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

O terrible lion of tame Saint Mark!
Tamed old lion with the tumbled mane
Tossed to the clouds and lost in the dark,
With teeth in the air and tail-whipp'd back,
Foot on the Bible as if thy track
Led thee the lord of the desert again
Say, what of thy watch o'er the watery town?
Say, what of the worlds walking up and down?

O silent old monarch that tops Saint Mark,
That sat thy throne for a thousand years,
That lorded the deep that defied all men,—
Lo! I see visions at sea in the dark;
And I see something that shines like tears,
And I hear something that sounds like sighs,
And I hear something that seems as when
A great soul suffers and sinks and dies.

The high-born, beautiful snow came down,
Silent and soft as the terrible feet
Of time on the mosses of ruins. Sweet
Was the Christmas time in the watery town.
'Twas full flood carnival swell'd the sea
Of Venice that night, and canal and quay
Were alive with humanity. Man and maid,
Glad in mad revel and masquerade,
Moved through the feathery snow in the night,
And shook black locks as they laugh'd outright.

From Santa Maggiore, and to and fro,
And ugly and black as if devils cast out,
Black streaks through the night of such soft, white snow,

The steel-prow'd gondolas paddled about;
There was only the sound of the long oars dip,
As the low moon sail'd up the sea like a ship
In a misty morn. High the low moon rose,
Rose veil'd and vast, through the feathery snows,
As a minstrel stept silent and sad from his boat,
His worn cloak clutched in his hand to his throat.

Low under the lion that guards St. Mark,
Down under wide wings on the edge of the sea
In the dim of the lamps, on the rim of the dark,
Alone and sad in the salt-flood town,
Silent and sad and all sullenly,
He sat by the column where the crocodile
Keeps watch o'er the wave, far mile upon mile. ...
Like a signal light through the night let down,
Then a far star fell through the dim profound—
A jewel that slipp'd God's hand to the ground.

The storm had blown over! Now up and then down,
Alone and in couples, sweet women did pass,
Silent and dreamy, as if seen in a glass,
Half mask'd to the eyes, in their Adrian town.
Such women! It breaks one's heart to think.
Water! and never one drop to drink!
What types of Titian! What glory of hair!
How tall as the sisters of Saul! How fair!
Sweet flowers of flesh, and all blossoming,
As if 'twere in Eden, and in Eden's spring.

“They are talking aloud with eloquent eyes,
Yet passing me by with never one word.
O pouting sweet lips, do you know there are lies

That are told with the eyes, and never once heard
Above a heart's beat when the soul is stirr'd?
It is time to fly home, O doves of St. Mark!
Take boughs of the olive; bear these to your ark,
And rest and be glad, for the seas and the skies
Of Venice are fair. ... What! wouldn't go home?
What! drifting, and drifting as the soil'd sea-foam?

“And who then are you? You, masked and so fair?
Your half seen face is a rose full blown,
Down under your black and abundant hair? ...
A child of the street, and unloved and alone!
Unloved; and alone? ... There is something then
Between us two that is not unlike! ...
The strength and the purposes of men
Fall broken idols. We aim and strike
With high-born zeal and with proud intent.
Yet let life turn on some accident. ...

“Nay, I'll not preach. Time's lessons pass
Like twilight's swallows. They chirp in their flight,
And who takes heed of the wasting glass?
Night follows day, and day follows night,
And no thing rises on earth but to fall
Like leaves, with their lessons most sad and fit.
They are spread like a volume each year to all;
Yet men or women learn naught of it,
Or after it all but a weariness
Of soul and body and untold distress.

“Yea, sit, lorn child, by my side, and we,
We will talk of the world. Nay, let my hand
Fall kindly to yours, and so, let your face
Fall fair to my shoulder, and you shall be
My dream of sweet Italy. Here in this place,
Alone in the crowds of this old careless land,
I shall shelter your form till the morn and then—
Why, I shall return to the world and to men,
And you, not stain'd for one strange, kind word
And my three last francs, for a lorn night bird.

“Fear nothing from me, nay, never once fear.
The day, my darling, comes after the night.
The nights they were made to show the light
Of the stars in heaven, though the storms be near. ...
Do you see that figure of Fortune up there,
That tops the Dogana with toe a-tip
Of the great gold ball? Her scroll is a-trip
To the turning winds. She is light as the air.
Her foot is set upon plenty's horn,
Her fair face set to the coming morn.

