Joaquin Miller's Poems | ||
ISLES OF THE AMAZONS
1. Part I
That Saxon has not ravish'd yet,
Lo! peak on peak in stairways set—
In stepping stairs that reach to God!
For here are set Time's snowy tents
In everlasting battlements
Against the march of Saxon mind.
And mantled and hung in the tropical trees,
There are isles as grand as the isles of seas.
And the waves strike strophes, and keen reeds quiver,
As the sudden canoe shoots past them and over
The strong, still tide to the opposite shore,
Where the blue-eyed men by the sycamore
Sit mending their nets 'neath the vine-twined cover;
They wind and they spin on the clumsy wheel,
Into hammocks red-hued with the cochineal,
To trade with the single black ship that passes,
With foreign old freightage of curious old store,
And still and slow as if half asleep,—
A cunning old trader that loves to creep
Cautious and slow in the shade of the shore.
Oh, delicate dawns of the grand Andes!
Lift up soft eyes that are deep like seas,
And mild yet wild as the red-white fawns';
Then look in wonder, then again weave on,
Then again look wonder that your are not gone,
While the keen reeds quiver and the bent waves glisten;
Though they sometimes sing, voiced low like the dove,
And as deep and as rich as their tropical love,
A-weaving their net threads through and under.
That weave their threads where the quick leaves quiver;
And this is their tale of the Isles of the river,
And the why that their eyes are so blue like seas:
The wine or the water in the wild boar skin,
And do hew the wood and weave and spin,
And so bear with the women full burthen and share.
That is told you betimes by a quaint old crone,
Who sits on the rim of an island alone,
As ever was told you in story or rhyme.
And dabble and plash to her monotone,
As she holds in her hands a strange green stone,
And talks to the boat where the bent reeds quiver.
Of holding her head to the side and askew,
And smoothing the stone in her palms all day
As saying “I've nothing at all for you,”
Until you have anointed her palm, and you
Have touched on the delicate spring of a door
That silver has opened perhaps before;
For woman is woman the wide world through.
I bought and I paid for it; so did you;
The tale may be false or the tale may be true;
I give it as I got it, and who can more?
And woven delusions in innocent verse,
If none be the wiser, why, who is the worse?
The field it was mine, the fruit it is yours.
A part of it hers, some part is my own,
Crude, and too carelessly woven and sown,
As I sail'd on the Mexican seas in the sun.
That a fair young knight—says the quaint old crone,
With her head sidewise, as she smooths at the stone—
Came over the seas, with his golden hair,
And a great black steed, and glittering spurs,
With a woman's face, with a manly frown,
A heart as tender and as true as hers,
And a sword that had come from crusaders down.
Was the brave young knight of the brave old days.
Of all the knights, with their knightly ways,
That had journey'd away to this world afar
In the name of Spain; of the splendid few
Who bore her banner in the new-born world,
From the sea rim up to where clouds are curl'd,
And condors beat with black wings the blue.
And blown from the banks of the Guadal-quiver,
And yet blue-eyed, with the Celt's soft hair,
With never a drop of the dark deep river
Of Moorish blood that had swept through Spain,
And plash'd the world with its tawny stain.
With heathen blood: the battle was done;
His heart rebelled and rose with pity.
Fell antique temples built up to the sun.
Below on the plain lay the burning city
At the conqueror's feet; the red street strown
With dead, with gold, and with gods overthrown.
With never a wail and with never a blow,
At last, to even provoke a foe,
Through gateways, wet with the pagan's blood.
He reach'd his hand and he touch'd the rein,
He humm'd an air, and he toy'd and finger'd
The arching neck and the glossy mane.
Though the thing was death to the man to dare
To doubt, to question, to falter there,
Nor heeded at all to the hot command.
He sheathed it deep, then look'd at the sun,
Then counted his comrades, one by one,
With booty returning from the plunder'd plain.
He lifted his shield of steel as he sang,
And he flung it away till it clang'd and rang
On the granite rocks in the plain below.
He lifted his voice and sang, quite low
At first, then loud in the long ago,
When the loves endured though the days grew old.
Stood up in his stirrups, and, sword in hand,
He cursed and he call'd with a loud command
To the blue-eyed boy to return again;
To lift his shield again to the sky,
And come and surrender his sword or die.
He lean'd him forward, he lifted the rein,
He struck the flank, he wheel'd and sprang,
And gaily rode in the face of the sun,
And bared his sword and he bravely sang,
“Ho! come and take it!” but there came not one.
“I shall go; I shall search for the Amazon shore,
Where the curses of man they are heard no more,
And kisses alone shall embrace the mouth.
Go far and away to traditional land,
Where love is queen in a crown of smiles,
And battle has never imbrued a hand;
Where woman's hand with a woman's heart
Has fashion'd an Eden from man apart,
And walks in her garden alone with God.
