University of Virginia Library

The sun is red and flush'd and dry,
And fretted from his weary beat
Across the hot and desert sky,
And swollen as from overheat,
And failing too; for see he sinks
Swift as a ball of burnish'd ore:
It may be fancy, but methinks
He never fell so fast before.

I hear the neighing of hot steeds,
I see the marshalling of men
That silent move among the trees
As busily as swarming bees
With step and stealthiness profound,
On carpetings of spindled weeds,
Without a syllable or sound
Save clashing of their burnish'd arms,
Clinking dull death-like alarms—
Grim bearded men and brawny men
That grope among the ghostly trees.
Were ever silent men as these?
Was ever sombre forest deep
And dark as this? Here one might sleep
While all the weary years went round,
Nor wake nor weep for sun or sound.

A stone's throw to the right, a rock
Has rear'd his head among the stars—
An island in the upper deep—
And on his front a thousand scars
Of thunder's crash and earthquake's shock
Are seam'd as if by sabre's sweep
Of gods, enraged that he should rear
His front amid their realms of air.

What moves along his beetling brow,
So small, so indistinct and far,
This side yon blazing evening star,
Seen through that redwood's shifting bough?
A lookout on the world below?
A watcher for the friend—or foe?
This still troop's sentry it must be,
Yet seems no taller than my knee.

But for the grandeur of this gloom,
And for the chafing steeds' alarms,
And brown men's sullen clash of arms,
This were but as a living tomb.
These weeds are spindled, pale and white,
As if nor sunshine, life nor light
Had ever reach'd this forest's heart.
Above, the redwood boughs entwine
As dense as copse of tangled vine—
Above, so fearfully afar,
It seems as 'twere a lesser sky,
A sky without a moon or star,
The moss'd boughs are so thick and high.
At every lisp of leaf I start!
Would I could hear a cricket trill,
Or that yon sentry from his hill
Might shout or show some sign of life,
The place does seem so deathly still.
“Mount ye, and forward for the strife!”
Who by yon dark trunk sullen stands,
With black serape and bloody hands,
And coldly gives his brief commands?

They mount—away! Quick on his heel
He turns, and grasps his gleaming steel—
Then sadly smiles, and stoops to kiss
An upturn'd face so sweetly fair,
So rich of blessedness and bliss!
I know she is not flesh and blood,
But some sweet spirit of this wood;
I know it by her wealth of hair,
And step on the unyielding air;
Her seamless robe of shining white,
Her soul-deep eyes of darkest night:
But over all and more than all
That could be said or can befall,
That tongue can tell or pen can trace,
That wondrous witchery of face.

Between the trees I see him stride
To where a red steed fretting stands
Impatient for his lord's commands:
And she glides noiseless at his side.

Lo! not a bud, or leaf, or stem,
Beneath her feet is bowed or bent;
They only nod, as if in sleep,
And all their grace and freshness keep;
And now will in their beauty bloom,
In pink and pearl habiliment,
As though fresh risen from a tomb,
For fairest sun has shone on them.

“The world is mantling black again!
Beneath us, o'er the sleeping plain,
Dull steel-gray clouds slide up and down
As if the still earth wore a frown.
The west is red with sunlight slain!”

(One hand toys with her waving hair,
Soft lifting from her shoulders bare;
The other holds the loosen'd rein,
And rests upon the swelling mane
That curls the curved neck o'er and o'er,
Like waves that swirl along the shore.
He hears the last retreating sound
Of iron on volcanic stone,
That echoes far from peak to plain,
And 'neath the dense wood's sable zone
He peers the dark Sierras down.)
“But darker yet shall be the frown,
And redder yet shall be the flame.
And yet I would that this were not—
That all, forgiven or forgot
Of curses deep and awful crimes,
Of blood and terror, could but seem
Some troubled and unholy dream;
That even now I could awake,
And waking find me once again
With hand and heart without a stain,
Swift gliding o'er that sunny lake,
Begirt with town and castle-wall,
Where first I saw the silver light—
Begirt with blossoms, and the bloom
Of orange, sweet with the perfume
Of cactus, pomegranate and all
The thousand sweets of tropic climes;
And, waking, see the mellow moon
Pour'd out in gorgeous pleniluue
On silver ripples of that tide;
And, waking, hear soft music pour
Along that flora-formèd shore
And, waking, find you at my side,
My father's moss'd and massive halls,
My brothers in their strength and pride.”