“Well, trust we to Fortune. ... Bread on the wave
Turns ever ashore to the hand that gave.
What am I? A poet—a lover of all
That is lovely to see. Nay, naught shall befall. ...
Yes, I am a failure. I plot and I plan,
Give splendid advice to my fellow-man,
Yet ever fall short of achievement. ... Ah me!
In my lorn life's early, sad afternoon,
Say, what have I left but a rhyme or a rune?

An empty frail hand for some soul at sea,
Some fair, forbidden, sweet fruit to choose,
That 'twere sin to touch, and—sin to refuse?

“What! I go drifting with you, girl, to-night?
To sit at your side and to call you love?
Well, that were a fancy! To feed a dove,
A poor soil'd dove of this dear Saint Mark,
Too frighten'd to rest and too weary for flight ...
Aye, just three francs, my fortune. There! He
Who feeds the sparrows for this will feed me.
Now here 'neath the lion, alone in the dark,
And side by side let us sit, poor dear,
Breathing the beauty as an atmosphere. ...

“We will talk of your loves, I write tales of love ...
What! Cannot read? Why, you never heard then
Of your Desdemona, nor the daring men
Who died for her love? My poor white dove,
There's a story of Shylock would drive you wild.
What! Never have heard of these stories, my child?
Of Tasso, of Petrarch? Not the Bridge of Sighs?
Not the tale of Ferrara? Not the thousand whys
That your Venice was ever adored above
All other fair lands for her stories of love?

“What then about Shylock? 'Twas gold. Yes—dead.
The lady? 'Twas love. ... Why, yes; she too
Is dead. And Byron? 'Twas fame. Ah, true ...
Tasso and Petrarch? All died, just the same ...

Yea, so endeth all, as you truly have said,
And you, poor girl, are too wise; and you,
Too sudden and swift in your hard, ugly youth,
Have stumbled face fronting an obstinate truth.
For whether for love, for gold, or for fame,
They but lived their day, and they died the same.

But let's talk not of death? Of death or the life
That comes after death? 'Tis beyond your reach,
And this too much thought has a sense of strife. ...
Ah, true; I promised you not to preach. ...
My maid of Venice, or maid unmade,
Hold close your few francs and be not afraid.
What! Say you are hungry? Well, let us dine
Till the near morn comes on the silver shine
Of the lamp-lit sea. At the dawn of day,
My sad child-woman, you can go your way.

“What! You have a palace? I know your town;
Know every nook of it, left and right,
As well as yourself. Why, far up and down
Your salt flood streets, lo, many a night
I have row'd and have roved in my lorn despair
Of love upon earth, and I know well there
Is no such palace. What! and you dare
To look in my face and to lie outright,
To lift your face, and to frown me down?
There is no such palace in that part of the town!

“You would woo me away to your rickety boat!
You would pick my pockets! You would cut my throat,

With help of your pirates! Then throw me out
Loaded with stones to sink me down,
Down into the filth and the dregs of your town!
Why, that is your damnable aim, no doubt!
And, my plaintive voiced child, you seem too fair,
Too fair, for even a thought like that;
Too fair for ever such sin to dare—
Ay, even the tempter to whisper at.

“Now, there is such a thing as being true,
True, even in villainy. Listen to me:
Black-skinn'd women and low-brow'd men,
And desperate robbers and thieves; and then,
Why, there are the pirates! ... Ay, pirates reform'd—
Pirates reform'd and unreform'd;
Pirates for me girl, friends for you,—
And these are your neighbors. And so you see
That I know your town, your neighbors; and I—
Well, pardon me, dear—but I know you lie.

“Tut, tut, my beauty! What trickery now?
Why, tears through your hair on my hand like rain!
Come! look in my face: laugh, lie again
With your wonderful eyes. Lift up your brow,
Laugh in the face of the world, and lie!
Now, come! This lying is no new thing.
The wearers of laces know well how to lie,
As well, ay, better, than you or I. ...
But they lie for fortune, for fame: instead,
You, child of the street, only lie for your bread.

... “Some sounds blow in from the distant land.
The bells strike sharp, and as out of tune,
Some sudden, short notes. To the east and afar,
And up from the sea, there is lifting a star
As large, my beautiful child, and as white
And as lovely to see as some lady's white hand.
The people have melted away with the night,
And not one gondola frets the lagoon.
See! Away to the mountain, the face of morn.
Hear! Away to the sea—'tis the fisherman's horn.