Shall sit and repose, shall sing in the sun;
And the tides may rest or the tides may run,
And men may water the world with tears;
And men make war, may slay and be slain,
But I not care, for I never shall know
Of man, or of aught that is man's again.
The mellow rich moons may ripen and fall,
The seasons of gold they may gather or go,
The mono may chatter, the paroquet call,
And I shall not heed, take note, or know,
If the Fates befriend, or if ill befall,
Of worlds without or of worlds at all,
Of heaven above, or of hadès below.”
Drawn fine as the delicate fibers of gold,
And broken in two by the touch of a finger,
And blown as the winds blow, rent and roll'd
In dust, and spent as a tale that is told.
The beasts beset him; the serpents they hung,
Red-tongued and terrible, over his head.
He clove and he thrust with his keen, quick steel,
He coax'd with his hand, he urged with his heel,
Till his steel was broken, and his steed lay dead.
To the wave, and away to the islands fair,
From beasts that pursued, and he breathed a prayer;
For soul and body were well-nigh spent.
Yet it moved so strange, so still, so strong,
It gave no sound, not even the song
Of a sea-bird screaming defiance or fear.
Much like a river but more like a sea,
Save that there was naught of the turbulent motion
Of tides, or of winds blown abaft, or alee.
And half-way hid in the dark, deep tide,
Great turtles, they paddled them to and fro,
And away to the Isles and the opposite side.
Stole down to the water and buried his nose,
And crunch'd white teeth till the bubbles rose
As white and as bright as are globes of glass.
Above and below and as still as the air;
The bank made slippery here and there
By the slushing slide of the crocodile.
They dipp'd their boughs as the stream swept on,
And then drew back, then dipp'd and were gone
Away to the sea with the resolute waves.
It look'd as the lawless, unsatisfied seas
Had thrust up an arm through the tangle of trees,
And clutched at the citrons that grew in the sun;
And laid heavy hand on the gold, and a hand
On the redolent fruits, on the ruby-like wine,
On the stones like the stars when the stars are divine;
Had wrested and fled; and had left a waste
And a wide way strewn in precipitate haste,
As he bore them away to the buccaneer seas.
Asleep lay the sun in the vines, on the sod.
As rock'd to their rest in the cradle of God.
God's poet is silence! His song is unspoken,
And yet so profound, so loud, and so far,
It fills you, it thrills you with measures unbroken,
And as still, and as fair, and as far as a star.
As a child that is fretted, and weeps at its will ...
The poems of God are too grand to be utter'd:
The dreadful deep seas they are loudest when still.
Of death,” he said, “and the sea-green isle
Is an Eden set by the Gracious Giver
Wherein to rest.” He listened the while
Then lifted his head, then lifted a hand
Arch'd over his brow, and he lean'd and listen'd,—
The dark stream eddied and gleam'd and glisten'd,
And the martial notes from the isle were gone,
Gone as a dream dies out with the dawn.
Slow piping, and diving it here and there,
Slim, gray, and shadowy, light as the air,
That dipp'd below from a point of the land.
And I die,” he said, “in a desert here,
So deep that never a note is heard
But the listless song of that soulless bird.
Lock arms in their loves, and are so made strong,
Stronger than armies; aye, stronger than seas
That rush from their caves in a storm of song.
Flung far in the sea, and he fell and he died;
And so shall I give, O terrible tide,
To you my song and my last sad measure.”
Blew low at first, like a dream, then long,
Then loud, then loud as the keys that quiver,
And fret and toss with their freight of song.
Till the mono rested above on his haunches,
And held his head to the side and was still,—
Till a bird blown out of the night of branches
Sang sadder than love, so sweeter than sad,
Till the boughs did burthen and the reeds did fill
With beautiful birds, and the boy was glad.
And love it is grand in a reasonable way,
And fame it is good in its way for a day,
Borne dusty from books and bloody from wars;
And a calm delight, and an ultimate good;
But a song that is blown from a watery reed
By a soundless deep from a boundless wood,
With never a hearer to heed or to prize
But God and the birds and the hairy wild beasts,
Is sweeter than love, than fame, or than feasts,
Or any thing else that is under the skies.
As he boy sang sweet, and the birds said, “Sweet;”
And the tiger crept close, and lay low at his feet,
And he sheathed his claws as he listened entranced.
And sway'd his head in a crescent above,
Had folded his neck to the white limb now,
And fondled it close like a great black love.
The loud notes fell to a far-off plaint,
The sweet birds echo'd no more, “Oh, sweet,”
The tiger arose and unsheathed his claws,
The serpent extended his iron jaws,
And the frail reed shiver'd and fell at his feet.
“Oh, give God thanks, for they come, they come!”
Then clasp'd his hands, and his lips were dumb.
As light as the sun of the south and as soon,
And true and as still as a sweet half-moon
That leans from the heavens, and loves and woos!
As full on the stream as a studding of stars,
All girded in armor as girded in wars,
In foamy white furrows dividing the tide.
Or the brave, brown hand of a harvester;
The Queen on a prow stood splendid and tall,
As the petulent waters did lift and fall;
Stood fair to behold, and yet grand to behold,
And austere in her face, and saturnine-soul'd,
And sad and subdued, in her eloquent eyes.
Of presence, but silent, and brow'd severe;
As for some things lost, or for some fair, green,
And beautiful place, to the memory dear.
I am saved!” he said, and he wept outright;
Ay, wept as even a woman might,
For the soul was full and the heart was faint.
And she lifted her hand, and she lowered their spears,
“A woman! a woman! ho! help! give a hand!
A woman! a woman! I know by the tears.”
They lifted him up from the earth where he fell,
And into the boat, with a half hidden swell
Of the heart that was holy and tenderly human.
They pillow'd his head as only the hand
Of woman can pillow, and push'd from the land,
And the Queen she sat threading the gold of his hair.
2. PART II.
That laugh, that live, that love by rule?
Forsake the Saxon. Who are these
That shun the shadows of the trees;
The perfumed forests? ... Go thy way,
We are not one. I will not please
You:—fare you well, O wiser fool!
The shaggy forests, fierce delights
Of sounding waterfalls, of heights
That hang like broken moons above,
With brows of pine that brush the sun,
Believe and follow. We are one:
The wild man shall to us be tame,
The woods shall yield their mysteries;
The stars shall answer to a name,
And be as birds above the trees.
They alit on the land, as love hastening home,
And below the banana, with leaf like a tent,
They tenderly laid him, they bade him take rest,
They brought him strange fishes and fruits of the best,
And he ate and took rest with a patient content.
And stood in their midst, and they said, “How fair!”
And they said, “How tall!” And they toy'd with his hair.
And they touched his limbs and they said, “How long
And how strong they are; and how brave she is,
That she made her way through the wiles of man,
That she braved his wrath that she broke the ban
Of his desolate life for the love of this!”
They wrought for him armor and cunning attire,
They brought him a sword and a great shell shield,
And implored him to shiver the lance on the field,
And to follow their beautiful Queen in her ire.
But he took him apart; then the Amazons came
And entreated of him with their eloquent eyes
And their earnest and passionate souls of flame,
And the soft, sweet words that are broken of sighs,
To be one of their own, but he still denied
And bow'd and abash'd he stole further aside.
And standing alone, looked out and afar,
For his own fair land where the castles are,
With irresolute arms on a restless breast.
He gazed and he gazed with a soul distress'd,
Like a far sweet star that is lost in the west,
Till the day was broken to a dust of stars.
Of faithfullest matron; they moved to the field
With the lifted sword and the sounding shield
High fretting magnificent storms of hair.
The Queen stood forth in her fierce attire
Worn as they trained or worn in the wars,
As bright and as chaste as a flash of fire.
And plaited, and chased, and bound together,
Broader and stronger than belts of leather,
Cunningly fashion'd and blazon'd and boss'd—
Above the breast where the borders fail,
Below the breast where the fringes zone,
She moved in a glittering garment of mail.
From athlete sports and adventures bold,
The breastplate; fasten'd with clasps of gold,
Was clasp'd, as close as the breasts could bear,—
It flash'd in the red front ranks of the field—
Was fashion'd full trim in its intricate plan
And gleam'd as a sign, as well as a shield,
And pure as the tides that around her ran;
True to her trust, and strong in her will
Of war, and hatred to the touch of man.
So fairly they stood that the foe came not
To battle again, and the fair forgot
The rage of battle; and they trimm'd the vine,
They crush'd the grape and they drew the wine
In the great round gourds and the bended horn—
And they lived as the gods in the days divine.
They took repose in the peaceful shade
Of eternal palms, and were never afraid;
Yet oft did they sigh, and look far and forlorn.
And the grass grew soft where it hid from the sun,
Would the Amazons gather them every one
At the call of the Queen or the sound of her shell:
And train and marshal them brave and well
In the golden noon, in the hush of peace
Where the shifting shades of the fan-palms fell;
Would reach with their limbs, would thrust with the lance,
Attack, retire, retreat and advance,
Then wheel in column, then fall in line;
Stand thigh and thigh with the limbs made hard
And rich and round as the swift limb'd pard,
Or a racer train'd, or a white bull caught
In the lasso's toils, where the tame are not:
Would dash through the trees, would train with the bow,
Then back to the lines, now sudden, then slow,
Then flash their swords in the sun at a sign:
Then sound the shield till the sound was heard
Afar, as the horn in the black boar hunt;
Yet, strangest of all, say never one word.
The sun had kiss'd hands and set forth for the east,
They would kindle campfires and gather them then,
Well-worn and most merry with song, to the feast.
