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

Alone and sad I sat me down
To rest on Rousseau's narrow isle
Below Geneva. Mile on mile,
And set with many a shining town,
Tow'rd Dent du Midi danced the wave
Beneath the moon. Winds went and came
And fanned the stars into a flame.
I heard the far lake, dark and deep,
Rise up and talk as in its sleep;
I heard the laughing waters lave
And lap against the further shore,
An idle oar, and nothing more
Save that the isle had voice, and save
That 'round about its base of stone
There plashed and flashed the foamy Rhone.

A stately man, as black as tan,
Kept up a stern and broken round
Among the strangers on the ground.
I named that awful African
A second Hannibal.

I gat
My elbows on the table; sat
With chin in upturned palm to scan
His face, and contemplate the scene.
The moon rode by, a crownéd queen.
I was alone. Lo! not a man
To speak my mother tongue. Ah me!
How more than all alone can be
A man in crowds! Across the isle
My Hannibal strode on. The while

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Diminished Rousseau sat his throne
Of books, unnoticed and unknown.

This strange, strong man, with face austere,
At last drew near. He bowed; he spake
In unknown tongues. I could but shake
My head. Then half achill with fear,
Arose, and sought another place.
Again I mused. The kings of thought
Came by, and on that storied spot
I lifted up a tearful face.
The star-set Alps they sang a tune
Unheard by any soul save mine.
Mont Blanc, as lone and as divine
And white, seemed mated to the moon.
The past was mine; strong-voiced and vast—
Stern Calvin, strange Voltaire, and Tell,
And two whose names are known too well
To name, in grand procession passed.

And yet again came Hannibal;
King-like he came, and drawing near,
I saw his brow was now severe
And resolute.

In tongue unknown
Again he spake. I was alone,
Was all unarmed; was worn and sad;
But now, at last, my spirit had
Its old assertion.

I arose,
As startled from a dull repose;
With gathered strength I raised a hand
And cried, “I do not understand.”

205

His black face brightened as I spake;
He bowed; he wagged his woolly head;
He showed his shining teeth, and said,
“Sah, if you please, dose tables heah
Am consecrate to lager beer;
And, sah, what will you have to take?”

Not that I loved that colored cuss—
Nay! he had awed me all too much—
But I sprang forth, and with a clutch
I grasped his hand, and holding thus,
Cried, “Bring my country's drink for two!”
For oh! that speech of Saxon sound
To me was as a fountain found
In wastes, and thrilled me through and through.
[OMITTED]

On Rousseau's isle, in Rousseau's shade,
Two pink and spicy drinks were made,
In classic shades, on classic ground,
We stirred two cocktails round and round.

206

THAT GENTLE MAN FROM BOSTON

AN IDYL OF OREGON

Two noble brothers loved a fair
Young lady, rich and good to see;
And oh, her black abundant hair!
And oh, her wondrous witchery!
Her father kept a cattle farm,
These brothers kept her safe from harm:

From harm of cattle on the hill;
From thick-necked bulls loud bellowing
The livelong morning, long and shrill,
And lashing sides like anything!
From roaring bulls that tossed the sand
And pawed the lilies of the land.

There came a third young man. He came
From far and famous Boston town.
He was not handsome, was not “game,”
But he could “cook a goose” as brown
As any man that set foot on
The mist kissed shores of Oregon.

This Boston man he taught the school,
Taught gentleness and love alway,
Said love and kindness, as a rule,
Would ultimately “make it pay.”
He was so gentle, kind, that he
Could make a noun and verb agree.

So when one day these brothers grew
All jealous and did strip to fight,
He gently stood between the two

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And meekly told them 'twas not right.
“I have a higher, better plan,”
Outspake this gentle Boston man.

“My plan is this: Forget this fray
About that lily hand of hers;
Go take your guns and hunt all day
High up yon lofty hill of firs,
And while you hunt, my ruffled doves,
Why, I will learn which one she loves.”

The brothers sat the windy hill,
Their hair shone yellow, like spun gold,
Their rifles crossed their laps, but still
They sat and sighed and shook with cold.
Their hearts lay bleeding far below;
Above them gleamed white peaks of snow.

Their hounds lay crouching slim and neat,
A spotted circle in the grass.
The valley lay beneath their feet;
They heard the wide-winged eagles pass.
Two eagles cleft the clouds above;
Yet what could they but sigh and love?

“If I could die,” the elder sighed,
“My dear young brother here might wed.”
“Oh, would to heaven I had died!”
The younger sighed with bended head.
Then each looked each full in the face
And each sprang up and stood in place.

