 | Songs of the Sierras |  |
V.
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I look far down a dewy vale,
Where cool palms lean across a brook
As crooked as a shepherd's crook.
Red parrots call from orange trees,
Where white lips kiss the idle breeze,
And murmur with the hum of bees:
The gray dove coos his low love-tale.
Where cool palms lean across a brook
As crooked as a shepherd's crook.
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Where white lips kiss the idle breeze,
And murmur with the hum of bees:
The gray dove coos his low love-tale.
With cross outstretch'd like pleading hands
That mutely plead the faith of Christ,
Amid the palms a low church stands:
I would that man might learn from these
The priceless victories of Peace,
And woo her 'mid these olive trees,
And win an earthly paradise.
That mutely plead the faith of Christ,
Amid the palms a low church stands:
I would that man might learn from these
The priceless victories of Peace,
And woo her 'mid these olive trees,
And win an earthly paradise.
I see black clouds of troops afar
Sweep like a surge that sweeps the shore,
And check'ring all the green hills o'er
Are battlements and signs of war.
I hear the hoarse-voiced cannon roar:
The red-mouthed orators of war
Plead as they never plead before;
While outdone thunder stops his car
And leans in wonderment afar.
Sweep like a surge that sweeps the shore,
And check'ring all the green hills o'er
Are battlements and signs of war.
I hear the hoarse-voiced cannon roar:
The red-mouthed orators of war
Plead as they never plead before;
While outdone thunder stops his car
And leans in wonderment afar.
A fragment from the struggle rent
Forsakes the rugged battlement,
And winds it painfully and slow
Across the rent and riven lands
To where a gray church open stands,
As if it bore a load of woe.
Forsakes the rugged battlement,
And winds it painfully and slow
Across the rent and riven lands
To where a gray church open stands,
As if it bore a load of woe.
Curambo! 'tis a chief they bear!
And by his black and flowing hair
Methinks I have seen him before.
A gray priest guides them through the door,
They lay him bleeding on the floor.
And by his black and flowing hair
Methinks I have seen him before.
A gray priest guides them through the door,
They lay him bleeding on the floor.
He moves, he lifts his feeble hand,
And points with tried and trenchèd brand,
And bids them to the battle-plain.
They turn—they pause: he bids again;
They turn a last time to their chief,
And gaze in silence and deep pain,
For silence speaks the deepest grief.
They clutch their blades; they turn—are gone:
And priest and chief are left alone.
And points with tried and trenchèd brand,
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They turn—they pause: he bids again;
They turn a last time to their chief,
And gaze in silence and deep pain,
For silence speaks the deepest grief.
They clutch their blades; they turn—are gone:
And priest and chief are left alone.
“So here my last day has its close,
And here it ends. Here all is not.
I am content. 'Tis what I sought—
Revenge—and then my last repose.
Oh for the rest—for the rest eternal!
Oh for the deep and the dreamless sleep!
Where never a hope lures to deceive;
Where never a heart beats but to grieve;
Nor thoughts of heaven or hells infernal
Shall ever wake or dare to break
The rest of an everlasting sleep!
And here it ends. Here all is not.
I am content. 'Tis what I sought—
Revenge—and then my last repose.
Oh for the rest—for the rest eternal!
Oh for the deep and the dreamless sleep!
Where never a hope lures to deceive;
Where never a heart beats but to grieve;
Nor thoughts of heaven or hells infernal
Shall ever wake or dare to break
The rest of an everlasting sleep!
“Is there truth in the life eternal?
Will our memories never die?
Shall we relive in realms supernal
Life's resplendent and glorious lie?
Death has not one shape so frightful
But defiantly I would brave it;
Earth has nothing so delightful
But my soul would scorn to crave it,
Could I know for sure, for certain,
That the falling of the curtain
And the folding of the hands
Is the full and the final casting
Of accounts for the everlasting!
Everlasting, and everlasting!
Will our memories never die?