That could make them most glad, as they lifted the gourd
And pass'd it around, with its rich purple hoard,
As the eyes of the skies that bend down from above;
Though hearts were made glad and most mellow with love,
As dripping gourds drain'd of their burthens of wine;
Though brimming, and dripping, and bent of their shape
Were the generous gourds from the juice of the grape,
They could sing not of love, they could breathe not a thought
Of the savor of life; of love sought, or unsought.
Of man, and the uttermost mention of love,—
The moonbeams about them, the quick stars above,
The mellow-voiced waves, they were ever the same,
In sign, and in saying, of the old true lies;
But they took no heed; no answering sign,
Save glances averted and half-hush'd sighs,
Went back from the breasts with their loves divine.
They had paid for it well when the price was blood;
When their wars were not, for they held it good
To be glad, and to sing till the flush of the day,
In an annual feast, when the broad leaves fell;
Yet some sang not, and some sighed, “Ah, well!”—
For there's far less left you to sing or to say,
When mettlesome love is banish'd, I ween—
To hint at as hidden, or to half disclose
In the swift sword-cuts of the tongue, made keen
With wine at a feast,—than one would suppose.
To the minstrel knight, though the sun was as gold,
And the Isles were green, and the great Queen blest
In the splendor of arms, and as pure as bold.
His sex and his race in a well-timed song;
And his love of peace, his hatred of wrong,
And his own deceit, though the sun should fall.
He could best proceed, and deferr'd him now
Till a favorite day, when the fair day came,
And still he delay'd, and reproached him the same.
He wander'd one day in a dubious spell
To the indolent shore, and he gather'd a shell,
And he shaped its point to his passionate mouth,
And he turn'd to a bank and began to blow,
While the Amazons trained in a troop below—
Blew soft and sweet as a kiss of the south.
The Amazons lifted with glad surprise,
Stood splendid and glad and look'd far and fair,
Set forward a foot, and shook back their hair,
Like clouds push'd back from the sun-lit skies.
It stirr'd their souls, and they ceased to train
In troop by the shore, as the tremulous strain
Fell down from the hill through the tasselling trees;
And a murmur of song, like the sound of bees
In the clover crown of a queenly spring,
Came back unto him, and he laid the shell
Aside on the bank, and began to sing
Of eloquent love; and the ancient spell
Of passionate song was his, and the Isle,
As waked to delight from its slumber long,
Came back in echoes; yet all this while
He knew not at all the sin of his song.
3. PART III
I know upon this earth a spot
Where clinking coins, that clank as chains,
Upon the souls of men, are not;
Nor man is measured for his gains
Of gold that stream with crimson stains.
And break the still abode of stars,
Like sudden ghosts in snowy shrouds,
New broken through their earthly bars,
And condors whet their crooked beaks
On lofty limits of the peaks.
You irk me with your eager gaze
Down in the earth for fat increase—
Eternal talks of gold and gain,
Your shallow wit, your shallow ways,
And breaks my soul across the shoal
As breakers break on shallow seas.
But some look'd level into comrades' eyes,
And they then remember'd that the thought of love
Was the thing forbidden, and they sank in sighs.
To the old, old tale; and they trained no more,
As he sang of love; and some on the shore,
And full in the sound of the eloquent song,
Went listlessly onward as gathering shells;
Then gazed in the waters, as bound by spells;
Then turned to the song and so sigh'd, and were still.
With the sandal'd foot, keeping time to the sound,
In a sort of dream; some timed with the hand,
And one held eyes full of tears to the ground.
As she lean'd and listened to the old, old song,
When they sang of their loves, and she well forgot
Man's hard oppressions and a world of wrong.
And the things that are true, she relieved them in thought,
Though hush'd and crush'd in the fall of the years;
She lived but the fair, and the false she forgot.
The quivering curve of the lip it confest
With a world of love in a brave true breast.
Nor look'd upon man but in blood on the field,
She bow'd her head, and she leaned on her shield,
And her heart beat quick as the wings of a dove
That is blown from the sea, where the rests are not
In the time of storms; and by instinct taught
Grew pensive, and sigh'd; as she thought and she thought
Of some wonderful things, and—she knew not of what.
She thought of a brown sweet babe, and she thought
Of the bread-fruits gather'd, of the swift fish taken
In intricate nets, like a love well sought.
Mellow'd and fair with the forms of man;
So dearer indeed to dwell upon
Than the beautiful waves that around her ran:
That lie at rest on the west of the sea
In furrows of foam on the borders of night,
And dearer indeed than the songs to be—
To the land of life, and of journeys dreary,
When the soul goes over from the form grown weary,
And walks in the cool of the trees on the sand.
With the sword unto death, yet it seemed that she durst
Not touch him at all; and she moved as to chide,
And she lifted her face, and she frown'd at his side,
Then she touch'd on his arm; then she looked in his eyes
And right full in his soul, but she saw no fear,
In the pale fair face, and with frown severe
She press'd her lips as suppressing her sighs.