“If I could die”—the elder spake,—
“Die by your hand, the world would say
'Twas accident—; and for her sake,

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Dear brother, be it so, I pray.”
“Not that!” the younger nobly said;
Then tossed his gun and turned his head.

And fifty paces back he paced!
And as he paced he drew the ball;
Then sudden stopped and wheeled and faced
His brother to the death and fall!
Two shots rang wild upon the air!
But lo! the two stood harmless there!

Two eagles poised high in the air;
Far, far below the bellowing
Of bullocks ceased, and everywhere
Vast silence sat all questioning.
The spotted hounds ran circling round,
Their red, wet noses to the ground.

And now each brother came to know
That each had drawn the deadly ball;
And for that fair girl far below
Had sought in vain to silent fall.
And then the two did gladly “shake,”
And thus the elder gravely spake:

“Now let us run right hastily
And tell the kind schoolmaster all!
Yea! yea! and if she choose not me,
But all on you her favors fall,
This valiant scene, till all life ends,
Dear brother, binds us best of friends.

The hounds sped down, a spotted line,
The bulls in tall abundant grass
Shook back their horns from bloom and vine,

209

And trumpeted to see them pass—
They loved so good, they loved so true,
These brothers scarce knew what to do.

They sought the kind schoolmaster out
As swift as sweeps the light of morn—
They could but love, they could not doubt
This man so gentle, “in a horn,”
They cried: “Now whose the lily hand—
That lady's of this emer'ld land?”

They bowed before that big-nosed man,
That long-nosed man from Boston town;
They talked as only lovers can,
They talked, but he would only frown;
And still they talked and still they plead;
It was as pleading with the dead.

At last this Boston man did speak—
“Her father has a thousand ceows,
An hundred bulls, all fat and sleek;
He also had this ample heouse.”
The brothers' eyes stuck out thereat
So far you might have hung your hat.

“I liked the looks of this big heouse—
My lovely boys, won't you come in?
Her father had a thousand ceows—
He also had a heap o' tin.
The guirl? Oh yes, the guirl, you see—
The guirl, this morning married me.”

210

WILLIAM BROWN OF OREGON

They called him Bill, the hired man,
But she, her name was Mary Jane,
The squire's daughter; and to reign
The belle from Ber-she-be to Dan
Her little game. How lovers rash
Got mittens at the spelling school!
How many a mute, inglorious fool
Wrote rhymes and sighed and dyed—mustache?

This hired man had loved her long,
Had loved her best and first and last,
Her very garments as she passed
For him had symphony and song.
So when one day with flirt and frown
She called him “Bill,” he raised his head,
He caught her eye and faltering said,
“I love you; and my name is Brown,”

She fairly waltzed with rage; she wept;
You would have thought the house on fire.
She told her sire, the portly squire,
Then smelt her smelling-salts and slept.
Poor William did what could be done;
He swung a pistol on each hip,
He gathered up a great ox-whip
And drove right for the setting sun.

He crossed the big backbone of earth,
He saw the snowy mountains rolled
Like mighty billows; saw the gold
Of great big sunsets; felt the birth
Of sudden dawn upon the plain;
And every night did William Brown

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Eat pork and beans and then lie down
And dream sweet dreams of Mary Jane.

Her lovers passed. Wolves hunt in packs,
They sought for bigger game; somehow
They seemed to see about her brow
The forky signs of turkey tracks.
The teter-board of life goes up,
The teter-board of life goes down,
The sweetest face must learn to frown;
The biggest dog has been a pup.

O maidens! pluck not at the air;
The sweetest flowers I have found
Grow rather close unto the ground
And highest places are most bare.
Why, you had better win the grace
Of one poor cussed Af-ri-can
Than win the eyes of every man
In love alone with his own face.

At last she nursed her true desire.
She sighed, she wept for William Brown.
She watched the splendid sun go down
Like some great sailing ship on fire,
Then rose and checked her trunks right on;
And in the cars she lunched and lunched,
And had her ticket punched and punched,
Until she came to Oregon.

She reached the limit of the lines,
She wore blue specs upon her nose,
Wore rather short and manly clothes,
And so set out to reach the mines.
Her right hand held a Testament,

212

Her pocket held a parasol,
And thus equipped right on she went,
Went water-proof and water-fall.

She saw a miner gazing down,
Slow stirring something with a spoon;
“O, tell me true and tell me soon,
What has become of William Brown?”
He looked askance beneath her specs,
Then stirred his cocktail round and round,
Then raised his head and sighed profound,
And said, “He's handed in his checks.”

Then care fed on her damaged cheek,
And she grew faint, did Mary Jane,
And smelt her smelling salts in vain,
Yet wandered on, way-worn and weak.
At last upon a hill alone;
She came, and there she sat her down;
For on that hill there stood a stone,
And, lo! that stone read, “William Brown.”

“O William Brown! O William Brown!
And here you rest at last,” she said,
“With this lone stone above your head,
And forty miles from any town!
I will plant cypress trees, I will,
And I will build a fence around,
And I will fertilize the ground
With tears enough to turn a mill.”

She went and got a hired man,
She brought him forty miles from town,
And in the tall grass squatted down
And bade him build as she should plan.

213

But cruel cowboys with their bands
They saw, and hurriedly they ran
And told a bearded cattle man
Somebody builded on his lands.

He took his rifle from the rack,
He girt himself in battle pelt,
He stuck two pistols in his belt,
And mounting on his horse's back,
He plunged ahead. But when they shewed
A woman fair, about his eyes
He pulled his hat, and he likewise
Pulled at his beard, and chewed and chewed.

At last he gat him down and spake:
“O lady, dear, what do you here?”
“I build a tomb unto my dear,
I plant sweet flowers for his sake.”
The bearded man threw his two hands
Above his head, then brought them down
And cried, “O, I am William Brown,
And this the corner-stone of my lands!”
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
And the Prince married her and they lived happy ever after.

214

HORACE GREELEY'S DRIVE

The old stage-drivers of the brave old days!
The old stage-drivers with their dash and trust!
These old stage-drivers they have gone their ways
But their deeds live on, though their bones are dust;
And many brave tales are told and retold
Of these daring men in the days of old:

Of honest Hank Monk and his Tally-Ho,
When he took good Horace in his stage to climb
The high Sierras with their peaks of snow
And 'cross to Nevada, “and come in on time;”
But the canyon below was so deep—oh! so deep—
And the summit above was so steep—oh! so steep!

The horses were foaming. The summit ahead
Seemed as far as the stars on a still, clear night.
And steeper and steeper the narrow route led
Till up to the peaks of perpetual white;
But faithful Hank Monk, with his face to the snow,
Sat silent and stern on his Tally-Ho!

Sat steady and still, sat faithful and true
To the great, good man in his charge that day;
Sat vowing the man and the mail should “go through
On time” though he bursted both brace and stay;
Sat silently vowing, in face of the snow,
He'd “get in on time” with his Tally-Ho!

215

But the way was so steep and so slow—oh! so slow!
'T was silver below, and the bright silver peak
Was silver above in its beauty and glow.
An eagle swooped by, Hank saw its hooked beak;
When, sudden out-popping a head snowy white—
“Mr. Monk, I must lecture in Nevada tonight!”

With just one thought that the mail must go through;
With just one word to the great, good man—
But weary—so weary—the creaking stage drew
As only a weary old creaking stage can—
When again shot the head; came shrieking outright:
“Mr. Monk, I MUST lecture in Nevada tonight!”

Just then came the summit! And the far world below,
It was Hank Monk's world. But he no word spake;
He pushed back his hat to that fierce peak of snow!
He threw out his foot to the eagle and brake!
He threw out his silk! He threw out his reins!
And the great wheels reeled as if reeling snow skeins!

The eagle was lost in his crag up above!
The horses flew swift as the swift light of morn!
The mail must go through with its message of love,
The miners were waiting his bright bugle horn.

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The man must go through! And Monk made a vow
As he never had failed, why, he wouldn't fail now!

How his stage spun the pines like a far spider's web!
It was spider and fly in the heavens up there!
And the clanging of hoofs made the blood flow and ebb,
For 'twas death in the breadth of a wheel or a hair.
Once more popped the head, and the piping voice cried:
“Mr. Monk! Mr. Monk!” But no Monk replied!

Then the great stage it swung, as if swung from the sky;
Then it dipped like a ship in the deep jaws of death;
Then the good man he gasped as men gasping for breath,
When they deem it is coming their hour to die.
And again shot the head, like a battering ram,
And the face it was red, and the words they were hot:
“Mr. Monk! Mr. Monk! I don't care a (mill?) dam.
Whether I lecture in Nevada or not!”

217

THAT FAITHFUL WIFE OF IDAHO

Huge silver snow-peaks, white as wool,
Huge, sleek, fat steers knee deep in grass,
And belly deep, and belly full,
Their flower beds one fragrant mass
Of flowers, grass tall-born and grand,
Where flowers chase the flying snow!
Oh, high held land in God's right hand,
Delicious, dreamful Idaho!