(His hand forsakes her raven rair,
His eyes have an unearthly glare:
She shrinks and shudders at his side,
Then lifts to his her moisten'd eye,
And only looks her sad reply.
A sullenness his soul enthrals,
A silence born of hate and pride;
His fierce volcanic heart so deep
Is stirr'd, his teeth, despite his will,
Do chatter as if in a chill;
His very dagger at his side
Does shake and rattle in its sheath,
As blades of brown grass in a gale
Do rustle on the frosted heath:
And yet he does not bend or weep.)

I did not vow a girlish vow,
Nor idle imprecation now
Will I bestow by boasting word—
Feats of the tongue become the knave.
A wailing in the land is heard
For those that will not come again;
And weeping for the rashly brave,
Who sleep in many a gulch and glen,
Has wet a hundred hearths with tears,
And darken'd them for years and years.
Would I could turn their tears to gore,
Make every hearth as cold as one
Is now upon that sweet lake shore,
Where my dear kindred dwelt of yore;
Where now is but an ashen heap,
And mass of mossy earth and stone;
Where round an altar black wolves keep
Their carnival and doleful moan;
Where hornèd lizards dart and climb,
And mollusks slide and leave their slime.

“But tremble not. This night, my own,
Shall see my fierce foe overthrown;
And ere the day-star gleams again
My horse's hoofs shall spurn the dead—
The still warm reeking dead of those
Who brought us all our bitter woes;
While all my glad returning way
Shall be as light as living day,
From ranchos, campos, burning red.
And then! And then my peri pearl”—
(As if to charm her from her fears
And drive away the starting tears,
Again his small hand seeks a curl,
And voice forgets its sullen ire,
And eye forsakes its flashing fire)—
“Away to where the orange tree
Is white through all the cycled years,
And love lives an eternity;
Where birds are never out of tune
And life knows no decline of noon;
Where winds are sweet as woman's breath,
And purpled, dreamy, mellow skies
Are lovely as a woman's eyes,—
There, we in calm and perfect bliss
Of boundless faith and sweet delight
Shall realize the world above,
Forgetting all the wrongs of this,
Forgetting all of blood and death,
And all your terrors of to-night,
In pure devotion and deep love.”

As gently as a mother bows
Her first-born sleeping babe above,
The cherish'd cherub lips to kiss
In her full blessedness and bliss,
He bends to her with stately air,
His proud head in its cloud of hair.
I do not heed the hallow'd kiss;
I do not hear the hurried vows
Of passion, faith, unfailing love;
I do not mark the prison'd sigh,
I do not meet the moisten'd eye:
A low sweet melody is heard
Like cooing of some Balize bird,
So fine it does not touch the air,
So faint it stirs not anywhere;
Faint as the falling of the dew,
Low as a pure unutter'd prayer,
The meeting, mingling, as it were,
Of souls in paradisal bliss.

Erect again, he grasps the rein
So tight, as to the seat he springs,
I see his red steed plunge and poise
And beat the air with iron feet,
And curve his noble glossy neck,
And toss on high his swelling mane,
And leap—away! he spurns the rein,
And flies so fearfully and fleet,
But for the hot hoofs' ringing noise
'Twould seem as if he were on wings.

And she is gone! Gone like a breath,
Gone like a white sail seen at night
A moment, and then lost to sight;
Gone like a star you look upon,
That glimmers to a bead, a speck,
Then softly melts into the dawn,
And all is still and dark as death.