She lifted her hand and put back his hair
From his fair sad brow, with a penitent air,
And forgave him all with unuttered grace.
She stood as subdued by the side of him still,
Then averted her face with a resolute will,
As to hush a regret, or to hide back a tear.
And ill and alone, that knows not at all
That a throne shall totter and the strong shall fall,
At the mention of love and its banefullest bliss.
But a stranger is sacred!” She lifted a hand
And she laid it as soft as the breast of a dove
On the minstrel's mouth. It was more than the wand
Of the tamer of serpents, for she did no more
Than to bid with here eyes and to beck with her hand,
And the song drew away to the waves of the shore;
Took wings, as it were, to the verge of the land.
She turned to her troop, and retiring, she said:
“Alas! and alas! shall it come to pass
That the panther shall die from a blade of grass?
That we, who have conquer'd a world and all
Of men and of beasts in the world must fall
Ourselves at the mention of love at last?”
She led minstrel and all to the innermost part
Of the palm-crowned Isle, where great trees group
In armies, to battle when black-storms start,
And made a retreat from the sun by the trees
That are topp'd like tents, where the fire-flies
Are a light to the feet, and a fair lake lies,
As cool as the coral-set center of seas.
Their tall tops tossing the indolent clouds
That folded the Isle in the dawn, like shrouds,
Then fled from the sun like to living things.
And muttering hung on a golden thread,
Or moved on the moss'd bough to and fro,
In plumes of gold and array'd in red.
As asleep in the Isle from the tropical noon,
And narrow and bent like a new-born moon,
And fair as a moon in the noon of the night.
And fretted anon by red fishes that leapt
At indolent flies that slept or kept
Their drowsy tones on the tide by turns.
And newly aroused from leafy repose,
With dews on his feet and tints of the rose
In his great flush'd face was a sense of song
That the tame old world has not known or heard.
The soul was filled with the soft perfumes,
The eloquent wings of the humming bird
Beguiled the heart, they purpled the air
And allured the eye, as so everywhere
On the rim of the wave or across it in swings,
They swept or they sank in a sea of blooms,
And wove and wound in a song of wings.
With sweet delights, through the branches slid
And kiss'd the lake on a drowsy lid
Till the ripples ran and the face was glad;
The face of heaven when the stars are forth
In autumn time through the sapphire north,
Or the face of a child when it smiles in sleep.
When the wars and the world and all were asleep,
And nothing look'd forth to betray or to peep
Through the glories of jungle in garments of June,
To bathe with her court in the waters that bent
In the beautiful lake through tasseling trees,
And the tangle of blooms in a burden of bees,
As bold and as sharp as a bow unspent.
And strangely still, and more strangely sweet,
Was the lake that lay in its cradle of fern,
As still as a moon with her horns that turn
In the night, like lamps to white delicate feet.
They came and they stood by the brink of the tide,
They hung their shields on the boughs of the trees,
Unloosed their sandals, and busy as bees
Ungather'd their robes in the rustle of leaves
That wound them as close as the wine-vine weaves.
Then ever before he averted his head;
He pick'd up a pebble and fretted the tide
Afar, with a countenance flushed and red.
He sat him down by the waters alone,
And pray'd for pardon, as a knight should pray,
And rued an error not all his own.
Two and by two they advanced to the tide,
They challenged each other, they laughed in their pride,
And banter'd, and vaunted of valorous deeds.
All timid at first; then looked in the wave
And laugh'd; retreated, then came up brave
To the brink of the water, led on by their Queen.
Then parted the boughs in a proud disdain,
Then bent their heads to the waters, and glanced
Below, then blush'd, and then laughed again.
With a womanly sense of a beautiful shame
That strife and changes had left the same,
They shrank to the leaves and the somber shade.
And leapt to the wave, and laughing they blushed
As rich as their wines; when the waters rush'd
To the dimpled limbs, and laugh'd in their hair.
They cleft the wave, and the friendly ferns
Came down in curtains and curves by turns,
And a brave palm lifted a thousand spears.
And out in the wave until lost below,
There lay, as white as a bank of snow,
A long and beautiful border of sand.
And curtain'd about by the palm and fern,
And made as their maker had made them, fair,
And splendid of natural curve and turn;
Untrammel'd by art and untroubled by man
They tested their strength, or tried their speed:
And here they wrestled, and there they ran,
As supple and lithe as the watery reed.
And nodded their plumes from the opposite side,
As if to whisper, Take care! take care!
But the meddlesome sunshine here and there
Kept shifting the branches and wagging a hand
At the round brown limbs on the border of sand,
And seem'd to whisper: Fie! what are these?
And over the waterside wander'd and wove
As heedless and idle as clouds that rove
And drift by the peaks of perpetual snow.
White-whisker'd and ancient, and wisest of all
Of his populous race, when he heard them call
And he watch'd them long, with his head sidewise.
From under his brows of amber and brown,
All patient and silent, and never once stirr'd
Till he saw two wrestle, and wrestling fall;
Then he arched his brows and he hasten'd him down
To his army below and said never a word.
4. PART IV
But never a love like this is;
Then kill me dead with your love, my love,
And cover me up with kisses.
Where never a soul discovers;
Deep in your heart to sleep, to sleep,
In the darlingest tomb of lovers.
Look'd up in the boughs at the gold birds there,
He envied the humming-birds fretting the air,
And frowned at the butterflies fanning his face.
And away from the Amazons, under the skies
Where great trees curved to a leaf-lined cave,
And he lifted his hands and he shaded his eyes:
To run on the reaches of sand from the south,
And he pull'd at his chin, and he pursed his mouth,
And he shut his eyes, with a sense of shame.
From the brink below, and began to blow
Does soothe and soothe in a low, sweet song,
When his rage is spent, and the beach swells strong
With sweet repetitions of alliterate rhymes.
Silent and still sat the tropical bird,
And only the sound of the reed was heard,
As the Amazons ceased from their sports on the sand.
They listened intent, with the delicate tip
Of the finger touch'd to the pouting lip,
Till the brown Queen turn'd in the tide, and led
Through the opaline lake, and under the shade,
To the shore where the chivalrous singer played.
As well as he might with his lifted fingers,
And ceased to sing. But in mute surprise
He saw them linger as a child that lingers
Allured by a song that has ceased in the street,
And looks bewilder'd about from its play,
For the last loved notes that fell at its feet.
He lifted his eyes, looked far and wide
For a brief, little time; but they bathed at his side
In spite of his will, or of prayers well said.
Till the light was gone; yet for all that he did
It seem'd that the lithe forms lay and beat
Afloat in his face and full under his feet.
And the rounded limbs in the rest or unrests—
To see them swim as the mermaid swims,
With the drifting, dimpled delicate limbs,
Folded or hidden or reach'd or caress'd.
Than the eyes in man; you may close your eyes,
You may turn your back, and may still be wise
In sacred and marvelous mysteries.
He saw as one sees the sun of a moon
In the sun-kiss'd south, when the eyes are closed—
He saw as one sees the bars of a moon
That fall through the boughs of the tropical trees,
When he lies at length, and is all composed,
And asleep in his hammock by the sundown seas.
He heard the waters beat, bubble and fret;
He lifted his eyes, yet forever they lay
Afloat in the tide; and he turn'd him away
And resolved to fly and for aye to forget.
He nerved his heart and he lifted his head,
He crush'd the treacherous reed in a trice,
With an angry foot, and he turn'd and fled.
Yet flying, he hurriedly turn'd his head
As a woman will turn; and he saw arise
She toss'd back her hair, and she turn'd her eyes
With all of their splendor to his as he fled;
Ay, all their glory, and a strange surprise,
And a sad reproach, and a world unsaid.
As roused from a trance, and hurriedly came
From out of the wave. He wander'd away,
Still fretting his sensitive soul with blame.
Alone he sat by the waters at night;
Alone he sang, as a woman might,
With pale, kind face to the pale, cold moon.
As a petulant child that has lost its way
In the redolent walks of a sultry day,
And wanders around with irresolute feet.
He strung it well with the sounding strings
Of a strong bird's thews, and from ostrich wings,
And play'd and sang in a sad, sweet rune.
He hang'd his harp in the vines, and stood
By the tide at night, in the palms at noon,
And lone as a ghost in the shadowy wood.
By the great, strong stream, and she bow'd her head,
Then lifted her face to the tide, and said:
Yet tender to me as the touch of a dove,
I had rather sit sad and alone by thee,
Than to go and be glad, with a legion in love.”
As the kingly water went wandering by;
And the two once look'd, and they knew not why,
Full sad in each other's eyes, and they sigh'd.
Of the trees that reach'd to the resolute stream,
And gazed in the waters as one in a dream,
Till her soul grew heavy and her eyes grew dim.
That grew from her pity; she forgot her arms,
And she made neglect of the battle alarms
That threaten'd the land; the banana's leaf
Made shelter; he lifted his harp again,
She sat, she listen'd intent and long,
Forgetting her care and forgetting her pain—
Made sad for the singer, made glad for his song.
And the brown Queen marshall'd them never once more,
With sword and with shield, in the palms by the shore;
But they sat them down to repose, or remain'd
Apart and scatter'd in the tropic-leaf'd trees,
As sadden'd by song, or for loves delay'd;
Or away in the Isle in couples they stray'd,
Not at all content in their Isles of peace.
Or walk'd in the moon, or they sigh'd or slept,
Or they sat in pairs by the shadowy shore,
And silent song with the waters kept.
With the stars on her hair, and the bars of the moon
Broken up at her feet by the bountiful boon
Of extending old trees, who did questioning grieve;
The mono is mated; his bride in the boughs
Sits nursing his babe, and his passionate vows
Of love, you may hear them the whole day through.
