 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
145
A CHRISTMAS EVE IN CUBA
Their priests are many, for many their sins,
Their sins are many, for their land is fair;
The perfumed waves and the perfumed winds,
The cocoa-palms and the perfumed air;
The proud old Dons, so poor and so proud,
So poor their ghosts can scarce wear a shroud—
This town of Columbus has priests and prayer;
And great bells pealing in the palm land.
Their sins are many, for their land is fair;
The perfumed waves and the perfumed winds,
The cocoa-palms and the perfumed air;
The proud old Dons, so poor and so proud,
So poor their ghosts can scarce wear a shroud—
This town of Columbus has priests and prayer;
And great bells pealing in the palm land.
A proud Spanish Don lies shriven and dead;
The cross on his breast, a priest at his prayer;
His slave at his feet, his son at his head—
A slave's white face in her midnight hair;
A slave's white face, why, a face as white,
As white as that dead man's face this night—
This town of Columbus can pray for the dead;
Such great bells booming in the palm land.
The cross on his breast, a priest at his prayer;
His slave at his feet, his son at his head—
A slave's white face in her midnight hair;
A slave's white face, why, a face as white,
As white as that dead man's face this night—
This town of Columbus can pray for the dead;
Such great bells booming in the palm land.
The moon hangs dead up at heaven's white door;
As dead as the isle of the great, warm seas;
As dead as the Don, so proud and so poor,
With two quite close by the bed on their knees;
The slave at his feet, the son at his head,
And both in tears for the proud man dead—
This town of Columbus has tears, if you please;
And great bells pealing in the palm land.
As dead as the isle of the great, warm seas;
As dead as the Don, so proud and so poor,
With two quite close by the bed on their knees;
The slave at his feet, the son at his head,
And both in tears for the proud man dead—
This town of Columbus has tears, if you please;
And great bells pealing in the palm land.
Aye, both are in tears; for a child might trace
In the face of the slave, as the face of the son,
The same proud look of the dead man's face—
The beauty of one; and the valor of one—
The slave at his feet, the son at his head,
This night of Christ, where the Don lies dead—
This town of Columbus, this land of the sun
Keeps great bells clanging in the palm land.
In the face of the slave, as the face of the son,
The same proud look of the dead man's face—
The beauty of one; and the valor of one—
The slave at his feet, the son at his head,
146
This town of Columbus, this land of the sun
Keeps great bells clanging in the palm land.
The slave is so fair, and so wonderful fair!
A statue stepped out from some temple of old;
Why, you could entwine your two hands in her hair,
Nor yet could encompass its ample, dark fold.
And oh, that pitiful, upturned face;
Her master lies dead—she knows her place.
This town of Columbus has hundreds at prayer,
And great bells booming in the palm land.
A statue stepped out from some temple of old;
Why, you could entwine your two hands in her hair,
Nor yet could encompass its ample, dark fold.
And oh, that pitiful, upturned face;
Her master lies dead—she knows her place.
This town of Columbus has hundreds at prayer,
And great bells booming in the palm land.
The proud Don dead, and this son his heir;
This slave his fortune. Now, what shall he do?
Why, what should he do? or what should he care,
Save only to cherish a pride as true?—
This slave his fortune. Now, what shall he do?
Why, what should he do? or what should he care,
Save only to cherish a pride as true?—
To hide his shame as the good priests hide
Black sins confessed when the damned have died.
This town of Columbus has pride with her prayer—
And great bells pealing in the palm land!
Black sins confessed when the damned have died.
This town of Columbus has pride with her prayer—
And great bells pealing in the palm land!
Lo! Christ's own hour in the argent seas,
And she, his sister, his own born slave!
His secret is safe; just master and she;
These two, and the dead at the door of the grave ...
And she, his sister, his own born slave!
His secret is safe; just master and she;
These two, and the dead at the door of the grave ...
147
And death, whatever our other friends do,
Why, death, my friend, is a friend most true—
This town of Columbus keeps pride and keeps prayer,
And her great bells booming everywhere!
Why, death, my friend, is a friend most true—
This town of Columbus keeps pride and keeps prayer,
And her great bells booming everywhere!
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |