \n\n\nA nd this the light , the Holy Light \nThat leads thro \xe2\x80\x99 night and night and \nnight; \n\nThro \xe2\x80\x99 nights named Death, that lie \nbetween \n\nThe days named Life, the ladder round \nUnto the Infinite Unseen. \n\n\xe2\x80\x98 \xe2\x80\x98 In the beginning God created the \nheaven and the earth; the earth was \nwithout form and void and darkness \nlay upon the deep and the spirit of \nGod moved upon the face of the \nwaters/\' \n\nPART FIRST \n\nI \n\nWhat is there in a dear dove\xe2\x80\x99s eyes, \nOr voice of mated melodies, \n\nThat tells us ever of blue skies \nAnd cease of deluge on Love\xe2\x80\x99s seas? \nThe dove looked down on Jordan\xe2\x80\x99s \ntide \n\nWell pleased with Christ the Cruci\xc2\xac \nfied; \n\nThe dove was hewed in Karnak stone \nBefore fair Jordan\xe2\x80\x99s banks were \nknown. \n\nThe dove has such a patient look, \n\nI read rest in her pretty eyes \nAs in the Holy Book. \n\nI think if I should love some day\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd may I die when dear Love dies\xe2\x80\x94 \nI\xe2\x80\x99d sail brave San Francisco\xe2\x80\x99s Bay \nAnd seek to see some sea-dove\xe2\x80\x99s eyes: \nTo see her in her air-built nest, \n\nHer wide, warm, restful wings at rest; \nTo see her rounded neck reach out, \n\n\nHer eyes lean lovingly about; \n\nAnd seeing this as love can see, \n\nI then should know, and surely know, \nThat love sailed on with me. \n\nII \n\nSee once this boundless bay and \nlive, \n\nSee once this beauteous bay and love, \nSee once this warm, bright bay and \ngive \n\nGod thanks for olive branch and dove. \nThen plunge headlong yon sapphire \nsea \n\nAnd sail and sail the world with \nme. . . . \n\nSome isles, drowned in the drowning \nsun, \n\nTen thousand sea-doves voiced as \none; \n\nLo! love\xe2\x80\x99s wings furled and wings \nunfurled; \n\nWho sees not this warm, half-world \nsea, \n\nSees not, knows not the world. \n\nHow knocks he at the Golden Gate, \nThis lord of waters, strong and bold, \nAnd fearful-voiced and fierce as fate, \nAnd hoar and old, as Time is old; \n\nYet young as when God\xe2\x80\x99s finger lay \nAgainst Night\xe2\x80\x99s forehead that first \nday, \n\nAnd drove vast Darkness forth, and \nrent \n\nThe waters from the firmament. \n\nHear how he knocks and raves and \nloves! \n\nHe woos us through the Golden Gate \nWith all his soft sea-doves. \n\n\n\n\n542 \n\n\nHit!) ILobe to Pou anb |9ours \n\n\nNow on and on, up, down, and on, \nThe sea is oily grooves; the air \nIs as your bride\xe2\x80\x99s sweet breath at \ndawn \n\nWhen all your ardent youth is there. \nAnd oh, the rest! and oh, the room! \nAnd oh, the sensuous sea perfume! \nYon new moon peering as we passed \nHas scarce escaped our topmost mast. \nA porpoise, wheeling restlessly, \n\nQuick draws a bright, black, dripping \nblade, \n\nThen sheathes it in the sea. \n\nVast, half-world, wondrous sea of \nours! \n\nDread, unknown deep of all sea deeps! \nWhat fragrance from thy strange \nsea-flowers \n\nDeep-gardened where God\'s silence \nkeeps! \n\nThy song is silence, and thy face \nIs God\xe2\x80\x99s face in His holy place. \n\nThy billows swing sweet censer foam, \nWhere stars hang His cathedral\xe2\x80\x99s \ndome. \n\nSuch blue above, below such blue! \nThese burly winds so tall, they can \nScarce walk between the two. \n\nSuch room of sea! Such room of \nsky! \n\nSuch room to draw a soul-full breath! \nSuch room to live! Such room to die! \nSuch room to roam in after death! \nWhite room, with sapphire room set \n\xe2\x80\x99round, \n\nAnd still beyond His room profound; \nSuch room-bound boundlessness o\xe2\x80\x99er- \nhead \n\n\nAs never has been writ or said \nOr seen, save by the favored few, \nWhere kings of thought play chess \nwith stars \n\nAcross their board of blue. \n\n\nIll \n\nThe proud ship wrapped her in the \nred \n\nThat hung from heaven, then the \ngray, \n\nThe soft dove-gray that shrouds the \ndead \n\nAnd prostrate form of perfumed day: \nSome noisy, pigmy creatures kept \nThe deck a spell, then, leaning, crept \nApart in silence and distrust, \n\nThen down below in deep disgust. \n\nAn albatross,\xe2\x80\x94a shadow cross \nHung at the head of buried day,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAt foot the albatross. \n\nThen came a warm, soft, sultry \nbreath\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \n\nA weary wind that wanted rest; \n\nA breath as from some house of death \nWith flowers heaped; as from the \nbreast \n\nOf such sweet princess as had slept \nSome thousand years embalmed, and \nkept, \n\nIn fearful Karnak\xe2\x80\x99s tomb-hewn hill, \nHer perfume and spiced sweetness \nstill,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nSuch breath as bees droop down to \nmeet, \n\nAnd creep along lest it may melt \nTheir honey-laden feet. \n\n\n\n543 \n\n\nMttf) llobe to |9ou anti Pours \n\n\nThe captain\xe2\x80\x99s trumpet smote the \nair! \n\nSwift men, like spiders up a thread, \nSwept suddenly. Then masts were \nbare \n\nAs when tall poplars\xe2\x80\x99 leaves are shed, \nAnd ropes were clamped and stays \nwere clewed. \n\n\xe2\x80\x99T was as when wrestlers, iron-thewed \nGird tight their loins, take full breath, \nAnd set firm face, as fronting death. \nThree small brown birds, or gray, so \nsmall, \n\nSo ghostly still and swift they passed, \nThey scarce seemed birds at all. \n\nThen quick, keen saber-cuts, like \nice; \n\nThen sudden hail, like battle-shot, \nThen two last men crept down like \nmice, \n\nAnd man, poor, pigmy man, was not. \nThe great ship shivered, as with \ncold\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAn instant staggered back, then bold \nAs Theodosia, to her waist \nIn waters, stood erect and faced \nBlack thunder; and she kept her way \nAnd laughed red lightning from her \nface \n\nAs on some gala day. \n\nThe black sea-horses rode in row; \nTheir white manes tossing to the \nnight \n\nBut made the blackness blacker grow \nFrom flashing, phosphorescent light. \nAnd how like hurdle steeds they leapt! \nThe low moon burst; the black troop \nswept \n\nRight through her hollow, on and on. \n\n\nA wave-wet simitar was drawn, \nFlashed twice, flashed thrice trium\xc2\xac \nphantly, \n\nBut still the steeds dashed on, dashed \non, \n\nAnd drowned her in the sea. \n\nWhat headlong winds that lost \ntheir way \n\nAt sea, and wailed out for the shore! \nHow shook the orient doors of day \nWith all this mad, tumultuous roar! \nBlack clouds, shot through with stars \nof red; \n\nStrange stars, storm-born and fire- \nfed; \n\nLost stars that came, and went, and \ncame; \n\nSuch stars as never yet had name. \nThe far sea-lions on their isles \nUpheaved their huge heads terrified, \nAnd moaned a thousand miles. \n\nWhat fearful battle-field! What \n\nspace \n\nFor light and darkness, flame and \nflood! \n\nLo! Light and Darkness, face to face, \nIn battle harness battling stood! \n\nAnd how the surged sea burst upon \nThe granite gates of Oregon! \n\nIt tore, it tossed the seething spume, \nAnd wailed for room! and room! and \nroom! \n\nIt shook the crag-built eaglets\xe2\x80\x99 nest \nUntil they screamed from out their \nclouds, \n\nThen rocked them back to rest. \n\nHow fiercely reckless raged the \nwar! \n\n\n\n544 \n\n\nIHttf) TL otic to $)ou anti Hours \n\n\nThen suddenly no ghost of light, \n\nOr even glint of storm-born star. \nJust night, and black, torn bits of \nnight; \n\nJust night, and midnight\xe2\x80\x99s middle \nnoon, \n\nWith all mad elements in tune; \n\nJust night, and that continuous roar \nOf wind, wind, night, and nothing \nmore. \n\nThen all the hollows of the main \nSank down so deep, it almost seemed \nThe seas were hewn in twain. \n\nHow deep the hollows of this deep! \nHow high, how trembling high the \ncrest! \n\nTen thousand miles of surge and \nsweep \n\nAnd length and breadth of billow\xe2\x80\x99s \nbreast! \n\nUp! up, as if against the skies! \n\nDown! down, as if no more to rise! \nThe creaking wallow in the trough, \n\nAs if the world was breaking off. \n\nThe pigmies in their trough down \nthere! \n\nDeep in their trough they tried to \npray\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTd hide from God in prayer. \n\nThen boomed Alaska\xe2\x80\x99s great, first \ngun \n\nIn battling ice and rattling hail; \n\nThen Indus came, four winds in one! \nThen came Japan in counter mail \nOf mad cross winds; and Waterloo \nWas but as some babe\xe2\x80\x99s tale unto. \nThe typhoon spun his toy in play \nAnd whistled as a glad boy may \nTo see his top spin at his feet: \n\n\nThe captain on his bridge in ice, \n\nHis sailors mailed in sleet. \n\nWhat unchained, unnamed, noises, \nspace! \n\nWhat shoreless, boundless, rounded \nreach \n\nOf room was here! Fit field, fit place \nFor three fierce emperors, where each \nCame armed with elements that make \nOr unmake seas and lands, that shake \nThe heavens\xe2\x80\x99 roof, that freeze or \nburn \n\nThe seas as they may please to turn. \nAnd such black silence! Not a sound \nSave whistling of that mad, glad boy \nTo see his top spin round. \n\nThen swift, like some sulked Ajax, \nburst \n\nThewed Thunder from his battle- \ntent; \n\nAs if in pent-up, vengeful thirst \nFor blood, the elements of Earth were \nrent, \n\nAnd sheeted crimson lay a wedge \nOf blood below black Thunder\xe2\x80\x99s edge. \nA pause. The typhoon turned, up- \nwheeled, \n\nAnd wrestled Death till heaven reeled. \nThen Lightning reached a fiery rod, \nAnd on Death\xe2\x80\x99s fearful forehead \nwrote \n\nThe autograph of God. \n\nIV \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s name and face\xe2\x80\x94what need \nof more? \n\nMom came: calm came; and holy \nlight, \n\n\n/ \n\n\n\n\n545 \n\n\nMtti) Hobe to Hou anti J^ourg \n\n\nAnd warm, sweet weather, leaning \no\xe2\x80\x99er, \n\nLaid perfumes on the tomb of night. \nThe three wee birds came dimly back \nAnd housed about the mast in black, \nAnd all the tranquil sense of morn \nSeemed as Dakota\xe2\x80\x99s fields of corn, \nSave that some great soul-breaking \nsigh \n\nNow sank the proud ship out of sight, \nNow sent her to the sky. \n\nV \n\nOne strong, strange man had kept \nthe deck\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOne silent, seeing man, who knew \nThe pulse of Nature, and could reck \nHer deepest heart-beats through and \nthrough. \n\nHe knew the night, he loved the night. \nWhen elements went forth to fight \nHis soul went with them without fear \nTo hear God\xe2\x80\x99s voice, so few will hear. \nThe swine had plunged them in the \nsea, \n\nThe swine down there, but up on \ndeck \n\nThe captain, God and he. \n\nVI \n\nAnd oh, such sea-shell tints of light \nHigh o\xe2\x80\x99er those wide sea-doors of \ndawn! \n\nSail, sail the world for that one sight, \nThen satisfied, let time begone. \n\nThe ship rose up to meet that light, \nBright candles, tipped like tasseled \ncom, \n\nThe holy virgin, maiden morn, \n\n\nArrayed in woven gold and white. \nPut by the harp\xe2\x80\x94hush minstrelsy; \nNor bard or bird has yet been heard \nTo sing this scene, this sea. \n\nVII \n\nSuch light! such liquid, molten \nlight! \n\nSuch mantling, healthful, heartful \nmorn! \n\nSuch morning bom of such mad night! \nSuch night as never had been born! \nThe man caught in his breath, his \nface \n\nWas lifted up to light and space; \n\nHis hand dashed o\xe2\x80\x99er his brow, as \nwhen \n\nDeep thoughts submerge the souls of \nmen; \n\nAnd then he bowed, bowed mute, \nappalled \n\nAt memory of scenes, such scenes \nAs this swift mom recalled. \n\nHe sought the ship\xe2\x80\x99s prow, as men \nseek \n\nThe utmost limit for their feet, \n\nTo lean, look forth, to list nor speak, \nNor turn aside, nor yet retreat \nOne inch from this far vantage- \nground, \n\nTill he had pierced the dread pro\xc2\xac \nfound \n\nAnd proved it false. And yet he knew \nDeep in his earth that all was true; \n\nSo like it was to that first dawn \nWhen God had said, \xe2\x80\x9cLet there be \nlight,\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 \n\nAnd thus he spake right on: \n\n\n3S \n\n\n\n546 fiitf) Hobe to \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMy soul was born ere light was \nborn, \n\nWhen blackness was, as this black \nnight. \n\nAnd then that morn, as this sweet \nmorn! \n\nThat sudden light, as this swift light! \nI had forgotten. Now, I know \nThe travail of the world, the low, \nDull creatures in the sea of slime \nThat time committed unto time, \n\nAs great men plant oaks patiently, \nThen turn in silence unto dust \nAnd wait the coming tree. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThat long, lorn blackness, seams \nof flame, \n\nVolcanoes bursting from the slime, \nHuge, shapeless monsters without \nname \n\nSlow shaping in the loom of time; \n\nSlow weaving as a weaver weaves; \n\nSo like as when some good man leaves \nHis acorns to the centuries \nAnd waits the stout ancestral trees. \nBut ah, so piteous, memory \nReels back, as sickened, from that \nscene\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nIt breaks the heart of me! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cVolcanoes crying out for light! \nThe very slime found tongues of fire! \nHuge monsters climbing in their \nmight \n\nO\xe2\x80\x99er submerged monsters in the mire \nThat heaved their slimy mouths, and \ncried \n\nAnd cried for light, and crying, died. \nHow all that wailing through the air \nBut seems as some unbroken prayer. \n\n\nJfou anti Pours \n\nOne ceaseless prayer that long lorn \nnight \n\nThe world lay in the loom of time \nAnd waited so for light! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd I, amid those monsters there, \nA grade above, or still below? \n\nNay, Time has never time to care; \nAnd I can scarcely dare to know. \n\nI but. remember that one prayer; \nTen thousand wide mouths in the air, \nTen thousand monsters in their \nmight, \n\nAll eyeless, looking up for light. \n\nWe prayed, we prayed as never man, \nBy sea or land, by deed or word, \n\nHas prayed since light began. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGreat sea-cows laid their fins \nupon \n\nLow-floating isles, as good priests lay \nTwo holy hands, at early dawn, \nUpon the altar cloth to pray. \nx\\ye, ever so, with lifted head, \n\nPoor, slime-bom creatures and slime- \nbred, \n\nWe prayed. Our sealed-up eyes of \nnight \n\nAll lifting, lifting up for light. \n\nAnd I have paused to wonder, when \nThis world will pray as we then \nprayed, \n\nWhat God may not give men! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHist! Once I saw,\xe2\x80\x94What was I \nthen? \n\nAh, dim and devious the light \nComes back, but I was not of men. \nAnd it is only such black night \nAs this, that was of war and strife \n1 Of elements, can wake that life, \n\n\n\nOTttf) Hobe to ^ou ant\' Hours \n\n\n547 \n\n\nThat life in death, that black and \ncold \n\nAnd blind and loveless life of old. \n\nBut hear! I saw\xe2\x80\x94heed this and \nlearn \n\nHow old, how holy old is Love, \nHowever Time may turn: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI saw, I saw, or somehow felt, \n\nA sea-cow mother nurse her young. \n\nI saw, and with thanksgiving knelt, \nTo see her head, low, loving, hung \nAbove her nursling. Then the light, \nThe lovelight from those eyes of \nnight! \n\nI say to you\xe2\x80\x99t was lovelight then \nThat first lit up the eyes of men. \n\nI say to you lovelight was born \nEre God laid hand to clay of man, \nOr ever that first mom. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat though a monster slew her \nso, \n\nThe while she bowed and nursed her \nyoung? \n\nShe leaned her head to take the blow, \nAnd dying, still the closer clung\xe2\x80\x94 \nAnd dying gave her life to save \nThe helpless life she erstwhile gave, \nAnd so sank back below the slime, \n\nA tom shred in the loom of time. \nThe one thing more I needs must say, \nThat monster slew her and her young; \nBut Love he could not slay.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nPART SECOND \n\nI \n\nThe man stood silent, peering past \nHis utmost verge of memory. \n\nWhat lay beyond, beyond that vast \n\n\nBewildering darkness and dead sea \nOf noisome vapors and dread night? \nNo light! not any sense of light \nBeyond that life when Love was bom \nOn that first, far, dim rim of morn: \nNo light beyond that beast that clung \nIn darkness by the light of love \nAnd died to save her young. \n\nAnd yet we know life must have \nbeen \n\nBefore that dark, dread life of pain; \nLife germs, love germs of gentle men, \nSo small, so still; as still, small rain. \nBut whence this life, this living soul, \nThis germ that grows a godlike whole? \nT can but think of that sixth day \nWhen God first set His hand to clay, \nAnd did in His own image plan \nA perfect form, a manly form, \n\nA comely, godlike man. \n\nII \n\nDid soul germs grown down in the \ndeeps, \n\nThe while God\xe2\x80\x99s Spirit moved upon \nThe waters? High-set Lima keeps \nA rose-path, like a ray of dawn; \n\nAnd simple, pious peons say \nSweet Santa Rosa passed that way; \nAnd so, because of her fair fame \nAnd saintly face, these roses came. \nShall we not say, ere that first morn, \nWhere God moved, garmented in \nmists, \n\nSome sweet soul germs were bom? \n\nIII \n\nThe strange, strong man still kept \nthe prow; \n\n\n\n548 \n\n\nMttI) llobe to ^ou anti Hours \n\n\nHe saw, still saw before light was, \nThe dawn of love, the huge sea-cow, \nThe living slime, love\xe2\x80\x99s deathless \nlaws. \n\nHe knew love lived, lived ere a blade \nOf grass, or ever light was made; \n\nAnd love was in him, of him, as \nThe light was on the sea of glass. \n\nIt made his heart great, and he grew \nTo look on God all unabashed; \n\nTo look lost eons through. \n\nIV \n\nIlluming love! what talisman! \nThat Word which makes the world \ngo \xe2\x80\x99round! \n\nThat Word which bore worlds in its \nplan! \n\nThat Word which was the Word \nprofound! \n\nThat Word which was the great First \nCause, \n\nBefore light was, before sight was! \n\nI would not barter love for gold \nEnough to fill a tall ship\xe2\x80\x99s hold; \nNay, not for great Victoria\xe2\x80\x99s worth\xe2\x80\x94 \nSo great the sun sets not upon \nIn all his round of earth. \n\nI would not barter love for all \nThe silver spilling from the moon; \n\nI would not barter love at all \nThough you should coin each after\xc2\xac \nnoon \n\nOf gold for centuries to be, \n\nAnd count the coin all down as free \nAs conqueror fresh home from wars,\xe2\x80\x94 \nCoin sunset bars, coin heaven-bom \nstars, \n\nCoin all below, coin all above, \n\n\nCount all down at my feet, yet I\xe2\x80\x94 \nI would not barter love. \n\nV \n\nThe lone man started, stood as \nwhen \n\nA strong man hears, yet does not \nhear. \n\nHe raised his hand, let fall, and then \nQuick arched his hand above his ear \nAnd leaned a little; yet no sound \nBroke through the vast, serene pro\xc2\xac \nfound. \n\nMan\xe2\x80\x99s soul first knew sbme telephone \nIn sense and language all its own. \nThe tall man heard, yet did not hear; \nHe saw, and yet he did not see \nA fair face near and dear. \n\nFor there, half hiding, crouching \nthere \n\nAgainst the capstan, coils on coils \nOf rope, some snow still in her hair, \nLike Time, too eager for his spoils, \nWas such fair face raised to his face \nAs only dream of dreams give place; \nSuch shyness, boldness, sea-shell \ntint, \n\nSuch book as only God may print, \nSuch tender, timid, holy look \nOf startled love and trust and hope,\xe2\x80\x94 \nA gold-bound storybook. \n\nAnd while the great ship rose and \nfell, \n\nOr rocked or rounded with the sea, \nHe saw,\xe2\x80\x94a little thing to tell, \n\nAn idle, silly thing, maybe,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nWhere her right arm was bent to \nclasp \n\n\n\n549 \n\n\nfflttf) Xobe to J|ou anb J^ourg \n\n\nHei robe\xe2\x80\x99s fold in some closer clasp, \nA little isle of melting snow \nThat round about and to and fro \nAnd up and down kept eddying. \n\nIt told so much, that idle isle, \n\nYet such a little thing. \n\nIt told she, too, was of a race \nBorn ere the baby stars were born; \nShe, too, familiar with God\xe2\x80\x99s face, \nKnew folly but to shun and scorn; \nShe, too, all night had sat to read \nBy heaven\xe2\x80\x99s light, to hear, to heed \nThe awful voice of God, to grow \nIn thought, to see, to feel, to know \nThe harmony of elements \nThat tear and toss the sea of seas \nTo foam-built battle-tents. \n\nHe saw that drifting isle of snow, \nAs some lorn miner sees bright gold \nSeamed deep in quartz, and joys to \nknow \n\nThat here lies hidden wealth untold. \nAnd now his head was lifted strong, \nAs glad men lift the head in song. \n\nHe knew she, too, had spent the night \nAs he, in all that wild delight \nOf tuneful elements; she, too, \n\nHe knew, was of that olden time \nEre oldest stars were new. \n\nVI \n\nHer soul\xe2\x80\x99s ancestral book bore date \nBeyond the peopling of the moon, \nBeyond the day when Saturn sate \nIn royal cincture, and the boon \nOf light and life bestowed on stars \nAnd satellites; ere martial Mars \nWaxed red with battle rage and shook \n\n\nThe porch of heaven with a look; \nEre polar ice-shafts propt gaunt earth \nAnd slime was but the womb of time, \nThat knew not yet of birth. \n\nVII \n\nTo be what thou wouldst truly be, \nBe bravely, truly, what thou art. \n\nThe acorn houses the huge tree, \n\nAnd patient, silent bears its part, \nAnd bides the miracle of time. \n\nFor miracle, and more sublime \nIt is than all that has been writ, \n\nTo see the great oak grow from it. \nBut thus the soul grows, grows the \nheart,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nTo be what thou wouldst truly be. \nBe truly what thou art. \n\nTo be what thou wouldst truly be, \nBe true. God\xe2\x80\x99s finger sets each seed, \nOr when or where we may not see; \nBut God shall nourish to its need \nEach one, if but it dares be true; \n\nTo do what it is set to do. \n\nThy proud soul\xe2\x80\x99s heraldry? \xe2\x80\x99T is writ \nIn every gentle action; it \nCan never be contested. Time \nDates thy brave soul\xe2\x80\x99s ancestral book \nFrom thy first deed sublime. \n\nVIII \n\nWouldst learn to know one little \nflower, \n\nIts perfume, perfect form and hue? \nYea, wouldst thou have one perfect \nhour \n\nOf all the years that come to you? \nThen grow as God hath planted, grow \n\n\n\n\n550 \n\n\nWitf) Hobe to ^ou anb Hours \n\n\nA lordly oak or daisy low, \n\nAs He hath set His garden; be \nJust what thou art, or grass or tree. \nThy treasures up in heaven laid \nAwait thy sure ascending soul, \n\nLife after life,\xe2\x80\x94be not afraid! \n\nIX \n\nWouldst know the secrets of the \nsoil? \n\nWouldst have Earth bare her breast \nto you? \n\nWouldst know the sweet rest of hard \ntoil? \n\nBe true, be true, be ever true! \n\nAh me, these self-made cuts of wrong \nThat hew men down! Behold the \nstrong \n\nAnd comely Adam bound with lies \nAnd banished from his paradise! \n\nThe serpent on his belly still \n\nEats dirt through all his piteous days, \n\nDo penance as he will. \n\nPoor, heel-bruised, prostrate, tortu\xc2\xac \nous snake! \n\nWhat soul crawls here upon the \nground? \n\nGod willed his soul at birth to take \nThe round of beauteous things, the \nround \n\nOf earth, the round of boundless skies. \nIt lied, and lo! how low it lies! \n\nWhat quick, sleek tongue to lie with \nhere! \n\nWast thou a broker but last year? \nWast known to fame, wast rich and \nproud? \n\nDidst live a lie that thou mightst die \nWith pockets in thy shroud? \n\n\nX \n\nBe still, be pitiful! that soul \nMay yet be rich in peace as thine. \nYea, as the shining ages roll \nThat rich man\xe2\x80\x99s soul may rise and \nshine \n\nBeyond Orion; yet may reel \nThe Pleiades with belts of steel \nThat compass commerce in their \nreach; \n\nMay learn and learn, and learning \nteach, \n\nThe while his soul grows grandly old, \nHow nobler far to share a crust \nThan hoard car-loads of gold! \n\nXI \n\n\nOh, but to know; to surely know \nHow strangely beautiful is light! \n\nHow just one gleam of light will glow \nAnd grow more beautifully bright \nThan all the gold that ever lay \nBelow the wide-arched Milky Way! \n\xe2\x80\x9cLet there be light!\xe2\x80\x9d and lo! the \nburst \n\nOf light in answer to the first \nCommand of high Jehovah\xe2\x80\x99s voice! \nLet there be light for man to-night, \nThat all men may rejoice. \n\nXII \n\nThe little isle of ice and snow \nThat in her gathered garment lay, \nAnd dashed and drifted to and fro \nUnhindered of her, went its way. \nThe while the warm winds of Japan \nWere with them, and the silent man \n\n\n\n55i \n\n\nffliitj) Hobe to ffou anti Hour# \n\n\nStood by her, saying, hearing naught, \nYet seeing, noting all; as one \nSees not, yet all day sees the sun. \nHe knew her silence, heeded well \nHer dignity of idle hands \nIn this deep, tranquil spell. \n\nXIII \n\nThe true soul surely knows its own, \nDeep down in this man\xe2\x80\x99s heart he \nknew, \n\nSomehow, somewhere along the zone \nOf time, his soul should come unto \nIts safe seaport, some pleasant land \nOf rest where she should reach a hand. \nHe had not questioned God. His care \nWas to be worthy, fit to share \nThe glory, peace, and perfect rest, \nCome how or when or where it comes, \nAs God in time sees best. \n\nHer face reached forward, not to \nhim, \n\nBut forward, upward, as for light; \nFor light that lay a silver rim \nOf sea-lit whiteness more than white. \nThe vast full morning poured and \nspilled \n\nIts splendor down, and filled and filled \nAnd overfilled the heaped-up sea \nWith silver molten suddenly. \n\nThe night lay trenched in her meshed \nhair; \n\nThe tint of sea-shells left the sea \nTo make her more than fair. \n\nWhat massed, what matchless \nmidnight hair! \n\nHer wide, sweet, sultry, drooping \nmouth, \n\n\nAs droops some flower when the air \nBlows odors from the ardent South\xe2\x80\x94 \nThat Sapphic, sensate, bended bow \nOf deadly archery; as though \nLove\xe2\x80\x99s legions fortressed there and \nsent \n\nRed arrows from his bow fell bent. \nSuch apples! such sweet fruit con\xc2\xac \ncealed \n\nOf perfect womanhood make more \nSweet pain than if revealed. \n\nXIV \n\nHow good a thing it is to house \nThy full heart treasures to that day \nWhen thou shalt take her, and \ncarouse \n\nThenceforth with her for aye and \naye; \n\nHow good a thing to give the store \nThat thus the thousand years or \nmore, \n\nPoor, hungered, holy worshiper, \n\nYou kept for her, and only her! \n\nHow well with all thy wealth to wait \nOr year, or thousand thousand years, \nHer coming at love\xe2\x80\x99s gate! \n\nXV \n\nThe winds pressed warm from \nwarm Japan \n\nUpon her pulsing womanhood. \n\nThey fanned such fires in the man \nHis face shone glory where he stood. \nIn Persia\xe2\x80\x99s rose-fields, I have heard, \nThere sings a sad, sweet, one-winged \nbird; \n\nSings ever sad in lonely round \nUntil his one-winged mate is found; \n\n\n\n\n552 \n\n\n\xc2\xa9Bttf) Hobe to l?ou attb Pouts \n\n\nAnd then, side laid to side, they rise \nSo swift, so strong, they even dare \nThe doorway of the skies. \n\nXVI \n\nHow rich was he! how richer she! \nSuch treasures up in heaven laid, \nWhere moth and rust may never be, \nNor thieves break in, or make afraid. \nSuch treasures, where the tranquil \nsoul \n\nWalks space, nor limit nor control \nCan know, but journeys on and on \nBeyond the golden gates of dawn; \nBeyond the outmost round of Mars; \nWhere God\xe2\x80\x99s foot rocks the cradle of \nHis new-born baby stars. \n\nXVII \n\nAs one who comes upon a street, \n\nOr sudden turn in pleasant path, \n\nAs one who suddenly may meet \nSome scene, some sound, some sense \nthat hath \n\nA memory of olden days, \n\nOf days that long have gone their \nways, \n\nShe caught her breath, caught quick \nand fast \n\nHer breath, as if her whole life passed \nBefore, and pendant to and fro \nSwung in the air before her eyes; \n\nAnd oh, her heart beat so! \n\nHow her heart beat! Three thou\xc2\xac \nsand years \n\nOf weary, waiting womanhood, \n\nOf folded hands, of falling tears, \n\n\nOf lone soul-wending through dark \nwood; \n\nBut now at last to meet once more \nUpon the bright, all-shining shore \nOf earth, in life\xe2\x80\x99s resplendent dawn, \nAnd he so fair to look upon! \n\nTall Phaon and the world aglow! \n\nTall Phaon, favored of the gods, \n\nAnd oh, her heart beat so! \n\nHer heart beat so, no word she \nspake; \n\nShe pressed her palms, she leaned her \nface,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nHer heart beat so, its beating brake \nThe cord that held her robe in place \nAbout her wondrous, rounded throat, \nAnd in the warm winds let it float \nAnd fall upon her soft, round arm, \nSo warm it made the morning warm. \nThen pink and pearl forsook her \ncheek, \n\nAnd, \xe2\x80\x9cPhaon, I am Sappho, I\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\x9d \nNay, nay, she did not speak. \n\nAnd was this Sappho, she who sang \nWhen mournful Jeremiah wept? \nWhen harps, where weeping willows \nhang, \n\nHung mute and all their music kept? \nSuch witchery of song as drew \nThe war-like world to hear her sing, \nAs moons draw mad seas following. \nAye, this was Sappho; Lesbos hill \nHad all been hers, and Tempi\xe2\x80\x99s vale, \nAnd song sweet as to kill. \n\nHer dark Greek eyes turned to the \nsea; \n\nLo, Phaon\xe2\x80\x99s ferry as of old! \n\nHe kept his boat\xe2\x80\x99s prow still, and he \n\n\n\n\n(SJSitf) Ho be to Pou anti Pours \n\n\n553 \n\n\nWas stately, comely, strong, and bold \nAs when he ferried gods, and drew \nImmortal