Joaquin Miller's Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Far up in the hush of the Amazon River,
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;

Sit weaving the threads of long, strong grasses;
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.

And the blue-eyed men that are mild as the dawns—
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';

And they gaze into yours, then weave, then listen,
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;

But they say no word while they weave and wonder,
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.

A pure, true people you may trust are these
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 why that the men draw water and bear
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.

A curious old tale of a curious old time,
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.

Her brown, bare feet dip down to the river,
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.

And the quaint old crone has a singular way
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.

The old near truth on the far new shore,
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?

If I have made journeys to difficult shores,
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 sudden told tale. You may read as you run.
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.

'Twas nations ago, when the Amazons were,
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.

And fairest, and foremost in love as in war
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.

He was born, says the crone, where the brave are fair,
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.

He sat on his steed, and his sword was bloody
With heathen blood: the battle was done;
His heart rebelled and rose with pity.

For crown'd with fire, wreathed and ruddy
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.

And the heathen pour'd, in a helpless flood,
With never a wail and with never a blow,
At last, to even provoke a foe,
Through gateways, wet with the pagan's blood.

“Ho, forward! smite!” but the minstrel linger'd,
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.

He rested the heel, he rested the hand,
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 wiped his steel on his black steed's mane,
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 face to the flashing snow,
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 cross'd his bosom. Made overbold,
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.

They heard his song, the chief on the plain
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 wove his hand in the stormy mane,
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.

And so he sang with his face to the south:
“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.

“I shall journey in search of the Incan Isles,
Go far and away to traditional land,
Where love is queen in a crown of smiles,
And battle has never imbrued a hand;

“Where man has never despoil'd or trod;
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.

“I shall find that Eden, and all my years
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 the years may come and the years may go,
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 waves may battle, the winds may blow,
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.”

'Twas the song of a dream and the dream of a singer,
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.

Alas! for his dreams and the songs he sung;
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.

He toil'd to the river, he lean'd intent
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.

'Twas the king of rivers, and the Isles were near;
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.

It was dark and dreadful! Wide like an ocean,
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.

Yea, strangely strong was the wave and slow,
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.

The nude black boar through abundant grass
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.

Yea, steadily moved it, mile upon mile,
Above and below and as still as the air;
The bank made slippery here and there
By the slushing slide of the crocodile.

The great trees bent to the tide like slaves;
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.

The land was the tide's; the shore was undone;
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 clutch'd at the diamonds that hid in the sand,
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 thrust through the rocks of the ribb'd Andes;
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.

Oh heavens, the eloquent song of the silence!
Asleep lay the sun in the vines, on the sod.

100

And asleep in the sun lay the green-girdled islands,
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.

The shallow seas moan. From the first they have mutter'd,
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.

“I shall fold my hands, for this is the river
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,—

'Twas only a bird on a border of sand,—
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.

'Twas only a bird on a border of sand,
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.

101

“Unto God a prayer and to love a tear,
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.

“The strong trees lean in their love unto trees,
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.

“A miser of old, his last great treasure
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.”

He blew on a reed by the still, strong river,
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.

He sang and he sang with a resolute will,
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.

Our loves they are told by the myriad-eyed stars,
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;

102

And death, I say, is an absolute need,
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.

The quick leaves quiver'd, and the sunlight danced;
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.

The serpent that hung from the sycamore bough,
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.

But the hands grew weary, the heart wax'd faint,
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.

A sound on the tide! and he turn'd and cried,
“Oh, give God thanks, for they come, they come!”

103

He look'd out afar on the opaline tide,
Then clasp'd his hands, and his lips were dumb.

A sweeping swift crescent of sudden canoes!
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!

The Amazons came in their martial pride,
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.

With a face as brown as the boatmen's are,
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 forth for the song, half lean'd in surprise,
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.

And sad were they all; yet tall and serene
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.

“O Mother of God! Thrice merciful saint!
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.

104

“Stay! stay!” cried the Queen, and she leapt to the land,
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.”

Then gently as touch of the truest of woman,
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 spoke low-voiced as a vesper prayer;
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.