Joaquin Miller's Poems [in six volumes] |
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| 4. | IV |
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 | Joaquin Miller's Poems |  |
IV
Such stories as our allies told
Of how, in armored days of old,
The Spaniard here had dared and died
In all his splendid strength and pride,
In maddened greed for this red gold:
How, many times in after years,
Troop after troop went forth again,
The Spanish Don, the dauntless son,
To dare the dread obsidian spears,
The gold-wrought arrowheads like rain—
But never one returned, not one!
Of how, in armored days of old,
The Spaniard here had dared and died
In all his splendid strength and pride,
In maddened greed for this red gold:
How, many times in after years,
Troop after troop went forth again,
The Spanish Don, the dauntless son,
To dare the dread obsidian spears,
The gold-wrought arrowheads like rain—
But never one returned, not one!
Such stories as our allies said
Of tall, dusk women, garmented
Like unto fairest flowered trees;
Of busy women, like to bees,
Who chased the purple butterfly
Far up the gray steeps of the sky
And plucked his little silken nest
To spin and weave the gorgeous vest,
The yellow robe, raboso red:
Of tall, dusk women, garmented
Like unto fairest flowered trees;
Of busy women, like to bees,
Who chased the purple butterfly
Far up the gray steeps of the sky
And plucked his little silken nest
To spin and weave the gorgeous vest,
The yellow robe, raboso red:
19
Such stories as our allies told
Of temples builded to the sun,
Of human sacrifice and how,
Like stealthy panthers, even now,
These beauteous, sultry, moonlit nights,
Hard men steal down, just as of old,
And seize fair maidens for their rites:
That this was why the land lay bare
Of flock or field or maiden fair,
All up and down, for leagues away—
That even now, this very day,
Their yonder homeward trail was plain
With little footprints made in pain:
Torn feet that turn not back again.
Of temples builded to the sun,
Of human sacrifice and how,
Like stealthy panthers, even now,
These beauteous, sultry, moonlit nights,
Hard men steal down, just as of old,
And seize fair maidens for their rites:
That this was why the land lay bare
Of flock or field or maiden fair,
All up and down, for leagues away—
That even now, this very day,
Their yonder homeward trail was plain
With little footprints made in pain:
Torn feet that turn not back again.
| Joaquin Miller's Poems | |