youth from one who knew \nHis scorn of gold. The Lesbian shore \nLay yonder, and the rocky roar \nAgainst the promontory told, \n\nTold and retold her tale of love \nThat never can grow old. \n\nThree thousand years! yet love \nwas young \n\nAnd fair as when Atolis knew \nHer glory, and her great soul strung \nThe harp that still sweeps ages \nthrough. \n\nIonic dance or Doric war, \n\nOr purpled dove or dulcet car, \n\nOr unyoked dove or close-yoked dove, \nWhat meant it all but love and love? \nAnd at the naming of Love\xe2\x80\x99s name \nShe raised her eyes, and lo! her doves! \nJust of old they came. \n\nPART THIRD \n\nI \n\nAnd they sailed on; the sea-doves \nsailed, \n\nAnd Love sailed with them. And \nthere lay \n\nSuch peace as never had prevailed \nOn earth since dear Love\xe2\x80\x99s natal day. \nGreat black-backed whales blew bows \nin clouds, \n\nWee sea-birds flitted through the \nshrouds. \n\nA wide-winged, amber albatross \nBlew by, and bore his shadow cross, \nAnd seemed to hang it on the mast, \n\n\nThe while he followed far behind, \nThe great ship flew so fast. \n\nShe questioned her if Phaon knew, \nIf he could dream, or halfway guess \nHow she had tracked the ages through \nAnd trained her soul to gentleness \nThrough many lives, through every \npart \n\nTo make her worthy his great heart. \nWould Phaon turn and fly her still, \nWith that fierce, proud, imperious \nwill, \n\nAnd scorn her still, and still despise? \nShe shuddered, turned aside her face, \nAnd lo, her sea-dove\xe2\x80\x99s eyes! \n\nII \n\nThen days of rest and restful \nnights; \n\nAnd love kept tryst as true love will, \nThe prow their trysting-place. De\xc2\xac \nlights \n\nOf silence, simply sitting still,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf asking nothing, saying naught; \nFor all that they had ever sought \nSailed with them; words or deeds had \nbeen \n\nImpertinence, a selfish sin. \n\nAnd oh, to know how sweet a thing \nIs silence on those restful seas \nWhen Love\xe2\x80\x99s dove folds her wing! \n\nThe great sea slept. In vast re\xc2\xac \npose \n\nHis pillowed head half-hidden lay, \nHalf-drowned in dread Alaskan snows \nThat stretch to where no man can \nsay. \n\nHis huge arms tossed to left, to right, \n\n\n\n\n554 \n\n\n\xc2\xa9Slttf) Hobe to Pou ant) Pours \n\n\nWhere black woods, banked like bits \nof night, \n\nAs sleeping giants toss their arms \nAt night about their fearful forms. \n\nA slim canoe, a night-bird\xe2\x80\x99s call, \nSome gray sea-doves, just these and \nLove, \n\nAnd Love indeed was all! \n\nIII \n\nFar, far away such cradled Isles \nAs Jason dreamed and Argos sought \nSurge up from endless watery miles! \nAnd thou, the pale high priest of \nthought, \n\nThe everlasting throned king \nOf fair Samoa! Shall I bring \nSweet sandal-wood? Or shall I lay \nRich wreaths of California\xe2\x80\x99s bay \nFrom sobbing maidens? Stevenson, \nSleep well. Thy work is done; well \ndone! \n\nSo bravely, bravely done! \n\nAnd Molokia\xe2\x80\x99s lord of love \nAnd tenderness, and piteous tears \nFor stricken man! Co forth, O dove! \nWith olive branch, and still the fears \nOf those he meekly died to save. \nThey shall not perish. From that \ngrave \n\nShall grow such healing! such as He \nGave stricken men by Galilee. \n\nGreat ocean cradle, cradle, keep \nThese two, the chosen of thy heart, \nRocked in sweet, baby sleep. \n\nIV \n\nFair land of flowers, land of flame, \nOf sun-born seas, of sea-born clime, \n\n\nOf clouds low shepherded and tame \nAs white pet sheep at shearing time, \nOf great, white, generous high-born \nrain, \n\nOf rainbows builded not in vain\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nOf rainbows builded for the feet \nOf love to pass dry-shod and fleet \nFrom isle to isle, when smell of musk \n\xe2\x80\x99Mid twilight is, and one lone star \nSits in the brow of dusk. \n\nOh, dying, sad-voiced, sea-born \nmaid! \n\nAnd plundered, dying, still sing on. \nThy breast against the thorn is laid\xe2\x80\x94 \nSing on, sing on, sweet dying swan. \nHow pitiful! And so despoiled \nBy those you fed, for whom you \ntoiled! \n\nAloha! Hail you, and farewell, \n\nFar echo of some lost sea-shell! \n\nSome song that lost its way at sea, \nSome sea-lost notes of nature, lost, \nThat crying, came to me. \n\nDusk maid, adieu! One sea-shell \nless! \n\nSa i sea-shell silenced and forgot. \n\nO Rachel in the wilderness, \n\nWail on! Your children they are \nnot. \n\nAnd they who took them, they who \nlaid \n\nHard hand, shall they not feel afraid? \nShall they who in the name of God \nRobbed and enslaved, escape His \nrod? \n\nGive me some after-world afar \nFrom these hard men, for well I know \nHell must be where they are. \n\n\n\nHitt!) Hobe to ffou anb Hours \n\n\n555 \n\n\nv \n\nLo! suddenly the lone ship burst \nUpon an uncompleted world, \n\nA world so dazzling white, man durst \nNot face the flashing search-light \nhurled \n\nFrom heaven\xe2\x80\x99s snow-built battle\xc2\xac \nments \n\nAnd high-heaved camp of cloud- \nwreathed tents. \n\nAnd boom! boom! boom! from sea or \nshore \n\nCame one long, deep, continuous roar, \nAs if God wrought; as if the days, \nThe first six pregnant mother morns, \nHad not quite gone their way. \n\nWhat word is fitting but the Word \nHere in this vast world-fashioning? \nWhat tongue here name the nameless \nLord? \n\nWhat hand lay hand on anything? \nCome, let us coin new words of might \nAnd massiveness to name this light, \nThis largeness, largeness everywhere! \nWhite rivers hanging in the air, \nIce-tied through all eternity! \n\nNay, peace! It were profane to say: \nWe dare but hear and see. \n\nBe silent! Hear the strokes re\xc2\xac \nsound ! \n\n\xe2\x80\x99T is God\xe2\x80\x99s hand rounding down the \nearth. \n\nTake off thy shoes, \xe2\x80\x99t is holy ground, \nBehold! a continent has birth! \n\nThe skies bow down, Madonna\xe2\x80\x99s blue \nEnfolds the sea in sapphire. You \nMay lift, a little spell, your eyes \n\n\nAnd feast them on the ice-propped \nskies, \n\nAnd feast but for a little space: \n\nThen let thy face fall grateful down \nAnd let thy soul say grace. \n\nVI \n\nAt anchor so, and all night through, \nThe two before God\xe2\x80\x99s temple kept. \n\nHe spake: \xe2\x80\x9cI know yon peak; I knew \nA deep ice-cavern there. I slept \nWith hairy men, or monsters slew, \n\nOr led down misty seas my crew \nOf cruel savages and slaves, \n\nAnd slew who dared the distant \nwaves, \n\nAnd once a strange, strong ship\xe2\x80\x94and \nshe , \n\nI bore her to yon cave of ice,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd Love companioned me. \n\nVII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTwo scenes of all scenes from the \nfirst \n\nHave come to me on this great sea: \nThe one when light from heaven \nburst, \n\nThe one when sweet Love came to \nme. \n\nAnd of the two, or best or worst, \n\nI ever hold this second first, \n\nBear with me. Yonder citadel \nOf ice tells all my tongue can tell: \nMy thirst for love, my pain, my \npride, \n\nMy soul\xe2\x80\x99s warm youth the while she \nlived, \n\nIts old age when she died. \n\n\n\n\n556 \n\n\nJfflitf) Hobe to 19ou anb JJourS \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI know not if she loved or no. \n\nI only asked to serve and love; \n\nTo love and serve, and ever so \nMy love grew as grows light above,\xe2\x80\x94 \nGrew from gray dawn to gold midday, \nAnd swept the wide world in its \nsway. \n\nThe stars came down, so close they \ncame, \n\nI called them, named them with her \nname, \n\nThe kind moon came,\xe2\x80\x94came once so \nnear, \n\nThat in the hollow of her arm \nI leaned my lifted spear. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd yet, somehow, for all the \nstars, \n\nAnd all the silver of the moon, \n\nShe looked from out her icy bars \nAs longing for some sultry noon; \n\nAs longing for jome warmer kind, \nSome far south sunland left behind. \nThen I went down to sea. I sailed \nThro\xe2\x80\x99 seas where monstrous beasts \nprevailed, \n\nSuch slimy, shapeless, hungered \nthings! \n\nRed griffins, wide-winged, bat-like \nwings, \n\nBlack griffins, black or fire-fed, \n\nThat ate my fever-stricken men \nEre yet they were quite dead. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI could not find her love for her, \nOr land, or fit thing for her touch, \nAnd I came back, sad worshiper, \n\nAnd watched and longed and loved \nso much! \n\nI watched huge monsters climb and \npass \n\n\nReflected in great walls, like glass; \nDark, draggled, hairy, fearful forms \nUpblown by ever-battling storms, \nAnd streaming still with slime and \nspray; \n\nSo huge from out their sultry seas, \nLike storm-torn islands they. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThen even these she ceased to \nnote, \n\nShe ceased at last to look on me, \n\nBut, baring to the sun her throat, \nShe looked and looked incessantly \nAway against the south, away \nAgainst the sun the livelong day. \n\nAt last I saw her watch the swan \nSurge tow\'rd the north, surge on and \non. \n\nI saw her smile, her first, faint smile; \nThen burst a new-born thought, and \n\nI, \n\nI nursed that all the while. \n\nVIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI somehow dreamed, or guessed, \nor knew, \n\nThat somewhere in the dear earth\xe2\x80\x99s \nheart \n\nWas warmth and tenderness and \ntrue \n\nDelight, and all love\xe2\x80\x99s nobler part. \n\nI tried to think, aye, thought and \nthought; \n\nIn all the strange fruits that I brought \nFor her delight I could but find \nThe sweetness deep within the rind. \nAll beasts, all birds, some better part \nOf central being deepest housed; \n\nAnd earth must have a heart. \n\n\n\niHttf) Hobe to |9ou anb f9ourg \n\n\n\'\xe2\x80\x98I watched the wide-winged birds \nthat blew \n\nContinually against the bleak \nAnd ice-built north, and surely knew \nThe long, lorn croak, the reaching \nbeak, \n\nLed not to ruin evermore; \n\nFor they came back came swooping \no\xe2\x80\x99er \n\nEach spring, with clouds of younger \nones, \n\nSo dense, they dimmed the summer \nsuns. \n\nAnd thus I knew somehow, some\xc2\xac \nwhere, \n\nBeyond earth\xe2\x80\x99s ice-built, star-tipt \npeaks \n\nThey found a softer air. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd too, I heard strange stories, \nheld \n\nIn memories of my hairy men, \n\nVague, dim traditions, dim with eld, \nOf other lands and ages when \nNor ices were, nor anything; \n\nBut ever one warm, restful spring \nOf radiant sunlight: stories told \nBy dauntless men of giant mold, \n\nWho kept their cavern\xe2\x80\x99s icy mouth \nIce-locked, and hungered where they \nsat, \n\nWith sad eyes tow\xe2\x80\x99rd the south: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTales of a time ere hate began, \n\nOf herds of reindeer, wild beasts \ntamed, \n\nWhen man walked forth in love with \nman, \n\nWalked naked, and was not ashamed; \nOf how a brother beast he slew, \n\nThen night, and all sad sorrows knew; \n\n\n557 \n\nHow tame beasts were no longer \ntame; \n\nHow God drew His great sword of \nflame \n\nAnd drove man naked to the snow, \nTill, pitying, He made of skins \nA coat, and clothed him so. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd, true or not true, still the \nsame, \n\nI saw continually at night \nThat far, bright, flashing sword of \nflame, \n\nMisnamed the Borealis light; \n\nI saw my men, in coats of skin \nAs God had clothed them, felt the \nsin \n\nAnd suffering of that first death \nEach day in every icy breath. \n\nThen why should I still disbelieve \nThese tales of fairer lands than mine, \nAnd let my lady grieve? \n\nIX \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cYea, I would find that land for \nher! \n\nThen dogs, and sleds, and swift \nreindeer; \n\nHuge, hairy men, all mailed in fur, \nWho knew not yet the name of fear, \nNor knew fatigue, nor aught that \never \n\nTo this day has balked endeavor. \n\nAnd we swept forth, while wide, swift \nwings \n\nStill sought the Pole in endless strings. \n\nI left her sitting looking south, \n\nStill leaning, looking to the sun,\xe2\x80\x94 \nMy kisses on her mouth! \n\n\n\n558 \n\n\nmm Hofoe to J9ou anir Pouts \n\n\nx \n\n"Far toward the north, so tall, so \nfar, \n\nOne tallest ice shaft starward stood\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \nStood as if \xe2\x80\x99twere itself a star, \n\nScarce fallen from its sisterhood. \nTip-top the glowing apex there \nUpreared a huge white polar bear; \nHe pushed his swart nose up and \nout, \n\nThen walked the North Star round \nabout, \n\nBelow the Great Bear of the main, \nThe upper main, and as if chained, \nChained with a star-linked chain. \n\nXI \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd we pushed on, up, on, and \non, \n\nUntil, as in the world of dreams, \n\nWe found the very doors of dawn \nWith warm sun bursting through the \nseams. \n\nWe brake them through, then down, \nfar down, \n\nUntil, as in some park-set town, \n\nWe found lost Eden. Very rare \nThe fruit, and all the perfumed air \nSo sweet, we sat us down to feed \nAnd rest, without a thought or care, \nOr ever other need. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cFor all earth\xe2\x80\x99s pretty birds were \nhere; \n\nAnd women fair, and very fair; \n\nSweet song was in the atmosphere, \nNor effort was, nor noise, nor care. \n\nAs cocoons from their silken house \nWing forth and in the sun carouse, \n\n\nMy men let fall their housings and \nPassed on and on, far down the \nland \n\nOf purple grapes and poppy bloom. \nSuch warm, sweet land, such peaceful \nland! \n\nSweet peace and sweet perfume! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnd I pushed down ere I returned \nTo climb the cold world\xe2\x80\x99s walls of \nsnow, \n\nAnd saw where earth\xe2\x80\x99s heart beat \nand burned, \n\nAn hundred sultry leagues below; \nSaw deep seas set with deep-sea isles \nOf waving verdure; miles on miles \nOf rising sea-birds with their broods, \nIn all their noisy, happy moods! \n\nAye, then I knew earth has a heart, \nThat Nature wastes nor space or \nplace, \n\nBut husbands every part. \n\nXII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cMy reindeer fretted: I turned \nback \n\nFor her, the heart of me, my soul! \nAh, then, how swift, how white my \ntrack! \n\nAll Paradise beneath the Pole \nWere but a mockery till she \nShould share its dreamful sweets with \nme.... \n\nI know not well what next befell, \n\nSave that white heaven grew black \nhell. \n\nShe sat with sad face to the south, \nStill sat, sat still; but she was dead\xe2\x80\x94 \nMy kisses on her mouth. \n\n\n\nJUitfj Hobe to ^ou anb Hours \n\n\n559 \n\n\nXIII \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhat else to do but droop and \ndie? \n\nBut dying, how my poor soul yearned \nTo fly as swift south birds may fly\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \nTo pass that way her eyes had turned, \nThe dear days she had sat with me, \nAnd search and search eternity! \nAnd, do you know, I surely know \nThat God has given us to go \nThe way we will in life or death\xe2\x80\x94 \nTo go, to grow, or good or ill, \n\nAs one may draw a breath? \xe2\x80\x9d \n\nPART FOURTH \n\nI \n\nNay, turn not to the past for light; \nNay, teach not Pagan tale forsooth! \nBehind lie heathen gods and night, \nBefore lifts high, white holy truth. \nSweet Orpheus looked back, and lo, \nHell met his eyes and endless woe! \nLot\xe2\x80\x99s wife looked back, and for this \nfell \n\nTo something even worse than hell. \nLet us have faith, sail, seek and find \nThe new world and the new world\xe2\x80\x99s \nways; \n\nBlind Homer led the blind! \n\nII \n\nCome, let us kindle Faith in light! \nYon eagle climbing to the sun \nKeeps not the straightest course in \nsight, \n\nBut room and reach of wing and run \nOf rounding circle all are his, \n\n\nTill he at last bathes in the light \nOf worlds that look far down on this \nArena\xe2\x80\x99s battle for the right. \n\nThe stoutest sail that braves the \nbreeze, \n\nThe bravest battle ship that rides, \nRides rounding up the seas. \n\nCome, let us kindle faith in man! \nWhat though yon eagle, where he \nswings, \n\nMay moult a feather in God\xe2\x80\x99s plan \nOf broader, stronger, better wings! \nWhy, let the moulted feathers lie \nAs thick as leaves upon the lawn: \nThese be but proof we cleave the sky \nAnd still round on and on and on. \nFear not for moulting feathers; nay, \nBut rather fear when all seems fair, \nAnd care is far away. \n\nCome, let us kindle faith in God! \nHe made, He kept, He still can keep. \nThe storm obeys His burning rod, \nThe storm brought Christ to walk the \ndeep. \n\nTrust God to round His own at will; \nTrust God to keep His own for aye\xe2\x80\x94 \nOr strife or strike, or well or ill; \n\nAn eagle climbing up the sky\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nA meteor down from heaven hurled\xe2\x80\x94 \nTrust God to round, reform, or rock \nHis new-born baby world. \n\nIll \n\nHow full the great, full-hearted seas \nThat lave high, white Alaska\xe2\x80\x99s feet! \nHow densely green the dense green \ntrees! \n\n\n\n56 o \n\n\nttitl) Xobe to J9ou atib Pour# \n\n\nHow sweet the smell of wood! how \nsweet! \n\nWhat sense of high, white newness \nwhere \n\nThis new world breathes the new, blue \nair \n\nThat never breath of man or breath \nOf mortal thing considereth! \n\nAnd O, that Borealis light! \n\nThe angel with his flaming sword \nAnd never sense of night! \n\nIV \n\nAre these the walls of Paradise\xe2\x80\x94 \nYon peaks the gates man may not \npass? \n\nLo, everlasting silence lies \nAlong their gleaming ways of glass! \nJust silence and that sword of flame; \nJust silence and Jehovah\xe2\x80\x99s name, \nWhere all is new, unnamed, and \nwhite! \n\nCome, let us read where angels write\xe2\x80\x94 \n\xe2\x80\x9cIn the beginning God\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94aye, these \nThe waters where God\xe2\x80\x99s Spirit \nmoved; \n\nThese, these, the very seas! \n\nJust one deep, wave-washed char\xc2\xac \niot wheel: \n\nSuch sunset as that far first day! \n\nAn unsheathed sword of flame and \nsteel; \n\nThen battle flashes; then dismay, \nAnd mad confusion of all hues \nThat earth and heaven could infuse, \nTill all hues softly fused and blent \nIn orange worlds of wonderment: \nThen dying day, in kingly ire, \n\n\nStruck back with one last blow, and \nsmote \n\nThe world with molten fire. \n\nSo fell Alaska, proudly, dead \nIn battle harness where he fought. \nBut falling, still high o\xe2\x80\x99er his head \nFar flashed his sword in crimson \nwrought, \n\nTill came his kingly foeman, Dusk, \n\nIn garments moist with smell of \nmusk. \n\nThe bent moon moved down heaven\xe2\x80\x99s \nsteeps \n\nLow-bowed, as when a woman weeps; \nBowed low, half-veiled in widowhood; \nThen stars tiptoed the peaks in gold \nAnd burned brown sandal-wood. \n\nFit death of Day; fit burial rite \nOf white Alaska! Let us lay \nThis leaflet \xe2\x80\x99mid the musky night \nUpon his tomb. Come, come away; \nFor Phaon talks and Sappho turns \nTo where the light of heaven bums \nTo love light, and she leans to hear \nWith something more than mortal ear \nThe while the ship has pushed her \nprow \n\nSo close against the fir-set shore \nYou breathe the spicy bough. \n\nV \n\nSome red men by the low white \n\nbeach; \n\nCamp fires, belts of dense, black fir: \nShe leans as if she still would reach \nTo him the very soul of her. \n\nThe red flames cast a silhouette \nAgainst the snow, above the jet \n\n\n\nMitfj Hobe to \n\nBlack, narrow night of fragrant fir, \nBehold, what ardent worshiper! \nLim\xe2\x80\x99d out against a glacier peak, \nWith strong arms crossed upon his \nbreast; \n\nThe while she feels him speak: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHow glad was I to walk with \nDeath \n\nFar down his dim, still, trackless \nlands, \n\nWhere wind nor wave nor any breath \nBroke ripples o\xe2\x80\x99er the somber sands. \n\nI walked with Death as eagerly \nAs ever I had sailed this sea. \n\nThen on and on I searched, I sought, \nYet all my seeking came to naught. \n\nI sailed by pleasant, peopled isles \nOf song and summer time; I sailed \nTen thousand weary miles! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I heard a song! She had been sad, \nSo sad and ever drooping she; \n\nHow could she, then, in song be glad \nThe while I searched? It could not \nbe. \n\nAnd yet that voice! so like it seemed, \n\nI questioned if I heard or dreamed. \nShe smiled on me. This made me \nscorn \n\nMy very self; for I was born \nTo loyalty. I would be true \nUnto my love, my soul, my self, \nWhatever death might do. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c I fled her face, her proud, fair face, \nHer songs that won a world to her. \nHad she sat songless in her place, \n\nSat with no single worshiper, \n\nSat with bowed head, sad-voiced, \nalone, \n\n36 \n\n\nHou anb Pours 561 \n\nI might have known! I might have \nknown! \n\nBut how could I, the savage, know \nThis sun, contrasting with that snow, \nWould waken her great soul to \nsong \n\nThat still thiills all the ages through? \nI blindly did such wrong! \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAgain I fled. I ferried gods; \n\nYet, pining still, I came to pine \nWhere drowsy Lesbos Bacchus nods \nAnd drowned my soul in Cyprian \nwine. \n\nDrowned! drowned my poor, sad soul \nso deep, \n\nI sank to where damned serpents \ncreep! \n\nThen slowly upward; round by round \nI toiled, regained this vantage-ground \nAnd now, at last, I claim mine own, \nAs some long-banished king comes \nback \n\nTo battle for his throne." \n\nVI \n\nI do not say that thus he spake \nBy word of mouth, by human speech; \nThe sun in one swift flash will take \nA photograph of space and reach \nThe realm of stars. A soul like his \nIs like unto the sun in this: \n\nHer soul the plate placed to receive \nThe swflft impressions, to believe, \n\nTo doubt no more than you might \ndoubt \n\nThe \xe2\x80\xa2wondrous midnight world of \nstars \n\nThat dawn has blotted out. \n\n\n\n\n562 \n\n\nifflitj) Hobe to J9ou anti Pouts \n\n\nVII \n\nAnd Phaon loved her; he who knew \nThe North Pole and the South, who \nnamed \n\nThe stars for her, strode forth and \nslew \n\nBlack, hairy monsters no man tamed; \nAnd all before fair Greece was born, \nOr Lesbos yet knew night or morn. \nNo marvel that she knew him when \nHe came, the chiefest of all men. \n\nNo marvel that she loved and died, \nAnd left such marbled bits of song\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x96\xa0 \nOf broken Phidian pride. \n\nVIII \n\nOh, but for that one further sense \nFor man that man shall yet possess! \n\'That sense that puts aside pretense \nAnd sees the truth, that scorns to \nguess \n\nOr grope, or play at blindman\xe2\x80\x99s \nbuff, \n\nBut knows rough diamonds in the \nrough! \n\nOh, well for man when man shall see, \nAs see he must man\xe2\x80\x99s destiny! \n\nOh, well when man shall know his \nmate, \n\nOne-winged and desolate, lives on \nAnd bravely dares to wait! \n\nIX \n\nFull morning found them, and the \nland \n\nReceived them, and the chapel gray; \nSome Indian huts on either hand, \n\nA smell of pine, a flash of spray,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\nWhite, frozen rivers of the sky \nFar up the glacial steeps hard by. \nFar ice-peaks flashed with sudden \nlight, \n\nAs if they would illume the rite, \n\nAs if they knew his story well, \n\nAs if they knew that form, that face, \nAnd all that Time could tell. \n\nX \n\nThey passed dusk chieftains two by \n\ntwo, \n\nWith totem gods and stroud and shell \nThey slowly passed, and passing \nthrough, \n\nHe bought of all\xe2\x80\x94he knew them \nwell. \n\nAnd one, a bent old man and blind, \nHe put his hands about, and kind \nAnd strange words whispered in his \near, \n\nSo soft, his dull soul could but hear. \nAnd hear he surely did, for he, \n\nWith full hands, lifted up his face \nAnd smiled right pleasantly. \n\nHow near, how far, how fierce, how \ntame! \n\nThe polar bear, the olive branch; \n\nThe dying exile, Christ\xe2\x80\x99s sweet name\xe2\x80\x94 \nVast silence! then the avalanche! \nHow much this little church to them\xe2\x80\x94 \nAlaska and Jerusalem! \n\nThe pair passed in, the silent pair \nFell down before the altar there, \n\nThe Greek before the gray Greek \ncross, \n\nAnd Phaon at her side at last, \n\nFor all her weary loss. \n\n\n\n\n\nRlttf) 3Lobe to Hou anb Hours \n\n\nThe bearded priest came, and he \nlaid \n\nHis two hands forth and slowly spake \nStrange, solemn words, and slowly \nprayed, \n\nAnd blessed them there, for Jesus\xe2\x80\x99 \nsake. \n\nThen slowly they arose and passed, \nStill silent, voiceless to the last. \nThey passed: her eyes were to his \neyes, \n\nBut his were lifted to the skies, \n\nAs looking, looking, that lorn night, \nBefore the birth of God\xe2\x80\x99s first-born \nAs praying still for Light. \n\nXI \n\nSo Phaon knew and Sappho knew \nNor night nor sadness any more. . . . \nHow new the old world, ever new, \nWhen white Love walks the shining \nshore! \n\nThey found their long-lost Eden, \nfound \n\nHer old, sweet songs; such dulcet \nsound \n\nOf harmonies as soothe the ear \nWhen Love and only Love can hear. \nThey found lost Eden; lilies lay \nAlong their path, whichever land \nThey joumeyd from that day. \n\nXII \n\nThey never died. Great loves live \non. \n\nYou need not die and dare the skies \nIn forms that poor creeds hinge upon \nTo pass the gates of Paradise. \n\nI know not if that sword of flame \n\n\n563 \n\nStill lights the North, and leads the \nsame \n\nAs when he passed the gates of old. \n\nI know not if they braved the bold, \nDefiant walls that fronted them \nWhere awful Saint Elias broods, \nWrapped in God\xe2\x80\x99s garment-hem. \n\nI only know they found the lost, \nThe long-lost Eden, found all fair \nWhere naught had been but hail and \nfrost; \n\nAs Love finds Eden anywhere. \n\nAnd wouldst thou, too, live on and on? \nThen walk with Nature till the dawn. \nAye, make thy soul worth saving\xe2\x80\x94 \nsave \n\nThy soul from darkness and the \ngrave. \n\nLove God not overmuch, but love \nGod\xe2\x80\x99s world which He called very \ngood; \n\nThen lo, Love\xe2\x80\x99s white sea-dove! \n\nXIII \n\nI know not where lies Eden-land; \n\nI only know\xe2\x80\x99t is like unto \n\nGod\xe2\x80\x99s kingdom, ever right at hand\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nEver right here in reach of you. \n\nPut forth thy hand, or great or small, \nIn storm or sun, by sea or wood, \nAnd say, as God hath said of all, \nBehold, it all is very good. \n\nI know not where lies Eden-land; \n\nI only say receive the dove: \n\nI say put forth thy hand. \n\n\n\n564 \n\n\nSfot\'os \n\n\nADIOS \n\n\nA nd here, sweet friend , I go my way \nAlone, as I have lived, alone \nA little way, a brief half day, \n\nAnd then, the restful, white milestone. \nI know not surely where or when, \n\nBut surely know we meet again, \n\nAs surely know we love anew \nIn grander life the good and true. \n\nBut why assume to guide or guess? \nBehold our stars are shepherded! \n\nMadonna, Shepherdess. \n\nEnough to know that I and you \nShall breathe together there as here \nSome dearer, sweeter atmosphere: \nShall walk high, wider ways above \nOur petty selves, shall lean to lead \nMan up and up in thought and deed. . . \nDear sold, sweet friend, I love you, love \nThe love that led you patient through \nThis wilderness of words in quest \nOf strange wild flowers from my West, \nBut here, dear heart, Adieu. \n\nI \n\nYon great chained sea-ship chafes to \nbe \n\nOnce more unleashed without the Gate \nOn proud Balboa\xe2\x80\x99s boundless sea, \nAnd I chafe with her, for I hate \nThe rust of rest, the dull repose, \n\nThe fawning breath of changeful foes, \nWhose blame through all my bitter \ndays \n\nI have endured; spare me their praise! \nI go, full hearted, grateful, glad \nOf strength from dear good mother \nearth; \n\nAnd yet am I full sad. \n\n\nII \n\nCould I but teach man to believe\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\xa2 \nCould I but make small men to grow, \nTo break frail spider-webs that weave \nAbout their thews and bind them low; \nCould I but sing one song and slay \nGrim Doubt; I then could go my way \nIn tranquil silence, glad, serene, \n\nAnd satisfied, from off the scene. \nBut ah, this disbelief, this doubt, \nThis doubt of God, this doubt of \ngood,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nThe damned spot will not out! \n\nIII \n\nGrew once a rose within my room \nOf perfect hue, of perfect health; \n\nOf such perfection and perfume, \n\nIt filled my poor house with its wealth. \nThen came the pessimist who knew \nNot good or grace, but overthrew \nMy rose, and in the broken pot \nNosed fast for slugs within the rot. \nHe found, found with exulting pride, \nA baby butterfly it was; \n\nT + he while my rose-tree died. \n\n\nIV \n\nYea, he did hurt me. Joy in this. \nReceive great joy at last to know, \nSince pain is all your world of bliss, \nThat ye did, hounding, hurt me \nso! \n\n\n\n\nUbios \n\n\n565 \n\n\nBut mute as bayed stag on his steeps, \nWho keeps his haunts, and, bleeding, \nkeeps \n\nHis breast turned, watching where \nthey come, \n\nKept I, defiant, and as dumb. \n\nBut comfort ye; your work was done \nWith devils\xe2\x80\x99 cunning, like the mole \nThat lets the life-sap run. \n\nAnd my revenge? My vengeance \nis \n\nThat I have made one rugged spot \nThe fairer; that I fashioned this \nWhile envy, hate, and falsehood \nshot \n\nRank poison; that I leave to those \nWho shot, for arrows, each a rose; \nAye, labyrinths of rose and wold, \nAcacias garmented in gold, \n\nBright fountains, where birds come \nto drink; \n\nSuch clouds of cunning pretty birds, \nAnd tame as you can think. \n\n1 \n\nV \n\nCome here when I am far away \nFond lovers of this lovely land, \n\nAnd sit quite still and do not say, \nTurn right or left, or lift a hand, \n\nBut sit beneath my kindly trees \nAnd gaze far out yon sea of seas:\xe2\x80\x94 \nThese trees, these very stones, could \ntell \n\nHow long I loved them, and how \nwell\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nAnd maybe I shall come and sit \nBeside you; sit so silently \nYou will not reck of it. \n\n\nVI \n\nThe old desire of far, new lands, \nThe thirst to learn, to still front \nstorms, \n\nTo bend my knees, to lift my hands \nTo God in all His thousand forms\xe2\x80\x94 \nThese lure and lead as pleasantly \nAs old songs sung anew at sea. \n\nBut, storied lands or stormy deeps, \n\nI will my ashes to my steeps\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nI will my steeps, green cross, red \nrose, \n\nTo those who love the beautiful\xe2\x80\x94 \nCome, learn to be of those. \n\n\nVII \n\nThe sun has draped his couch in \nred; \n\nNight takes the warm world in his \narms \n\nAnd turns to their espousal bed \nTo breathe the perfume of her charms: \nThe great sea calls, and I descend \nAs to the call of some strong friend. \n\nI go, not hating any man, \n\nBut loving Earth as only can \nA lover suckled at her breast \nOf beauty from his babyhood, \n\nAnd roam to truly rest. \n\nVIII \n\nGod is not far; man is not far \nFrom Heaven\xe2\x80\x99s porch, where paeans \nroll. \n\n\n\n566 \n\n\n3bto\xc2\xa3 \n\n\nMan yet shall speak from star to star \nIn silent language of the soul; \n\nYon star-strewn skies be but a town, \nWith angels passing up and down. \n\n"I leave my peace with you.