“'Tis morn in Venice! My child, adieu!
Arise, sad sister, and go your way;
And as for myself, why, much like you,
I shall sell the story to who will pay
And dares to reckon it true and meet.
Yea, each of us traders, poor child of pain;
For each must barter for bread to eat
In a world of trade and an age of gain;
With just this difference, waif of the street,
You sell your body, I sell my brain.

“Poor lost little vessel, with never a keel.
Saint Marks, what a wreck! Lo, here you reel,
With never a soul to advise or to care;
All cover'd with sin to the brows and hair,
You lie like a seaweed, well a-strand;
Blown like the sea-kelp hard on the shale,
A half-drown'd body, with never a hand
Reach'd out to help where you falter and fail:
Left stranded alone to starve and to die,
Or to sell your body to who may buy.

“My sister of sin, I will kiss you! Yea,
I will fold you, hold you close to my breast;
And here as you rest in your first fair rest,
As night is push'd back from the face of day,
I will push your heavy, dark heaven of hair
Well back from your brow, and kiss you where
Your ruffian, bearded, black men of crime
Have stung you and stain'd you a thousand time;
I will call you my sister, sweet child, and keep
You close to my heart, lest you wake but to weep.

“I will tenderly kiss you, and I shall not be
Ashamed, nor yet stain'd in the least, sweet dove,—
I will tenderly kiss, with the kiss of Love,
And of Faith, and of Hope, and of Charity.
Nay, I shall be purer and be better then;
For, child of the street, you, living or dead,
Stain'd to the brows, are purer to me
Ten thousand times than the world of men,
Who reach you a hand but to lead you astray,—
But the dawn is upon us. There! go your way.

“And take great courage. Take courage and say,
Of this one Christmas when I am away,
Roving the world and forgetful of you,
That I found you as white as the snow and knew
You but needed a word to keep you true.
When you fall weary and so need rest,
Then find kind words hidden down in your breast;
And if rough men question you,—why, then say
That Madonna sent them. Then kneel and pray,
And pray for me, the worse of the two:

Then God will bless you, sweet child, and I
Shall be the better when I come to die.

“Yea, take great courage, it will be as bread;
Have faith, have faith while this day wears through.
Then rising refresh'd, try virtue instead;
Be stronger and better, poor, pitiful dear,
So prompt with a lie, so prompt with a tear,
For the hand grows stronger as the heart grows true. ...
Take courage, my child, for I promise you
We are judged by our chances of life and lot;
And your poor soul may yet pass through
The eye of the needle, where laces shall not.

“Sad dove of the dust, with tear-wet wings,
Homeless and lone as the dove from its ark,—
Do you reckon yon angel that tops St. Mark,
That tops the tower, that tops the town,
If he knew us two, if he knew all things,
Would say, or think, you are worse than I?
Do you reckon yon angel, now looking down,
Far down like a star, he hangs so high,
Could tell which one were the worse of us two?
Child of the street—it is not you!

“If we two were dead, and laid side by side
Right here on the pavement, this very day,
Here under the sun-flushed maiden sky,
Where the morn flows in like a rosy tide,
And the sweet Madonna that stands in the moon,
With her crown of stars, just across the lagoon,
Should come and should look upon you and I,—
Do you reckon, my child, that she would decide

As men do decide and as women do say,
That you are so dreadful, and turn away?

“If angels were sent to choose this day
Between us two as we rest here,
Here side by side in this storied place,—
If angels were sent to choose, I say,
This very moment the best of the two,
You, white with a hunger and stain'd with a tear,
Or I, the rover the wide world through,
Restless and stormy as any sea,—
Looking us two right straight in the face,
Child of the street, he would not choose me.

“The fresh sun is falling on turret and tower,
The far sun is flashing on spire and dome,
The marbles of Venice are bursting to flower,
The marbles of Venice are flower and foam:
Good night and good morn; I must leave you now.
There! bear my kiss on your pale, soft brow
Through earth to heaven: and when we shall meet
Beyond the darkness, poor waif of the street,
Why, then I shall know you, my sad, sweet dove;
Shall claim you, and kiss you, with the kiss of love.”