Shall we relive in realms supernal
Life's resplendent and glorious lie?
Death has not one shape so frightful
But defiantly I would brave it;
Earth has nothing so delightful
But my soul would scorn to crave it,
Could I know for sure, for certain,
That the falling of the curtain
And the folding of the hands
Is the full and the final casting
Of accounts for the everlasting!
Everlasting, and everlasting!
“Well, I have known, I know not why,
Through all my dubious days of strife,
That when we live our deeds we die;
That man may in one hour live
All that his life can bear or give.
This I have done, and do not grieve,
For I am older by a score
Than many born long, long before,
If sorrows be the sum of life.
Through all my dubious days of strife,
That when we live our deeds we die;
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All that his life can bear or give.
This I have done, and do not grieve,
For I am older by a score
Than many born long, long before,
If sorrows be the sum of life.
“Ay, I am old—old as the years
Could brand me with their blood and tears;
For with my fingers I can trace
Grief's trenches on my hollow face,
And through my thin frame I can feel
The pulses of my frozen heart
Beat with a dull uncertain start:
And, mirror'd in my sword, to-day,
Before its edge of gleaming steel
Had lost its lustre in the fray,
I saw around my temples stray
Thin straggling locks of steely gray.
Could brand me with their blood and tears;
For with my fingers I can trace
Grief's trenches on my hollow face,
And through my thin frame I can feel
The pulses of my frozen heart
Beat with a dull uncertain start:
And, mirror'd in my sword, to-day,
Before its edge of gleaming steel
Had lost its lustre in the fray,
I saw around my temples stray
Thin straggling locks of steely gray.
“Fly, fly you, to yon snowy height,
And tell to her I fail, I die!
Fly swiftly, priest, I bid you!—fly
Before the falling of the night!
What! know her not? O priest, beware!
I warn you answer thus no more,
But bend your dull ear to the floor,
And hear you who she is, and where.
And tell to her I fail, I die!
Fly swiftly, priest, I bid you!—fly
Before the falling of the night!
What! know her not? O priest, beware!
I warn you answer thus no more,
But bend your dull ear to the floor,
And hear you who she is, and where.
“She is the last, last of a line,
With blood as rich and warm as wine,
And blended blood of god and king;
Last of the Montezumas' line
Who dwelt up in the yellow sun,
And, sorrowing for man's despair,
Slid by his trailing yellow hair
To earth, to rule with love and bring
The blessedness of peace to us.
She is the last, last earthly one
Of all the children of the sun;
A sweet perfume still lingering
In essence pure, and living thus
In blessedness about the spot,
When rose, and bush, and bloom are not.
With blood as rich and warm as wine,
And blended blood of god and king;
Last of the Montezumas' line
Who dwelt up in the yellow sun,
And, sorrowing for man's despair,
Slid by his trailing yellow hair
To earth, to rule with love and bring
The blessedness of peace to us.
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Of all the children of the sun;
A sweet perfume still lingering
In essence pure, and living thus
In blessedness about the spot,
When rose, and bush, and bloom are not.
“Beside Tezcuco's flowery shore,
Where waves were washing evermore
The massive columns of its wall,
Stood Montezuma's mighty hall.
And here the Montezumas reign'd
In perfect peace and love unfeign'd,
Until from underneath the sea
Where all sin is, or ought to be,
Came men of death and strange device,
Who taught a mad and mystic faith
Of crucifixion and of Christ,
More hated than the plague or death.
Where waves were washing evermore
The massive columns of its wall,
Stood Montezuma's mighty hall.
And here the Montezumas reign'd
In perfect peace and love unfeign'd,
Until from underneath the sea
Where all sin is, or ought to be,
Came men of death and strange device,
Who taught a mad and mystic faith
Of crucifixion and of Christ,
More hated than the plague or death.