The serpents that glide in the sword-leaf'd grass,
The beasts that abide or the birds that pass,
They are glad in their loves as the green-leaf'd shore.
Like an innocent love; the leaves have tongue
And the tides talk low in the reeds, and the young
And the quick buds open their lips but for this.
On the stormy levels of the limitless seas,
Or here in the deeps of the dark-brow'd trees,
There is nothing so much as a brave man's kiss.
In the valley of palms, on the pinnacled snow,
In the clouds of the gods, on the grasses below,
As the silk-soft touch of a baby's brown hand.
The whole year through with a babe at the knee,
With its brown hands reaching caressingly,
Than to sit in a girdle of gold and alone.
And to murmur not much; there are clouds in the sun.
Can a woman undo what the gods have done?
Nay, the things must be as the things have been.”
Unsatisfied some and irresolute all.
The sun was the same, the moonlight did fall
Rich-barr'd and refulgent; the stars were as fair
As ever were stars; the fruitful clouds cross'd
And the harvest fail'd not; yet the fair Isles grew
As a prison to all, and they search'd on through
The magnificent shades as for things that were lost.
And oft-time delay'd him the whole day through,
As charm'd by the deeps, or the sad heart drew
Some solaces sweet from the solitude.
Came seldom then forth from the fierce deep wood,
And her warriors, dark-brow'd and bewildering stood
In bands by the wave in the complicate screen
Of overbent boughs. They would lean on their spears
And would sometimes talk, low-voiced and by twos,
As allured by longings they could not refuse,
And would sidewise look, as beset by their fears.
In the flush of the sun they sank to their rests,
The dark hair veiling the beautiful breasts
That arose in billows, as mists veil seas.
The great red sun in his purple was roll'd,
And red-wing'd birds and the birds of gold
Were above in the trees like the beams of the sun.
Built up of his beams, and the souls arose
And ascended on these, and the fair repose
Of the negligent forms was a feast to behold.
The grass made dark with the fervour of hair;
And here were the rose-red lips and there
A flush'd breast rose like a sun at a dawn.
Listless and slow, as they call'd of the seas
And sounds came down through the tangle of trees
As lost, and nestled, and hid in their hair.
To lance and to shield; but the dolorous sound
Was gone from the wood; they gazed around
And saw but the birds, black-wing'd and afar.
Slow trailing their lances, in long single line;
They moved through the forest, all dark as the sign
Of death that fell down from the ominous bird.
Grew over his grave in a border of gold,
And a cloud with a silver-white rim was roll'd
Like a cold gray stone at the door of his tomb.
By sentries, betimes, on the opposite shore,
Where broad boughs bended their curtains of green
Far over the wave with their tropical store.
Suspiciously through; and, heavens! a man,
Low-brow'd and wicked, looked backward, and jeer'd
And taunted right full in her face as he ran:
As round and as cunning,—who came from the land
Of lakes, where the clouds lie low and at hand,
And the songs of the bent black swans are heard;
And are famous as spies, and are supple and fleet,
And are webb'd like the water-fowl under the feet,
And they swim like the swans, and like pelican's call.
A sentry saw stealing, as still as a dream,
A sudden canoe down the mid of the stream,
Like the dark boat of death, and as still as a thought.
A dreadful and gibbering, hairy old man,
Loud laughing as only a maniac can,
And shaking a lance at the land of his foes;
Then sudden it vanish'd, as still as it came,
Far down through the walls of the shadowy wood,
And the great moon rose like a forest aflame,
All threat'ning, sullen, and red like blood.
5. PART V
The gloaming forests, Fairy Isles,
Afloat in sun and summer smiles,
As fallen stars in fields of blue;
Some futile wars with subtile love
That mortal never vanquish'd yet,
Some symphonies by angels set
In wave below, in bough above,
Were yours and mine; but here adieu.
That you grow weary, sad, and you
Lift up deep eyes from dusty ways
Of mart and moneys to the blue
And pure cold waters, isle and vine,
And bathe you there, and then arise
Refresh'd by one fresh thought of mine,
I rest content: I kiss your eyes,
I kiss your hair, in my delight:
I kiss my hand, and say, “Good-night.”
That ever laid hold on the heart of a man;
A chain to the soul, and to cheer as a ban,
And a bane to the brain and a snare to the feet.
Of love but to fall; to fall and to learn,
Like a moth, or a man, that the lights lure to burn,
That the roses have thorns and the honey-bee stings?
I lift you my finger, I caution you true,
And yet you go forward, laugh gaily, and you
Must learn for yourself, then lament for us all.
It were better to sit on a moss-grown stone,
And away from the sun, forever alone,
Slow pitching white pebbles at trout in a stream.
If you live you must love; if you love, regret—
It were better, perhaps, had you never been born,
Or better, at least, you could well forget.