\xe2\x80\x9d Lo! \nthese \n\n\nHis seven wounds, the Pleiades \nPierce Heaven\xe2\x80\x99s porch. But, resting \nthere, \n\nThe new moon rocks the Child Christ \nin \n\nHer silver rocking-chair. \n\n\nj \n\n\n\nNOTES \n\n\n\n\n\\ \n\n\ny \n\n\n\n\nNOTES \n\n\n(Notes by Miller are marked M. The Bear Edition is referred to as B. \nObvious typographical errors are silently corrected, but Miller\xe2\x80\x99s grammar \nhas not been altered.) \n\n\nFrom Joaquin, Et Al. \n\n\nIn B. I, 174, Miller says that Joaquin , Et Al. was first published in 1868: \nbut the title-page and copyright are dated 1869. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cIs It Worth While?\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x94Preserved in part, as \xe2\x80\x9cDown into the Dust\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 in \nSongs of the Sun-Lands , 1873, and reprinted in part, in B., I, 172, with the \noriginal title but revised and with this comment: \xe2\x80\x9cI give the following place \n. . . not only because it is right in spirit but because it shows how old, how \nvery old I was as a boy, and sad at heart over the cruelties of man to man.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nZanara. An altered version appears as \xe2\x80\x9cSleep that was not sleep\xe2\x80\x9d in \nSongs of the Sun-Lands, but not in B. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cDirge.\xe2\x80\x9d For the much altered version in Songs of the Sun-Lands and in \nB., see \xe2\x80\x9cDead in the Sierras.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cUltime.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94Five stanzas are preserved in B., I, 174. \n\nSongs of the Sierras \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTo Maud.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cMy Little Daughter in Oregon.\xe2\x80\x9d In B., this dedication \nfollows \xe2\x80\x9cThe Arizonian.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nAll the poems of this section are in the edition of 1871 but they are here \nprinted according to the text and order of B., except the dedication, which in \n1871 preceded \xe2\x80\x9cArizonian\xe2\x80\x9d at the beginning of the book. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWalker in Nicaragua.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cGeneral William Walker, citizen, soldier, presi\xc2\xac \ndent and historian of Nicaragua, was born in Nashville, Tennessee, in 1824, \nof Scotch ancestry, and educated at a university in Paris, after which he \nstudied international law in London. He voyaged to California in 1850 and, \nafter some experience in the gold mines and gathering many bold men about \nhim he became editor of the San Francisco Herald and began to publish his \nplans to his followers. He made two bold attempts to establish a settlement in \nBaja California, but was twice driven out by the Mexicans. Returning to \nCalifornia he raised a company and sailed for Nicaragua. War had been raging \nthere for a long time between the aristocrats, or Church party, of Granada, and \n\n569 \n\n\n570 j^otes; \n\nthe Democrats of Leon, to the North. Americans as well as British were fight\xc2\xac \ning on both sides. \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAfter fearful fighting at Granada, Walker, shut up in Rivas, surrendered to \nthe United States and was taken to New Orleans for trial, his men going whither \nthey would or could. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHe now published an elaborate book, giving the wealth and wonderful re\xc2\xac \nsources of the country and at the same time, giving every detail of the war, \nunder the title of \xe2\x80\x9c The War in Nicaragua.\xe2\x80\x9d It is written in the third person, \nlike the books of the first Cassar, and is as conservative and exact as an \nequation. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cHe was tried in New Orleans and, on his vindication, raised in that city \nand Mobile a force far exceeding that w T ith which he had left California and \nwith which he had fought his way to the presidency; but his Californians were \ndead or scattered and these untried men of enervating cities knew little of arms \nand were, comparatively, worthless. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWalker\'s last expedition was closely watched by British gunboats. He took \nrefuge up a river on the coast of Honduras and soon found himself cut off on \nall sides. He led his men up the coast and down, facing fifty to one, as at Rivas \nand Granada, but they soon became disheartened and he surrendered to the \ncaptain of a British man-of-war, who at once turned him over to Honduras, \nwhen he was promptly tried at the drum\xe2\x80\x99s head, condemned and shot.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\nIn the first edition, the poem opened at what is now the ninth division, \nas follows: \n\n\nHe was a brick: let this be said \nAbove my brave, dishonored dead. \n\nThe eight divisions which now open the poem were obviously added in \nan attempt to \xe2\x80\x9c whitewash \xe2\x80\x9d Walker and to square the record with Miller\xe2\x80\x99s \nlater \xe2\x80\x9cpacifistic\xe2\x80\x9d professions. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c The Tale of the Alcalde.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9c Twice revised and published before its first \nappearance in London, and has been cut and revised at least half a dozen times \nsince; and is still incomplete and very unsatisfying to the writer, except as to \nthe descriptions. It was my first attempt at telling a story in verse, that was \nthought worth preserving. It was begun when but a lad, camped with our \nhorses for a month\xe2\x80\x99s rest in an old adobe ruin on the Reading Ranch, with the \ngleaming snows of Mount Shasta standing out above the clouds against the \ncold, blue north. The story is not new, having been written or at least lived \n\n\ni^toteg \n\n\n57i \n\n\nin every mountain land of intermixed races that has been: a young outlaw in \nlove with a wild mountain beauty, his battles for her people against his own; \nthe capture, prison, brave release, flight, return, and revenge\xe2\x80\x94a sort of modi\xc2\xac \nfied Mazeppa.\xe2\x80\x99 M. In Joaquin , Et Al. this poem was called \xe2\x80\x9cBenoni\xe2\x80\x9d; \nit was one of the chief sources of Joaquin Miller\xe2\x80\x99s \xe2\x80\x9clegend.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cArizonian.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94At its first appearance spelled \xe2\x80\x9cArazonian.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe Last Taschastas.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9c\xe2\x80\x98Tc\xe2\x80\x99hastas\xe2\x80\x99 a name given to King John by the \nFrench, a corruption of chaste; for he was a pure, just man and a great war\xc2\xac \nrior. He was the king of the Rouge (Red) River Indians of Oregon, and his \nstory is glorious with great deeds in defense of his people. When finally over\xc2\xac \npowered, he and his son Moses were put on a ship at Port Orford and sent to \nFort Alcatraz in the Golden Gate. In mid-ocean, these two Indians, in irons, \nrose up, and, after a bloody fight, took the ship. But one had lost a leg, the \nother an arm, and so they finally had to let loose the crew and soldiers tumbled \ninto the hold, and surrender themselves again; for the ship was driving helpless \nin a storm towards the rocks. The king died a prisoner, but his son escaped and \nnever again surrendered. He lives alone near Yreka and is known as \xe2\x80\x98Prince \nPeg-leg Moses.\xe2\x80\x99 A daughter of the late Senator Nesmith sends me a picture, \ntaken in 1896 of the king\xe2\x80\x99s devoted daughter, Princess Mary, who followed his \nfortunes in all his battles. She must be nearly one hundred years old. I \nremember her as an old woman full forty years ago, tall as a soldier, and most \nterrible in council. I have tried to picture her and her people as I once saw \nthem in a midnight camp before the breaking out of the war; also their actions \nand utterances, so like some of the old Israelite councils and prophecies. This \nwas the leading piece in my very first book, \xe2\x80\x9cSpecimens,\xe2\x80\x9d published in Oregon \nin 1867-8 if I remember rightly.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cJoaquin Murietta.\xe2\x80\x94Called \xe2\x80\x9cJoaquin\xe2\x80\x9d in the Portland book and \xe2\x80\x9cCali\xc2\xac \nfornia\xe2\x80\x9d in Songs of the Sierras , 1871. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cEven So.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94This poetical treatment of Miller\xe2\x80\x99s relations with \xe2\x80\x9cMinnie \nMyrtle\xe2\x80\x9d was much worked over after 1871. In the prelude, the original last \nline is better than the revised form\xe2\x80\x94 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhite storms are in the feathered fir.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\x9c Myrrh. \xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94In Songs of the Sierras , 1871, dated, \xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98 Blue Mountains, Oregon, \n\n1870. \xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Burns. \xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94Originally, this and the following poem appeared as \xe2\x80\x9c Burns and \nByron. \xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9c In my pilgrimage to places sacred to the memory of Burns, I found \nnone equal in interest to Ayr, the Doon, and their environs.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cByron.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9c The day before my departure for Europe last summer, a small \nparty sailed out to the beautiful sea-front of Saucelito, lying in the great bay of \n\n\n572 \n\n\nJ?OtC)S \n\n\nSan Francisco, forever green in its crown of California laurel and there the \nfairest hands of the youngest and fairest city of the New World wove a wreath \nof bay for the tomb of Byron. I brought it over the Rocky Mountains, and the \nseas, and placed it above the dust of the soldier-poet, as desired."\xe2\x80\x94M. (Note \nin edition of 1871). \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cKit Carson\xe2\x80\x99s Ride.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cTwo of the Archbishop\xe2\x80\x99s [Trench\xe2\x80\x99s] beautiful \ndaughters had been riding in the park with the Earl of Aberdeen. \xe2\x80\x98 And did you \ngallop?\xe2\x80\x99 asked Browning of the younger beauty. \xe2\x80\x98I galloped, Joyce galloped, \nwe galloped all three. \xe2\x80\x99 Then we all laughed at the happy and hearty retort, and \nBrowning, beating the time and clang of galloping horses\xe2\x80\x99 feet on the table with \nhis fingers, repeated the exact measure in Latin from Virgil; and the Archbishop \nlaughingly took it up, in Latin, where he left off. I then told Browning I had \nan order\xe2\x80\x94it was my first\xe2\x80\x94for a poem from the Oxford Magazine , and would \nlike to borrow the measure and spirit of his \xe2\x80\x98Good News\xe2\x80\x99 for a prairie fire \non the plains, driving buffalo and all other life before it into the river.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \nIn his note (in B.), Miller says this poem \xe2\x80\x9cwas not in any of my first four \nbooks, and so has not been rightly revised till now.\xe2\x80\x9d This is apparently a \nslip; for it is in the American edition of Songs of the Sierras, 1871, though it \nis there much longer, and the girl sinks in the fire. Something of colloquial \nvigor has been lost in the revision. Compare the original opening line: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cRun? Now you bet you; I rather guess so!\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nFallen Leaves \n\nThis series appeared in Songs of the Sun-Lands, 1873, but Miller discarded \nthe group, preserving only (in B.) \xe2\x80\x9cThomas of Tigre,\xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9c Yosemite\xe2\x80\x9d (originally \n\xe2\x80\x9cIn the Yosemite), and \xe2\x80\x9cDead in the Sierras.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThomas of Tigre.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cThis was a brave old boyhood friend in the Mount \nShasta days. You will find him there as the Prince in my Life Among the \nModocs. . . . This man, Prince Thomas, now of Leon, Nicaragua, was a \ngreat favorite and my best friend, in one sense for years in Europe. He had \npassed the most adventurous life conceivable, at one time having been king of \nan island.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\nThe edition of 1873 has a fifth stanza as follows: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAnswer me from out the West. \n\nI am weary, stricken now; \n\nThou art strong and I would rest: \n\nReach a hand with lifted brow,\xe2\x80\x94 \n\nKing of Tigre, where art thou?