“Nay, do not swing your cross o'er me;
You cross'd you once, but do not twice,
Nor dare repeat the name of Christ;
Nor start, nor think to fly, nor frown,
While you the stole and surplice wear;
For I do clutch your sable gown,
And you shall hear my curse, or prayer,
And be my priest in my despair;
Since neither priest, nor sign, nor shrine
Is left in all the land of mine.
You cross'd you once, but do not twice,
Nor dare repeat the name of Christ;
Nor start, nor think to fly, nor frown,
While you the stole and surplice wear;
For I do clutch your sable gown,
And you shall hear my curse, or prayer,
And be my priest in my despair;
Since neither priest, nor sign, nor shrine
Is left in all the land of mine.
“Enough! We know, alas! too well,
How red Christ ruled—Tonatiu fell.
The black wolf in our ancient halls
Unfrighten'd sleeps the live-long day.
The stout roots burst the mossy walls,
And in the moonlight wild dogs play
Around the plazas overgrown,
Where rude boars hold their carnivals.
The moss is on our altar-stone,
The mould on Montezuma's throne,
And symbols in the desert strown.
How red Christ ruled—Tonatiu fell.
The black wolf in our ancient halls
Unfrighten'd sleeps the live-long day.
The stout roots burst the mossy walls,
And in the moonlight wild dogs play
Around the plazas overgrown,
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The moss is on our altar-stone,
The mould on Montezuma's throne,
And symbols in the desert strown.
“And when your persecutions ceased
From troop, and king, and cowlèd priest,
That we had felt for centuries—
(Ah! know you, priest, that cross of thine
Is but death's symbol, and the sign
Of blood and butchery and tears?)—
And when return'd the faithful few,
Beside Tezcuco's sacred shore,
To build their broken shrines anew,
They number'd scarce a broken score.
Here dwelt my father—here she dwelt
Here kept one altar burning bright,
Last of the thousands that had shone
Along the mountain's brows of stone,
Last of a thousand stars of night.
To Tonatiu Ytzaqual we bow'd—
Nay, do not start, nor shape the sign
Of horror at this creed of mine,
Nor call again the name of Christ:
You cross you once, you cross you twice—
I warn you do not cross you thrice;
Nor will I brook a sign or look
Of anger at her faith avow'd.
I am no creedist. Faith to me
Is but a name for mystery.
I only know this faith is her's:
I care to know no more, to be
The truest of its worshippers.
From troop, and king, and cowlèd priest,
That we had felt for centuries—
(Ah! know you, priest, that cross of thine
Is but death's symbol, and the sign
Of blood and butchery and tears?)—
And when return'd the faithful few,
Beside Tezcuco's sacred shore,
To build their broken shrines anew,
They number'd scarce a broken score.
Here dwelt my father—here she dwelt
Here kept one altar burning bright,
Last of the thousands that had shone
Along the mountain's brows of stone,
Last of a thousand stars of night.
To Tonatiu Ytzaqual we bow'd—
Nay, do not start, nor shape the sign
Of horror at this creed of mine,
Nor call again the name of Christ:
You cross you once, you cross you twice—
I warn you do not cross you thrice;
Nor will I brook a sign or look
Of anger at her faith avow'd.
I am no creedist. Faith to me
Is but a name for mystery.
I only know this faith is her's:
I care to know no more, to be
The truest of its worshippers.
“The Cold-men came across the plain
With gory blade and brand of flame:
I know not that they knew or cared
What was our race, or creed, or name;
I only know the Northmen dared
Assault and sack, for sake of gain
Of sacred vessels wrought in gold,
The temple where gods dwelt of old;
And that my father, brothers, dared
Defend their shrines—and all were slain.
With gory blade and brand of flame:
I know not that they knew or cared
What was our race, or creed, or name;
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Assault and sack, for sake of gain
Of sacred vessels wrought in gold,
The temple where gods dwelt of old;
And that my father, brothers, dared
Defend their shrines—and all were slain.
“‘Fly with the maid,’ my father cried,
When first the fierce assault was made—
‘A boat chafes at the causeway side,’
And in the instant was obey'd.