And what is beyond but the steel gray sky,
And the still far stars that twinkle and lie
Like the eyes of a love or delusions of gold!
Aye! all things perish; to rise is to fall.
And alack for lovers, and alas for love,
And alas that we ever were born at all.
But now not alone; with a resolute heart
He reach'd his hand, like to one made strong,
Forgot his silence and resumed his song,
And aroused his soul, and assumed his part
With a passionate will, in the palms where he stood.
She is warm to the heart as a world of wine,
And as rich to behold as the rose that grows
With its red heart bent to the tide of the Rhine.
From the great gold heart of the buttercup!
I shall live and love! I shall have my day,
And die in my time, and who shall gainsay?
With self for honor? My brave resolves?
And who takes note? The soul dissolves
In a sea of love, and the wars are forgot.
The dreams of fame, and desires for gold,
Shall go for aye as a tale that is told,
Nor divide for a day my lips from her lips.
In a green Isle wash'd by an arm of the seas,
And walled from the world by the white Andes:
The years are of age and can go their way.”
And struck her shield, and her sword in hand,
She cried, “He comes with his silver spears,
With flint-tipp'd arrows and bended bows,
To take our blood though we give him tears,
And to flood our Isle in a world of woes!
“He comes, O Queen of the sun-kiss'd Isle,
He comes as a wind comes, blown from the seas,
In a cloud of canoes, on the curling breeze,
With his shields of tortoise and of crocodile!”
[OMITTED]
Sweeter than swans' are a maiden's graces!
Sweeter than fruits are the kisses of morn!
Sweeter than babes' is a love new-born,
But sweeter than all are a love's embraces.
The Queen was at peace. Her terms of surrender
To love, who knows? and who can defend her?
She slept at peace, and the sentry's warning
Could scarce awaken the love-conquer'd Queen;
She slept at peace in the opaline
Hush and blush of that tropical morning;
Vine and trellis in the vernal morn,
As still and sweet as a babe new-born,
The brown Queen dream'd of the old new story.
The sound of shields, and the clash of swords!
And her two hands held as to plead for rest.
Where, O where, was the glance of Jove,
As the Queen came forth from the sacred places,
Hidden away in the heart of the grove?
With swords to the sun and the sounding shield,
To lead them again to the glorious field,
So sacred to Freedom; and, breathless, they brought her
Her buckler and sword, and her armor all bright
With a thousand gems enjewell'd in gold.
She lifted her head with the look of old
An instant only; with all of her might
She sought to be strong and majestic again.
She bared them her arms and her ample brown breast;
They lifted her armor, they strove to invest
Her form in armor, but they strove in vain.
It could close no more, but it clang'd on the ground,
Like the fall of a knight, with an ominous sound,
And she shook her hair and she cried “Alas!
That love should come and liberty pass;”
And she cried, “Alas! to be cursed ... and bless'd
For the nights of love and noons of rest.”
And trail'd their swords, and subdued their eyes
To earth in sorrow and in hush'd surprise,
And forgot themselves in their pity of heart.
“O Edens new-made and let down from above!
Be sacred to peace and to passionate love,
Made happy in peace and made holy with truth.”
They form'd on the strand, they lifted their spears,
Where never was man for years and for years,
And moved on the Queen. She lifted and laid her
Finger-tips to her lips. For O sweet
Was the song of love as the love new-born,
That the minstrel blew in the virgin morn,
Away where the trees and the soft sands meet.
And slowly they came with their trailing spears,
And heads bow'd down as if bent with years,
And an air of gentleness over them all.
They lean'd their lances against the palms,
They reach'd their arms as to reach for alms,
And the Amazons came—and their reign was ended.
On the leaning grass and reaches a hand;
The day like a beautiful dream has flown,
The curtains of night come down on the land,
And I dip to the oars; but ere I go,
I tip her an extra bright pesos or so,
And I smile my thanks, for I think them due:
But, reader, fair reader, now what think you?
I do not like this, although I have cut it up and cut it down, and worked it over and over more than anything else. I had seen this vast and indescribable country, but not absorbed it; and that, most likely, is the reason it seems artificial and foolish, with knights and other things that I know nothing about. The only thing that I like in it is the water. I can handle water, and water is water the world over. But had it not been for the water and some of the wild tangles and jungles the whole thing would, ere this, have gone where the biggest half went long since. It was written in San Francisco, and was published at the same time in the Overland there and the Gentleman's Magazine in London. It was written at the instance of the Emperor, who translated it and to the last was brave and courtly enough to insist that it was good work. I had hoped to induce people to pour out of crowded London and better their fortunes there; for there is great wealth far, far up the Amazon. Aye, what exultant pride swelled my heart one happy day in Rome when Partridge, our minister to Brazil, gave me that message of thanks from the good Emperor, with a request to make his home my own while he lived.
Joaquin Miller's Poems | ||