\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nJHotes \n\n\n573 \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cDead in the Sierras.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94Originally \xe2\x80\x9cDirge,\xe2\x80\x9d see p. 54. \n\nA Memory of Santa Barbara.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94Not included in the English edition of \n1873* I n its place, the English edition has an inferior eleven-line piece entitled \n44 L\xc2\xb0> Here,\xe2\x80\x99 beginning, \xe2\x80\x9c I think \'twere better books were not.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\nBy the Sun-Down Seas \n\nBy the Sun-Down Seas.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94This was originally a continuous Oregonian \npoem, under the same title, opening the volume Songs of the Sun-Lands , 1873, \nwhich was dedicated to the Rossettis. Miller broke it up into its constituent \nparts, as here piinted, and appended them (in B) to Songs of the Sierras, except \nfor two fragments, \xe2\x80\x9cSt. Paul\xe2\x80\x99s\xe2\x80\x9d and \xe2\x80\x9cWestminster Abbey,\xe2\x80\x9d which he inserted \nin his section of \xe2\x80\x9c Miscellaneous Lines.\xe2\x80\x9d See now pp. 409 and 410. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOve-Agua: Oregon.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x98In 1858, while teaching a sort of primer school, \nbelow Fort \\ ancouver, during a vacation at Columbia College, the forerunner \nof Oregon University, I met Father Broulette, the head of the Catholic School \nat Vancouver. This learned and kindly priest helped me in my Latin, when 1 \nwent to him on Saturdays, and twice took me rowing in an Indian\xe2\x80\x99s canoe far \nup the great Oregon River to hear the waters; to hear the waters dashing down \nout of the clouds from the melting snows of Mt. Hood. And he quoted Bryant\xe2\x80\x99s \npoem and laid great stress on the words: \xe2\x80\x98Where rolls the Oregon and hears \nno sound save its own dashing.\xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cTo Rest at Last.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cThese final verses are peculiarly descriptive of the \nhome I have built here on the Hights for my declining years; although \nwritten and published in London . .in 1873. \xe2\x80\xa2 \xe2\x80\xa2\' \xe2\x80\xa2 The only departure \nfrom my dear first plan is in finding my ideal home by the glorious gate of San \nFrancisco instead of the somber fir-set sea bank far to the north, \xe2\x80\x98Where Rolls \nthe Oregon.\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n\nSongs of the Sun-Lands \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSongs of the Sun-Lands. \xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x94The volume thus entitled in B. includes the fol\xc2\xac \nlowing poems; \xe2\x80\x9cThe Sea of Fire,\xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9cThe Ship in the Desert,\xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9cIsles of the \nAmazons,\xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9cAn Indian Summer,\xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9cFrom Sea to Sea,\xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9cA Song of the South,\xe2\x80\x9d \n\xe2\x80\x9cResurgo San Francisco,\xe2\x80\x9d and a notice in prose of \xe2\x80\x9cThe Last San Francisco \nFire.\xe2\x80\x9d The original \xe2\x80\x9cSongs of the Sun-Lands,\xe2\x80\x9d 1873, contained only three of \nthe foregoing poems: \xe2\x80\x9cIsles of the Amazons,\xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9cFrom Sea to Sea,\xe2\x80\x9d and \xe2\x80\x9cIn the \nIndian Summer,\xe2\x80\x9d the rest of the volume being made up of three sequences: \nBy the Sun-Down Seas, Olive Leaves, and Fallen Leaves. From the present \nsection I have removed the two pieces on San Francisco; and have added \n\xe2\x80\x9c Dawn in San Diego,\xe2\x80\x9d as in its present form a late poem and more in harmony \n\n\n574 \n\n\niSotes \n\n\nwith the style and mood of this group than with Songs of the Sierras , to which \nMiller appended it in B. I have also restored "Isles of the Amazons\xe2\x80\x9d to its \nleading place, and have tried to arrange the other pieces in chronological order. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Isles of the Amazons.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94" I do not like this, although I have cut it up and \ncut it down, and -worked it over and over more than anything else. I had seen \nthis vast and indescribable country, but not absorbed it; and that, most likely, \nis the reason it seems artificial and foolish, with knights and other things that \nI know nothing about. The only thing that I like in it is the water. I can \nhandle water, and water is water the world over. But had it not been for the \nwater and some of the wild tangles and jungles the whole thing would, ere this, \nhave gone where the biggest half went long since. It was written in San \nFrancisco, and was published at the same time in the Overland there and \nthe Gentleman\'s Magazine in London. It w r as written at the instance of the \nEmperor, who translated it and to the last was brave and courtly enough to \ninsist that it was good work. I had hoped to induce people to pour out of \ncrowded London and better their fortunes there; for there is great wealth \nfar, far up the Amazon. Aye, what exultant pride swelled my heart one \nhappy day in Rome when Partridge, our minister to Brazil, gave me that \nmessage of thanks from the good Emperor, with a request to make his home \nmy own while he lived.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n"An Indian Summer.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cI wrote, or rather lived, this bit of color at Cleve\xc2\xac \nland, Ohio, giving it the entire autumn of gold. The prime purpose was to get \nthe atmosphere of an Ohio Saint Martin\xe2\x80\x99s summer, but it grew to be a very \nserious matter. Yet we must, in some sort at least, live what we write if what \nwe write is to live.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n"From Sea to Sea.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94"This was written during my first railroad ride from \nNew York to San Francisco, at a time when this was the greatest ride on the \nglobe and parties came to California in great crowds to look upon the sundown \nseas.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n"The Ship in the Desert.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94Miller\xe2\x80\x99s note in B. gives the date of the first \nbook publication of this poem as 1876; but the title-page gives 1875 and his \ndedicatory preface, which he quotes without the date, is dated in the original \nedition, 1874. "The body of this poem was first published in the Atlantic \nMonthly [July, 1874]. The purpose of it was the same as induced the Isles of \nthe Amazons, but the work is better because more true and nearer to the \nheart. Bear in mind it was done when the heart of the continent was indeed a \ndesert, or at least a wilderness. . . . How much or how little it may have \nhad to do in bringing Europe this way to seek for the lost Edens, and to \nmake the desert blossom as the rose, matters nothing now; but, \xe2\x80\x98He hath \nbrought many captives home to Rome whose ransom did the generous (sic) \ncoffers fill.\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M: \n\n\nJlotes \n\n\n575 \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe Sea of Fire.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94This poem was one of the two published as Songs of \nthe Mexican Seas, Boston, 1887. But it had previously formed part of the long \nand unshapely verse romance, The Baroness of New York, 1877, which Miller \nconsigned to oblivion. In its original form it seems to have been associated with \nhis revulsion against city life after his sojourn in the eastern cities. Hence his \nnote in B.\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cThe real poet would rather house with a half savage and live on a \nsixpence in some mountain village, as did Byron, than feast off the board of \nMadame Leo Hunter in a city. Nor is Washington a better place for work with \nsoul or heart in it. Madame Leo Hunter is there also, persistent, numerous, \nsuperficial, and soulless as in almost any great center. If I am cruel, O my \ncoming poets, I am cruel to be kind. Go forth in the sun, away into the wilds \nor contentedly lay aside your aspirations of song. Now, mark you distinctly, \n\nI am not writing for poets of the Old World or the Atlantic seaboard. They \nhave their work and their ways of work. My notes are for the songless Alaskas, \nCanadas, Califomias, the Aztec lands and the Argentines that patiently await \ntheir coming prophets. For come they will; but I warn them they will have to \ngird themselves mightily and pass through fire, and perish, many a man; for \nthese new worlds will be whistling, out of time, the tunes of the old, and the rich \nand the proud will say in their insolence and ignorance, \xe2\x80\x98 Pipe thus, for thus \npiped the famous pipers of old; piping of perished kings, of wars, of castle \nwalls, of battling knights, and of maids betrayed. Sing as of old or be silent, for \nwe know not, we want not, and we will not, your seas of colors, your forests \nof perfumes, your mountains of melodies.\xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cA Song of the South.\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x94Entitled \xe2\x80\x9cThe Rhyme of the Great River,\xe2\x80\x9d this \nwas one of the two poems comprised in Songs of the Mexican Seas, 1887. It \nreappeared as the \xe2\x80\x9c Song of the Soundless River\xe2\x80\x9d in Songs of the Soul, 1896. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cDawn at San Diego\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94Entitled \xe2\x80\x9cSunset and Dawn in San Diego,\xe2\x80\x9d this \nwas the second poem in Songs of the Soul, 1896. \n\nSongs of the Hebrew Children \n\nSongs of the Hebrew Children.\xe2\x80\x94The poems in this section are given as in \nthe fourth volume of B., except that \xe2\x80\x9cThe Last Supper\xe2\x80\x9d is recovered from a \nmiscellaneous section in the first volume, entitled Lines that Papa Liked. \nThe entire sequence appeared as Olive Leaves in Songs of the Sun-Lands, 1873, \nexcept \xe2\x80\x9c La Notte,\xe2\x80\x9d \xe2\x80\x9cTo Russia,\xe2\x80\x9d and \xe2\x80\x9cTo Rachel in Russia,\xe2\x80\x9d which seem to \nhave appeared first in book form in, In Classic Shades, Chicago, 1890. The \ngroup is obviously related in theme and spirit to the poems in The Building of \nthe City Beautiful; but the Olive Leaves sequence is much more strongly marked \nby the influence of Swinburne and reflects the poet\xe2\x80\x99s first contacts with the \nLondon poets and with Palestine. In a note in B., IV, 77, Miller speaks of \n\n\n\n\nJ^OtCSJ \n\n\nwriting and publishing an American edition of \xe2\x80\x9cOlive Leaves\xe2\x80\x9d in Easton, Pa., \nwhere he was attending his dying brother in 1871. At this time he had been \ncontemplating a poetical life of Christ, but \xe2\x80\x9chad begun to see that the measure \nwas monotonous.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nSongs of Italy \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Songs of Italy.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94The book with this title was published in Boston, 1878. \nThe series is here given as in B. Most of the poems presumably reflect expe\xc2\xac \nrience in Italy previous to 1876. An elaborate romantic commentary on this \nperiod is available in his prose romance, The One Fair Woman, 1876. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe Ideal and the Real.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94From Miller\'s \xe2\x80\x9callegorical\xe2\x80\x9d introduction to \nMae Madden , 1876, a novel of Italy by Mary Murdock Mason; the poem is \ndated, 1875. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cVale! America.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cI do not like this bit of impatience, nor do I expect \nany one else to like it and only preserve it here as a sort of landmark or journal \nin my journey through life. It is only an example of almost an entire book, \nwritten in Italy. I had, after a long struggle with myself, settled down in \nItaly to remain, as I believed, and as you can see was very miserable, and \nwrote accordingly.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\nThe poem \xe2\x80\x9c Poveris! Poveris! \xe2\x80\x9d is omitted from this section as it appears \nwith the title \xe2\x80\x9c Feed My Sheep \xe2\x80\x9d in The Building of the City Beautiful. \n\nFrom, Shadows of Shasta \n\n% \n\nShadows of Shasta, a prose tale, was published in Chicago, 1881. \xe2\x80\x9cWhy \nthis book? Because last year, in the heart of the Sierras, I saw women and \nchildren chained together and marched down from their cool, healthy homes \nto degradation and death on the Reservation.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. In a characteristic \nchapter, \xe2\x80\x9cThe Escape,\xe2\x80\x9d an Indian girl on the Reservation is rescued by \n\xe2\x80\x9cold Forty-Nine\xe2\x80\x9d and carried off on horseback in a wild ride into the Sierras. \n\nLog Cabin Lines \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c In the early eighties I built a log cabin in the edge of Washington, to be \nmore in touch with both sides of the Civil War as well as with the smaller re\xc2\xac \npublics. And then many noble people who had been ruined in the South were \nill content to live in log cabins, as their slaves had lived. I wanted to teach \nthat a log cabin can be made very comfortable, with content at hand.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\nOnly the first four poems were included by Miller under this title in B. \n\n\nJ&oteg \n\n\n577 \n\n\nThe others here printed were, though scattered through B., marked by external \nor internal evidence as belonging to the same group. All but \xe2\x80\x9cWashington \nby the Delaware and The Bravest Battle\xe2\x80\x9d appeared in the volume of 1890, \nIn Classic Shades. \n\nThe Lost Regiment.