We gain'd the boat, sprang in, away
We dash'd along the dimpled tide.
When first the fierce assault was made—
‘A boat chafes at the causeway side,’
And in the instant was obey'd.
We gain'd the boat, sprang in, away
We dash'd along the dimpled tide.
“It must have been they thought we bore
The treasure in our flight and haste,
For in an instant from the shore
An hundred crafts were making chase,
And as their sharp prows drew apace
I caught a carbine to my face.
She, rising, dash'd it quick aside;
And, when their hands were stretch'd to clasp
The boat's prow in their eager grasp,
She turn'd to me and sudden cried,
‘Come, come!’ and plunged into the tide.
I plunged into the dimpled wave:
I had no thought but 'twas my grave;
But faith had never follower
More true than I to follow her.
The treasure in our flight and haste,
For in an instant from the shore
An hundred crafts were making chase,
And as their sharp prows drew apace
I caught a carbine to my face.
She, rising, dash'd it quick aside;
And, when their hands were stretch'd to clasp
The boat's prow in their eager grasp,
She turn'd to me and sudden cried,
‘Come, come!’ and plunged into the tide.
I plunged into the dimpled wave:
I had no thought but 'twas my grave;
But faith had never follower
More true than I to follow her.
“On, on through purple wave she cleaves,
As shoots a sunbeam through the leaves.
At last—what miracle was there!—
Again we breathed the welcome air;
And, resting by the rising tide,
The secret outlet of the lake,
Safe hid by trackless fern and brake,
With yellow lilies at her side,
She told me how in ages gone
Her Fathers built with sacred stone
This secret way beneath the tide,
That now was known to her alone.
As shoots a sunbeam through the leaves.
At last—what miracle was there!—
Again we breathed the welcome air;
And, resting by the rising tide,
The secret outlet of the lake,
Safe hid by trackless fern and brake,
With yellow lilies at her side,
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Her Fathers built with sacred stone
This secret way beneath the tide,
That now was known to her alone.
“When night came on and all was still,
And stole the white moon down the hill
As soft, as if she too fear'd ill,
Again I sought the sacred halls
And on the curving causeway stood.
I look'd—naught but the blacken'd walls
And charr'd bones of my kindred blood
Was left beside the dimpled flood.
And stole the white moon down the hill
As soft, as if she too fear'd ill,
Again I sought the sacred halls
And on the curving causeway stood.
I look'd—naught but the blacken'd walls
And charr'd bones of my kindred blood
Was left beside the dimpled flood.
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
“Enough! Mine was no temper'd steel
To-day upon the stormy field,
As many trench'd heads yonder feel,
And many felt, that feel no more,
That fought beneath your cross and shield,
And, falling, called in vain to Christ.
You curs'd monk! dare you cross you thrice,
When I have warn'd you twice before?
To you and your damn'd faith I owe
My heritage of crime and woe;
You shall not live to mock me more
If there be temper in this brand,
Or nerve left in this bloody hand.
I start, I leave the stony ground,
Despite of blood or mortal wound,
Or darkness that has dimn'd the eye,
Or senses that do dance and reel—
I clutch a throat—I clench a steel—
I thrust—I fail—I fall—I die ...”
To-day upon the stormy field,
As many trench'd heads yonder feel,
And many felt, that feel no more,
That fought beneath your cross and shield,
And, falling, called in vain to Christ.
You curs'd monk! dare you cross you thrice,
When I have warn'd you twice before?
To you and your damn'd faith I owe
My heritage of crime and woe;
You shall not live to mock me more
If there be temper in this brand,
Or nerve left in this bloody hand.
I start, I leave the stony ground,
Despite of blood or mortal wound,
Or darkness that has dimn'd the eye,
Or senses that do dance and reel—
I clutch a throat—I clench a steel—
I thrust—I fail—I fall—I die ...”
| Songs of the Sierras | |