 | Songs of the Sierras |  |
76
VI.
She stands upon the wild watch-tower
And with her own hand feeds the flame—
The beacon-light to guide again
His coming from the battle-plain.
'Tis wearing past the midnight hour,
The latest that he ever came,
Yet silence reigns around the tower.
And with her own hand feeds the flame—
The beacon-light to guide again
His coming from the battle-plain.
'Tis wearing past the midnight hour,
The latest that he ever came,
Yet silence reigns around the tower.
'Tis hours past the midnight hour:
She calls, she looks, she lists in vain
For sight or sound from peak or plain.
She moves along the beetling tower,
She leans, she lists forlorn and lone,
She stoops her ear low to the ground,
In hope to catch the welcome sound
Of iron on the rugged stone.
She calls, she looks, she lists in vain
For sight or sound from peak or plain.
She moves along the beetling tower,
She leans, she lists forlorn and lone,
She stoops her ear low to the ground,
In hope to catch the welcome sound
Of iron on the rugged stone.
In vain she peers down in the night
But for one feeble flash of light
From flinty stone and feet of steel.
She stands upon the fearful rim,
Where even coolest head would reel,
And fearless leans her form far o'er
Its edge, and lifts her hands to him,
And calls in words as sweetly wild
As bleeding saint or sorrowing child.
She looks, she lists, she leans in vain,
In vain his dalliance does deplore;
She turns her to the light again,
And bids the watchman to the plain,
Defying night or dubious way,
To guide the flight or join the fray.
But for one feeble flash of light
From flinty stone and feet of steel.
She stands upon the fearful rim,
Where even coolest head would reel,
And fearless leans her form far o'er
Its edge, and lifts her hands to him,
And calls in words as sweetly wild
As bleeding saint or sorrowing child.
She looks, she lists, she leans in vain,
In vain his dalliance does deplore;
She turns her to the light again,
And bids the watchman to the plain,
Defying night or dubious way,
To guide the flight or join the fray.
The day-star dances on the snow
That gleams along Sierra's crown
In gorgeous everlasting glow
And frozen glory and renown.
Yet still she feeds the beacon flame,
And lists, and looks, and leans in vain.
That gleams along Sierra's crown
77
And frozen glory and renown.
Yet still she feeds the beacon flame,
And lists, and looks, and leans in vain.
The day has dawn'd. She still is there!
Yet in her sad and silent air
I read the stillness of despair.
Why burns the red light on the tower
So brightly at this useless hour?
But see! The day-king hurls a dart
At darkness, and his cold black heart
Is pierced; and now, compell'd to flee,
Flies bleeding to the farther sea.
And now, behold, she radiant stands,
And lifts her thin white jewelled hands
Unto the broad, unfolding sun,
And hails him Tonatiu and King
With hallow'd mien and holy prayer.
Her fingers o'er some symbols run,
Her knees are bowed in worshipping
Her God, beheld when thine is not,
In form of faith, long, long forgot.
Yet in her sad and silent air
I read the stillness of despair.
Why burns the red light on the tower
So brightly at this useless hour?
But see! The day-king hurls a dart
At darkness, and his cold black heart
Is pierced; and now, compell'd to flee,
Flies bleeding to the farther sea.
And now, behold, she radiant stands,
And lifts her thin white jewelled hands
Unto the broad, unfolding sun,
And hails him Tonatiu and King
With hallow'd mien and holy prayer.
Her fingers o'er some symbols run,
Her knees are bowed in worshipping
Her God, beheld when thine is not,
In form of faith, long, long forgot.
Again she lifts her brown arms bare,
Far flashing in their bands of gold
And precious stones, rare, rich, and old.
Was ever mortal half so fair?
Was ever such a wealth of hair?
Was ever such a plaintive air?
Was ever such a sweet despair?
Far flashing in their bands of gold
And precious stones, rare, rich, and old.
Was ever mortal half so fair?
Was ever such a wealth of hair?
Was ever such a plaintive air?
Was ever such a sweet despair?
Still humbler now her form she bends;
Still higher now the flame ascends:
She bares her bosom to the sun.
Again her jewell'd fingers sun
In signs and sacred form and prayer.
She bows with awe and holy air
In lowly worship to the sun;
Then rising calls her lover's name,
And leaps into the leaping flame.
Still higher now the flame ascends:
She bares her bosom to the sun.
Again her jewell'd fingers sun
In signs and sacred form and prayer.
She bows with awe and holy air
78
Then rising calls her lover's name,
And leaps into the leaping flame.
I do not hear the faintest moan,
Or sound, or syllable, or tone.
The red flames stoop a moment down,
As if to raise her from the ground;
They whirl, they swirl, they sweep around
With light'ning feet and fiery crown;
Then stand up, tall, tip-toed, as one
Would hand a soul up to the sun.
Or sound, or syllable, or tone.
The red flames stoop a moment down,
As if to raise her from the ground;
They whirl, they swirl, they sweep around
With light'ning feet and fiery crown;
Then stand up, tall, tip-toed, as one
Would hand a soul up to the sun.
| Songs of the Sierras | |