\xe2\x80\x9d- \xe2\x96\xa0 In a pretty little village of Louisiana destroyed \nby shells toward the end of the war, on a bayou back from the river, a great \nnumber of very old men had been left by their sons and grandsons, while they \nwent to the war. And these old men, many of them veterans of others wars, \nformed themselves into a regiment, made for themselves uniforms, picked up \nold flintlock guns, even mounted a rusty old cannon, and so prepared to go to \nbattle if ever the war came within their reach. Toward the close of the war \nsome gunboats came down the river shelling the shore. The old men heard the \nfiring, and, gathering together, they set out with their old muskets and rusty \nold cannon to try to reach the river over the corduroy road through the cypress \nswamp. They marched out right merrily that hot day, shouting and bantering \nto encourage each other, the dim fires of their old eyes burning with desire of \nbattle, although not one of them was young enough to stand erect. And they \nnever came back any more. The shells from the gunboats set the dense and \nsultry woods on fire. The old men were shut in by the flames\xe2\x80\x94the gray \nbeards and the gray moss and the gray smoke together.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe Poem by the Potomac.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cThe thing, however of the most singular \ninterest here [at Mount Vernon] is a key of the Bastile, presented by Thomas \nPaine to Lafayette.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. [Lafayette sent the key by Paine to Washington.] \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe Bravest Battle.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cA few years ago, when living in my log cabin, \nWashington, some ladies came to inform me that I had been chosen to write a \npoem for the unveiling of an equestrian statue of a hero, the hero of \xe2\x80\x98the brav\xc2\xac \nest battles that ever were fought.\' \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWhen they had delivered their message I told them that the beautiful city \nwas being disfigured by these pitiful monuments to strife, not one in forty \nbeing fit works of art, and that I hoped and believed that the last one of these \nwould be condemned to the scrap heap within the next century. I reminded \nthem that while nearly every city in the Union had more or less of these mon\xc2\xac \nstrosities I had seen but one little figure in honor of woman; that of a crude bit \nof granite to the memory of a humble baker woman in a back street of New \nOrleans, who gave away bread to the poor. I finally told them, however, that \nif they would come back next morning I would have a few lines about \xe2\x80\x98 The \nbravest battles that ever were fought.\' \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c One of them came, got the few lines, but they were not read at the unveil\xc2\xac \ning. However, they were read later in New York, by a New Orleans lady, of \nnoble French extraction, the Baroness de Bazus, and they have since been read \nmany times, in many lands, and, I am told, in many languages.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n\n37 \n\n\n578 \n\n\nMote# \n\n\nThe Ultimate West \n\nTo this group as arranged by Miller, I have added nothing not contained in \nB, but have included half a dozen pieces from his \xe2\x80\x9cmiscellaneous" group and \nfrom his unorganized first volume: \xe2\x80\x9cTo Juanita," \xe2\x80\x9c California\xe2\x80\x99s Resurrection," \n\xe2\x80\x9cPleasant to the Sight," \xe2\x80\x9cThe Trees," \xe2\x80\x9cA Hard Row for Stumps," \xe2\x80\x9cCo\xc2\xac \nmanche," \xe2\x80\x9cThe American Ocean," and \xe2\x80\x9cCalifornia\xe2\x80\x99s Cup of Gold." \xe2\x80\x9cYo- \nsemite\xe2\x80\x9d and \xe2\x80\x9cDead in the Sierras" are now shifted from this group to their \noriginal position in Fallen Leaves. In Classic Shades contains a dozen of the \npoems in this section. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cOld Gib at Castle Rocks."\xe2\x80\x94Reuben P. Gibson, a pioneer judge, led a \ncompany at the battle of Castle Rocks, in June, 1855, when Miller received an \narrow wound in the neck. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c49."\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cThis poem is taken from \xe2\x80\x9849, or the Gold Seekers\xe2\x80\x99 by permission of \nFunk and Wagnalls. . . . The words have been set to music and selected \nas The Song of the Native Sons of California. It was sung in Mining Camps \nlong before it was in print."\xe2\x80\x94M 0 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c San Diego."\xe2\x80\x94The preceding lines from Keats\xe2\x80\x99s \xe2\x80\x9c Ode to a Nightingale " \nwere apparently quoted from memory. They should read: \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c O for a beaker full of the warm South, \n\nFull of the true, the blushful Hippocrene." \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c \xe2\x80\x98The Fourth\xe2\x80\x99 in Oregon."\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cThis poem was read, 1896, near the scene of \nthe Whitman massacre at the old Mission." M. In honor of Marcus P. \nWhitman, founder of Whitman College. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAn Answer.\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x94In the American edition of Songs of the Sun-Lands, this \npoem was originally printed as the prelude to \xe2\x80\x9cIsles of the Amazons," and \ncontained four additional stanzas. \n\nFrom, The Building of the City Beautiful \n\nThe Utopian romance from which these poems were taken was published \nin Chicago in 1893. It contains some interesting chapters on the settlement of \nThe Hights. Miller reprinted only three of the poems in this section: \xe2\x80\x9cIn \nthe Sweat of Thy Face (At Mary\xe2\x80\x99s Fountain)"; \xe2\x80\x9cTo Save a Soul\xe2\x80\x9d; and \xe2\x80\x9cThe \nVoice of the Dove.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c In the Sweat of Thy Face."\xe2\x80\x94This poem appears, detached from the \nsequence, in B., with the title \xe2\x80\x9cAt Mary\xe2\x80\x99s Fountain, Nazaieth." The text \nof B. is followed here, as it contains obvious improvements. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe Voice of the Dove."\xe2\x80\x94This poem is here printed from the text of \n\n\nJlotes \n\n\n579 \n\nB., where it appears under Lines that Papa Liked. In the book, The Build\xc2\xac \ning of the City Beautiful , only the first two stanzas appear. \n\nEnglish Themes \n\nThis group I have composed by bringing together related poems, all of \nwhich appear in B. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cSt. Paul\xe2\x80\x99s\xe2\x80\x9d and \xe2\x80\x9cWestminster Abbey\xe2\x80\x9d were originally parts of \xe2\x80\x9cBy the \nSun-Down Seas,\xe2\x80\x9d 1873. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cAt Byron\xe2\x80\x99s Tomb.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94This poem alludes to Miller\xe2\x80\x99s first visit to the tomb \nof Byron but was apparently written several years later. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cDead in the Long, Strong Grass.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94In memory of Prince Napoleon, a \nfriend of the hunting field in England, who died while fighting with the English \ntroops in the Zulu war. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe Passing of Tennyson.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94Included in Songs of the Soul, 1896. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Mother Egypt.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94Included in Songs of the Soul. Dedicated \xe2\x80\x9c to England \non her invasion of North Africa,\xe2\x80\x9d this w r as one of nine poems in Chants for the \nBoer, a pamphlet of 28 pages published in San Francisco, 1900. Miller took at \nthis time a high \xe2\x80\x9cmoral\xe2\x80\x9d tone and attitude towards the question of an Anglo- \nSaxon alliance, maintaining that there could be none, \xe2\x80\x9cuntil this crime against \nthe Boer is forgotten, as well as Bunker Hill and the Fourth of July.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Boston to the Boers.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94From Chants for the Boer. \n\nMore Songs from the Hights \n\nThis group I have made by bringing together short poems of related mood, \nwhich were scattered through the first, fourth, and fifth volumes of B., mainly \nunder \xe2\x80\x9cMiscellaneous Lines\xe2\x80\x9d and \xe2\x80\x9c Lines that Papa Liked.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cGood Buddha Said, Be Clean, Be Clean.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cWhat is the matter with \nChina, the mightiest and in some ways, such as reverence for parents and re\xc2\xac \nspect for old age, the most civilized power that ever had place on the pages of \nhistory? Why, China never adored beauty. China set up and keeps in her \ntemples a monstrous, hideous Joss, and until the day that her hideous Joss is \nthrown down will she, too, be deservedly hideous in the eyes of the world.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cDeath Is Delightful.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94This is a fragment detached from \xe2\x80\x9cMyrrh\xe2\x80\x9d and \nincluded in B. among Miller\xe2\x80\x99s favorite lines. \n\nMiscellaneous Lines \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe Missouri.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9c\xe2\x80\x98The Missouri\xe2\x80\x99 has a right to exist, as it stirred the \nwaters from \xe2\x80\x98The Shining Mountains\xe2\x80\x99 to the Gulf of Mexico, and taught the \nnation to no longer disdain, \xe2\x80\x98The Father of Waters.\xe2\x80\x99 \xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n\n580 \n\n\nJfjtoteg \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x9cPeter Cooper.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94\xe2\x80\x9cThe world did not want all I had to say of this gentle \nold man and kept only the three little verses.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c Light of the Southern Cross.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94Title from a manuscript copy supplied \nby Mrs. Miller. In pamphlet form it is entitled: \xe2\x80\x9cPanama, Union of the \nOceans.\xe2\x80\x9d \n\n\nSemi-Humorous Songs \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cThe dower of song is, to my mind, a sacred gift. The prophet and the seer \nshould rise above the levities of this life. And so it is that I make humble \napology for now gathering up from recitation books these next half dozen pieces. \nThe only excuse for doing it is their refusal to die; even under the mutilations \nof the compilers of \xe2\x80\x98choice selections.\xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\nSongs of the American Seas \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cColumbus.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94This poem is printed in B. under the caption \xe2\x80\x9cLater Lines \nPreferred by London.\xe2\x80\x9d It was included in Songs of the Soul , 1896. \xe2\x80\x98 The Lon\xc2\xac \ndon Atheneum (sic), years after the royal reception given my first books, pro\xc2\xac \nnounced this the best American poem. Let me say to my following it is far \nfrom that; even I have done better; too much like a chorus. \xe2\x80\x98The Passing of \nTennyson\xe2\x80\x99 is better. \xe2\x80\x98The Missouri\xe2\x80\x99 better still.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94M. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cA Song of Creation.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94The greater part of this poem appeared ina 99-page \npamphlet called As it Was in the Beginning , published in San Francisco in \n1903. It was revised and published as Light in Boston, in 1907, with illustrative \nscenes from California, Alaska, Japan, and Hawaii as headings for the four \nbooks. \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cWith Love to You and Yours.\xe2\x80\x9d\xe2\x80\x94A revision of \xe2\x80\x9cSappho and Phaon,\xe2\x80\x9d the \nfirst poem in Songs of the Soul , 1896. \n\n\nINDEX OF FIRST LINES \n\n\nA beautiful stream is the River of Rest, 427 \nA blazing home, a blood-soaked hearth, 377 \nA fig for her story of shame and of piide! 435 \nAgainst our golden orient dawns, 383 \nAh me! I mind me long agone, 428 \nA land that man has newly trod, 349 \n\xe2\x80\x9cAll honor to him who shall win the prize,\xe2\x80\x9d \n426 \n\nAloha! Wahwah! Quelle raison? 468 \nAlone and sad I sat me down, 455 \nAlone on this desolate border, 49 \nA morn in Oregon! The kindled camp, 173 \nAnd full these truths eternal, 313 \nAnd here, sweet friend, I go my way, 564 \nAnd oh, the voices I have heard! 4x9 \nAnd they came to Him, mothers of Judah, \n304 \n\nAnd this then is all of the sweet life she \npromised! 50 \n\nAnd what for the man who went forth for \nthe right, 404 \n\nAnd where lies Usland, Land of Us? 466 \nAnd who the bravest of the brave, 405 \nAnd yet again through the watery miles, \n343 \n\nAnd you, too, banged at the Chilkoot, 447 \nAs a tale that is told, as a vision, 308 \nA sinking sun, a sky of red, 157 \nA storm burst forth! From out the storm, \n445 \n\nA tale half told and hardly understood, 166 \nA wild, wide land of mysteries, 216 \nAye, the world is a better old world today! \n\n419 \n\nBecause the skies were blue, because, 61 \n\xe2\x80\x9cBe clean, be clean!" Gautama cried, 421 \nBehind him lay the gray Azores, 475 \nBehold how glorious! Behold, 421 \nBehold the silvered mists that rise, 403 \nBehold the tree, the lordly tree, 366 \nBe thou not angered. Go thy way, 397 \n\nCity at sea, thou art surely an ark, 341 \nCome, lean an ear, an earnest ear, 397 \nCome, let us ponder; it is fit, 393 \nCome, listen O Love to the voice of the \ndove, 405 \n\nComes a cry from Cuban water, 444 \nCome to my sunland! Come with me, 104 \n\nDark-browed, she broods with weary lids, \n413 \n\nDead! stark dead in the long, strong grass! \n412 \n\nDear Bethlehem, the proud repose, 393 \n\n58 \n\n\nDeath is delightful. Death is dawn, 427 \nDove-borne symbol, olive bough, 356 \n\nEld Druid oaks of Ayr, 146 \nEmerald, emerald, emerald Land, 381 \nEspousal of the vast, void seas, 448 \n\nFor glory? For good? For fortune, or for \nfame? 422 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cFor the Right! as God has given,\xe2\x80\x9d 350 \nFrom out the golden doors of dawn, 400 \nFrom out the vast, wide bosomed West, 441 \nFrom Shasta town to Redding town, 368 \nFrosts of an hour! Fruits of a season! 160 \n\nGlintings of day in the darkness, 120 \n\nHail, fat king Ned! 441 \nHail, Independence of old ways! 387 \nHear ye this parable. A man, 393 \nHe died at dawn in the land of snows, 413 \nHer hands were clasped downward and \ndoubled, 306 \n\nHe walked the world with bended head, 104 \nHis broad-brimm\xe2\x80\x99d hat push\xe2\x80\x99d back with \ncareless air, 172 \n\nHis eyes are dim, he gropes his way, 375 \nHis footprints have failed us, 156 \nHonor and glory forever more, 440 \nHow sad that all great things are sad, 422 \n\xe2\x80\x9cHow shall man surely save his soul?\xe2\x80\x9d 399 \nHow swift this sand, gold-laden, runs! 379 \nHuge silver snow-peaks, white as wool, 462 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cI am an Ussian true,\xe2\x80\x9d he said, 466 \nI am as one unlearned, uncouth, 50 \nIce built, ice bound and ice bounded, 382 \nI do recall some sad days spent, 339 \nI dream\xe2\x80\x99d, O Queen, of you, last night, 437 \nIf earth is an oyster, love is the pearl, 157 \nI have a world, a world which is all my own, \n52 \n\nI heard a tale long, long ago, 373 \n\nIn a land so far that you wonder whether, \n\n245 \n\nIn men whom men condemn as ill, 147 \nIn the days when my mother, the Earth, \nwas young, 425 \n\nIn the place where the grizzly reposes, 158 \nI see above a crowded world a cross, 409 \nI see her now\xe2\x80\x94the fairest thing, 434 \nIs it night? And sits night at your pillow? \n3\xc2\xb03 \n\nIs it worth while that we jostle a brother, 47 \nI stand upon the green Sierra\xe2\x80\x99s wall, 168 \nIt seems to me a grandest thing, 420 \n\n\n\n\nSrtbex of Jfirst Hints \n\n\n582 \n\n\nI think the bees, the blessed bees, 403 \nI think the birds in that far dawn, 394 \n\nKing of Tigre, comrade true, 155 \n\nLet me rise and go forth. A far, dim spark, \n333 \n\nLife knows no dead so beautiful, 143 \nLike fragments of an uncompleted world, \ni6 5 \n\nLo! here sit we by the sun-down seas, 213 \nLo! here sit we mid the sun-down seas, 158 \nLook back, beyond the Syrian sand, 398 \nLo! on the plains of Bethel lay, 398 \nLorn land of silence, land of awe! 396 \n\nMan\xe2\x80\x99s books are but man\xe2\x80\x99s alphabet, 403 \n\nMontara, Naples of my West! 378 \n\nMy brave world-builders of the West! 165 \n\nMy city sits amid her palms, 287 \n\nMy kingly kinsmen, kings of thought, 412 \n\nMy Mountains still are free! 363 \n\nMy own and my only Love some night, 359 \n\nNight seems troubled and scarce asleep, 332 \nNo! It is not well, Zanara, 48 \n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98No, not so lonely now\xe2\x80\x94I love,\xe2\x80\x9d 374 \nNo, sir; no turkey for me, sir, 464 \n\nOaks of the voiceless ages! 54 \nO boy at peace upon the Delaware! 301 \nO, heavens, the eloquent song of the silence! \n428 \n\nOh, for England\xe2\x80\x99s old sea thunder! 410 \nOh, give me good mothers! Yea, great, \nglad mothers, 423 \nOh, it were better dying there, 386 \nOh, lion of the ample earth, 435 \nOh! she is very old. I lay, 414 \nO Jebus! thou mother of prophets, 304 \nO land of temples, land of tombs! 395 \nO Master, here I bow before a shrine, 4x0 \nOnce, morn by morn, when snowy moun\xc2\xac \ntains flamed, 172 \n\nOne night we touched the lily shore, 440 \nOnly a basket for fruits or bread, 345 \nO perfect heroes of the earth, 386 \nO star-built bridge, broad milky way! 394 \nO terrible lion of tame Saint Mark! 323 \nO, the mockery of pity ! 350 \nO thou Tomorrow! Mystery! 428 \nO thou, whose patient, peaceful blood, 309 \nO tranquil moon! O pitying moon! 350 \n\nPaine! The Prison of France! Lafayette! \n360 \n\nPrimeval forests! virgin sod! 179 \n\nRhyme on, rhyme on, in reedy flow, 263 \nRise up! How brief this little day? 540 \nRoom! room to turn round in, to breathe \nand be free, 149 \n\nSad song of the wind in the mountains, 126 \nSail, sail yon skies of cobalt blue, 447 \nSanta Ana came storming, as a storm might \ncome, 439 \n\n\nSays Plato, \xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98Once in Greece the gods, \n\n467 \n\nSee once these stately scenes, then roam no \nmore, 170 \n\nShadows that shroud the tomorrow, 88 \n\nSierras, and eternal tents, 137 \n\nSing banners and cannon and roll of drum! \n\n423 \n\nSome fragrant trees, 438 \nSome fugitive lines that allure us no more, \n153 \n\nSome leveled hills, a wall, a dome, 339 \nSound!sound!sound! 155 \nSowing the waves with a fiery rain, 433 \nSuch musky smell of maiden night! 360 \nSword in hand he was slain, 439 \n\n\n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98Ten thousand miles of mobile sea,\xe2\x80\x9d 382 \nThatch of palm and a patch of clover, 155 \nThat man who lives for self alone, 61 \nThe Abbey broods beside the turbid \nThames, 410 \n\nThe bravest battle that ever was fought, 361 \nThe bravest, manliest man is he, 476 \nThe brave young city by the Balboa seas, \n383 \n\nThe broad magnolia\xe2\x80\x99s blooms are white, 384 \nThe Day sat by with banner furled, 401 \nThe dying land cried; they heard her death- \ncall, 357 \n\nThe golden fleece is at our feet, 384 \nThe golden poppy is God\xe2\x80\x99s gold, 383 \nThe gold that with the sunlight lies, 440 \nThe hail like cannon-shot struck the sea, \n342 . \n\nThe hills were brown, the heavens were \nblue, 113 \n\nThe huge sea monster, the \xe2\x80\x9c Merrimac,\xe2\x80\x9d 359 \nThe king of rivers has a dolorous shore, 434 \nThe lakes lay bright as bits of broken moon, \n330 \n\nThe monument, tipped wdth electric fire, 353 \nThe mountains from that fearful first, 349 \nThe old stage-drivers of the brave old days! \n460 \n\nThe rain! The rain! The generous rain! \n366 \n\nThere were whimsical turns of the waters, \n\n305 \n\nThese famous waters smell like\xe2\x80\x94well, 463 \n\xe2\x80\x98\xe2\x80\x98The silver cord loosed,\xe2\x80\x9d 54 \nThe snow was red with patriot blood, 360 \nThe stars are large as lilies! Morn, 384 \nThe sun lay molten in the sea, 401 \nThe Sword of Gideon, Sword of God, 416 \nThe tented field wore a wrinkled frown, 356 \nThe trees they lean\xe2\x80\x99d in their love unto \ntrees, 367 \n\nThe world it is wide; men go their ways, 209 \nThe world lay as a dream of love, 469 \nThey called him Bill, the hired man, 458 \nThey tell me, ere the maple leaves grow \nbrown once more, 55 \nThis tall, strong City stands today, 442 \nThose brave old bricks of forty-nine! 385 \nThose shining leaves that lisped and shook, \n400 \n\n\n\nSnfcex of Jfirsst Hinefi \n\n\n583 \n\n\nThou, mother of brave men, of nations! \nThou, 409 \n\nTo lord all Godland! lift the brow, 349 \nTo those who have known my mad life\xe2\x80\x99s \ntroubles, 55 \n\n\xe2\x80\x99Twas night in Venice. Then down to the \ntide, 344 \n\nTwo gray hawks ride the rising blast, 370 \nTwo noble brothers loved a fair, 456 \n\n\nUnwalled it lies, and open as the sun, 442 \n\n\nWe dwelt in the woods of the Tippecanoe, \n43 \n\nWe have worked our claims, 380 \nWell! who shall lay hand on my harp but \nme, 389 \n\nWe must trust the Conductor, most surely, \n426 \n\nWe part as ships on a pathless main, 159 \nWhat if we all lay dead below, 404 \nWhat shall be said of the sun-born Pueblo? \n380 \n\nWhat shall be said of this soldier now dead? \n42s \n\nWhat song is well sung not of sorrow? 305 \n\n\nWhat song sang the twelve with the Saviour, \n\n307 \n\nWhat sound was that? A pheasant\xe2\x80\x99s whir? \n395 \n\nWhat wonder that I swore a prophet\xe2\x80\x99s \noath,175 \n\nWhere now the brownie fisher-lad? 446 \nWhere ranged thy black-maned woolly \nbulls, 433 \n\nWhere San Diego seas are warm, 378 \nWhere the cocoa and cactus are neighbors, \n156 \n\nWith high face held to her ultimate star, \n\n424 \n\nWith incense and myrrh and sweet spices, \n\n303 \n\nWith the buckler and sword into battle, 160 \nWho tamed your lawless Tartar blood? 309 \nWhy, know you not soul speaks to soul? \n\n405 \n\nYea, Santa Barbara is fair, 159 \nYes, I am dreamer. Yet while you dream, \n4*9 \n\nYou ask for manliest, martial deeds? 367 \nYou sail and you seek for the Fortunate \nIsles, 420 \n\nYou will come, my bird, Bonita, 365 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n%- \n\n\n\n\nl \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nINDEX OF TITLES \n\n\nAdios, 564 \nAfrica, 414 \nAfter the Battle, 423 \nAlaska, 382 \n\nAmerican Ocean, The, 382 \n\nAnd Oh, the Voices I Have Heard, 419 \n\nAnswer, An, 389 \n\nArbor Day, 383 \n\nArizonian, The, 104 \n\nAt Bethlehem, 303 \n\nAt Lord Byron\xe2\x80\x99s Tomb, 410 \n\nAt Sea, 159 \n\nAttila\xe2\x80\x99s Throne, Torcello, 339 \nAwaiting the Resurrection at Karnak, 396 \n\nBattle Flag at Shenandoah, The, 356 \nBeyond Jordan, 304 \nBits from Ina, a Drama, 126 \nBlessed Bees, The, 403 \nBoston to the Boers, 415 \nBravest Battle, The, 361 \nBuilding of the City Beautiful, The, \n1893, 39 i \nBurns, 146 \nByron, 147 \n\nBy the Balboa Seas, 384 \n\nBy the Lower Mississippi, 434 \n\nBy the Sun-Down Seas, 1873, 163 \n\n\nCalifornia\xe2\x80\x99s Christmas, 384 \n\nCalifornia\xe2\x80\x99s Cup of Gold, 383 \n\nCalifornia\xe2\x80\x99s Resurrection, 366 \n\nCapucin of Rome, The, 345 \n\nCharity, 306 \n\nChilkoot Pass, 447 \n\nChrist in Egypt, The, 395 \n\nChristmas by the Great River, 435 \n\nColumbus, 475 \n\nComanche, 377 \n\nComing of Spring, The, 359 \n\nComo, 330 \n\nCuba Libre, 444 \n\nCuster, 386 \n\n\nDawn at San Diego, 287 \n\nDay Sat by with Banner Furled, The, 401 \n\nDead Carpenter, A, 425 \n\nDead Czar, The, 445 \n\nDead in the Long, Strong Grass, 412 \n\nDead in the Sierras, 156 \n\nDead Millionaire, The, 440 \n\nDeath Is Delightful, 427 \n\nDefense of the Alamo, The, 439 \n\nDirge, 54 \n\nDon\xe2\x80\x99t Stop at the Station Despair, 426 \n\n\nDove of St. Mark, A, 323 \nDown the Mississippi at Night, 433 \n\nEngland, 409 \nEnglish Themes, 407 \nEven So, 137 \nExodus for Oregon, 166 \n\nFaith, 305 \n\nFallen Leaves, 1873, 153 \nFeed My Sheep, 393 \nFinale, 428 \n\nFirst Law of God, The, 398 \nFor the Right, 350 \nFor Those Who Fail, 426 \nFortunate Isles, The, 420 \n\xe2\x80\x9c49,\xe2\x80\x9d 380 \n\nFoundation Stones, The, 397 \n\nFrom Out the Golden Doors of Dawn, 400 \n\nFrom Sea to Sea, 213 \n\nGarfield, 441 \n\nGold That Grew by Shasta Town, The, 368 \nGood Buddha Said \xe2\x80\x9cBe Clean, Be Clean,\xe2\x80\x9d \n421 \n\nGreat Emerald Land, The, 173 \nGrowing of a Soul, The, 393 \n\nHailstorm in Venice, A, 342 \nHard Row for Stumps, A, 367 \nHe Loves and Rides Away, 435 \nHeroes of America, The, 386 \nHeroes of Oregon, The, 168 \nHer Picture, 434 \n\nHe Walked the World with Bended Head, \n401 \n\nHope, 30s \n\nHorace Greeley\xe2\x80\x99s Drive, 460 \n\nHow Beautiful Are the Feet, 394 \n\nHow Shall Man Surely Save His Soul? 399 \n\nIdeal and the Real, The, 313 \nIn a Gondola, 344 \nIn Classic Shades, 455 \nIndian Summer, An, 209 \nIn Exile, 49 \nIn Palestine, 304 \nIn San Francisco, 158 \nIn Southern California, 156 \nIn the Sweat of Thy Face, 395 \nIs It Worth While? 47 \nIsles of the Amazons, 179 \n\nJoaquin Et Al, 1869, 45 \nJoaquin Murietta, 120 \n\nKit Carson\xe2\x80\x99s Ride, 149 \n\n\n585 \n\n\n\n\n536 \n\n\nSttiiex of Cities \n\n\nLand That Man Has Newly Trod, A, 349 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9cLa Notte,\xe2\x80\x9d 303 \n\nLarger College, The, 378 \n\nLast Supper, The, 307 \n\nLast Taschastas, The, 113 \n\nLight of Christ\xe2\x80\x99s Face, The, 421 \n\nLight of the Southern Cross, 448 \n\nLincoln Park, 442 \n\nLittle Brown Man, The, 446 \n\nLog Cabin Lines, 351 \n\nLo! On the Plains of Bethel, 398 \n\nLost Regiment, The, 357 \n\nLove in the Sierras, 374 \n\nLove Song, A, 157 \n\nMagnolia Blossoms, 384 \n\nMan\xe2\x80\x99s Books, 403 \n\nMemory of Santa Barbara, A, 159 \n\nMen of Forty-Nine, The, 385 \n\nMerinda, 50 \n\nMiscellaneous Lines, 431 \nMissouri, The, 433 \nMontara, 378 \n\nMontgomery at Quebec, 439 \n\nMore Songs From the Hights, 417 \n\nMother Egypt, 413 \n\nMothers of Men, 423 \n\nMountains, The, 349 \n\nMount Shasta, 349 \n\nMyrrh, 143 \n\nNepenthe, 32 \n\nNewport News, 359 \n\nNubian Face on the Nile, A, 440 \n\nO Boy at Peace, 301 \n\nOh, for England\xe2\x80\x99s Old Time Thunder! 410 \nOld Gib at Castle Rocks, 375 \nOlive, 336 \n\nOn the Firing Line, 422 \nO, the Mockery of Pity, 350 \nO Tranquil Moon, 350 \nOur Heroes of Today, 424 \nOye-Agua: Oregon, 165 \n\nPalm Leaves, 155 \n\nPassing of Tennyson, The, 412 \n\nPeter Cooper, 440 \n\nPicture of a Bull, 172 \n\nPioneers to the Great Emerald Land, 381 \n\nPleasant to the Sight, 366 \n\nPoem by the Potomac, The, 360 \n\nPoet, The, 419 \n\nPut Up Thy Sword, 405 \n\nQueen of My Dreams, The, 437 \nQuestion? 425 \n\nResurgo San Francisco, 442 \nRiel, the Rebel, 413 \nRiver of Rest, The, 427 \nRome, 339 \n\nSt. Paul\xe2\x80\x99s, 409 \n\nSan Diego, 380 \n\nSanta Maria: Torcello, 343 \n\n\nSaratoga and the Psalmist, 463 \nSays Plato, 467 \nSea of Fire, The, 24s \nSemi-Humorous Songs, 453 \nSermon on the Mount, The, 394 \nShadows of Shasta, 158 \nShadows of Shasta, 1881, 347 \nShasta Tale of Love, A, 373 \nShip in the Desert, The, 216 \nSierra Grande del Norte, 165 \nSierras Adios, 160 \nSioux Chief\xe2\x80\x99s Daughter, The, 370 \nSoldiers\xe2\x80\x99 Home, Washington. The, 353 \nSong for Peace, A, 308 \nSong of Creation, A, 476 \nSong of the Silence, The, 428 \nSong of the South, A, 263 \nSongs of Italy, 31i \nSongs of the American Seas, 473 \nSongs of the Hebrew Children (Olive \nLeaves), 299 \n\nSongs of the Sierras, 1871, 59 \nSongs of the Sunlands, 177 \nSummer Frosts, 160 \nSummer Moons at Mount Vernon, 360 \nSun Lay Molten in the Sea, The, 401 \nSunrise in Venice, 332 \n\nTale of the Tall Alcalde, The, 88 \n\nThat Faithful Wife of Idaho, 462 \n\nThat Gentle Man from Boston, 456 \n\nThat Ussian of Usland, 466 \n\nThe Fourth in Hawaiian Waters, 447 \n\n\xe2\x80\x9c The Fourth \xe2\x80\x99\xe2\x80\x99 in Oregon, 387 \n\nThomas of Tigre, 155 \n\nThose Perilous Spanish Eyes, 438 \n\nTo Andrew Carnegie, 441 \n\nToil of God, The, 403 \n\nTo Juanita, 365 \n\nTo Maud, 61 \n\nTomorrow, 428 \n\nTo Rachel in Russia, 309 \n\nTo Rest at Last, 17s \n\nTo Russia, 309 \n\nTo Save a Soul, 420 \n\nTo the Bards of S. F. Bay, 50 \n\nTo the Pioneers, 379 \n\nTrees, The, 367 \n\nTrue Greatness, 422 \n\nTruly Brave, The, 404 \n\nTurkey Hunt in Texas, A, 464 \n\nTwilight at the Hights, 383 \n\nTwo Wise Old Men of Omar\xe2\x80\x99s Land, 469 \n\nUltimate West, The, 363 \nUltime, 55 \nUnder the Oaks, 54 \nUnder the Olive Trees, 400 \nUnder the Syrian Stars, 393 \nUsland, 466 \n\nVale, 55 \n\nVale! America, 333 \nVaquero, 172 \nVenice, 341 \n\nVoice of the Dove, The, 405 \nVoice of Toil, The, 397 \n\n\n\n\n3n&EX of titles \n\n\n587 \n\n\nWalker in Nicaragua, 61 \nWashington by the Delaware, 360 \nWelcome to the Great American Ocean, \n468 \n\nWestminster Abbey, 410 \nWhat If We All Lay Dead Below, 404 \nWhen Little Sister Came, 43 \nWhere Rolls the Oregon, 170 \nWho Shall Say? 157 \n\n\nWhy, Know You Not Soul Speaks to Soul, \n405 \n\nWilliam Brown of Oregon, 458 \nWith Love to You and Yours, 540 \nWorld Is a Better World, The, 419 \n\nYosemite, 155 \n\nZanara, 48 \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n86 < \n\n\n\n% \n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n>* \xc2\xb0MMW\' \\W3aS * \n\n*\xc2\xb0 ... %. \'\xe2\x80\xa2\xe2\x80\xa2** ^ *\xe2\x80\x9e St\' .&* *o \n\n.0 *.* * o \xc2\xab& c 0 w \xc2\xb0 n\xc2\xbb *Z* \n\n0 * O \xe2\x80\xa2 ^-s^cv \xc2\xab\xe2\x96\xba /-U i * ^ * O. \n\n\n\n\xc2\xb0 *\xc2\xb0\'%. \n\xe2\x80\xa2 ~0 \n\n\n\n\xc2\xb0 * \n\nA ^ o \n\n<\xe2\x96\xba *fi \n\n,* *y\\. \n\n" \n\n^ O* \n\n%K ^ * \xe2\x80\xa2 V\xc2\xab 0 ^ 0 \' \n\n11 4 V *}&\xc2\xa3. 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