We rode the rolling cow-sown hills,
That bearded cattle man and I;
Below us laughed the blossomed rills,
Above the dappled clouds blew by.
We talked. The topic? Guess. Why, sir,
Three-fourths of all men's time they keep
To talk, to think, to be of HER;
The other fourth they give to sleep.

To learn what he might know, or how,
I laughed all constancy to scorn.
“Behold yon happy, changeful cow!
Behold this day, all storm at morn,
Yet now 'tis changed by cloud and sun,
Yea, all things change—the heart, the head,
Behold on earth there is not one
That changeth not in love,” I said.

He drew a glass, as if to scan
The steeps for steers; raised it and sighed.
He craned his neck, this cattle man,
Then drove the cork home and replied:
“For twenty years (forgive these tears),
For twenty years no word of strife—

218

I have not known for twenty years
One folly from my faithful wife.”

I looked that tarn man in the face—
That dark-browed, bearded cattle man.
He pulled his beard, then dropped in place
A broad right hand, all scarred and tan,
And toyed with something shining there
Above his holster, bright and small.
I was convinced. I did not care
To agitate his mind at all.

But rest I could not. Know I must
The story of my stalwart guide;
His dauntless love, enduring trust;
His blesséd and most wondrous bride.
I wondered, marveled, marveled much;
Was she of Western growth? Was she
Of Saxon blood, that wife with such
Eternal truth and constancy?

I could not rest until I knew—
“Now twenty years, my man,” I said,
“Is a long time.” He turned, he drew
A pistol forth, also a sigh.
“'Tis twenty years or more,” sighed he.
“Nay, nay, my honest man, I vow
I do not doubt that this may be;
But tell, oh! tell me truly how?”

“'Twould make a poem, pure and grand;
All time should note it near and far;
And thy fair, virgin, gold-sown land
Should stand out like some winter star.
America should heed. And then

219

The doubtful French beyond the sea—
'Twould make them truer, nobler men
To know how this might truly be.”

“'Tis twenty years or more, urged he;
“Nay, that I know, good guide of mine;
But lead me where this wife may be,
And I a pilgrim at a shrine,
And kneeling as a pilgrim true”—
He, leaning, shouted loud and clear:
“I cannot show my wife to you;
She's dead this more than twenty year.”

220

SARATOGA AND THE PSALMIST

These famous waters smell like—well,
Those Saratoga waters may
Taste just a little of the day
Of judgment; and the sulphur smell
Suggests, along with other things,
A climate rather warm for springs.

But restful as a twilight song,
The land where every lover hath
A spring, and every spring a path
To lead love pleasantly along.
Oh, there be waters, not of springs—
The waters wise King David sings.

Sweet is the bread that lovers eat
In secret, sang on harp of gold,
Jerusalem's high king of old.
“The stolen waters they are sweet!”
Oh, dear, delicious piracies
Of kisses upon love's high seas!

The old traditions of our race
Repeat for aye and still repeat;
The stolen waters still are sweet
As when King David sat in place,
All purple robed and crowned in gold,
And sang his holy psalms of old.

Oh, to escape the searching sun;
To seek these waters over sweet;
To see her dip her dimpled feet
Where these delicious waters run—

221

To dip her feet, nor slip nor fall,
Nor stain her garment's hem at all:

Nor soil the whiteness of her feet,
Nor stain her whitest garment's hem—
Oh, singer of Jerusalem,
You sang so sweet, so wisely sweet!
Shake hands! shake hands! I guess you knew
For all your psalms, a thing or two.

222

A TURKEY HUNT IN TEXAS

(AS TOLD AT DINNER.)

“No, sir; no turkey for me, sir. But soft, place it there,
Lest friends may make question and strangers may stare.
Ah, the thought of that hunt in the cañon, the blood—
Nay, gently, please, gently! You open a flood
Of memories, memories melting me so
That I rise in my place and—excuse me—I go,
No? You must have the story? And you, lady fair?
And you, and you all? Why, it's blood and despair;
And 'twere not kind in me, not manly or wise
To bring tears at such time to such beautiful eyes.

I remember me now the last time I told
This story a Persian in diamonds and gold
Sat next to good Gladstone, there was Wales to the right,
Then a Duke, then an Earl, and such ladies in white!
But I stopped, sudden stopped, lest the story might start
The blood freezing back to each feminine heart.
But they all said, “The story!” just as you all have said,
And the great Persian monarch he nodded his head

223

Till his diamond-decked feathers fell, glittered and rose,
Then nodded almost to his Ishmaelite nose.

The story! Ah, pardon! 'Twas high Christmas tide
And just beef and beans; yet the land, far and wide,
Was alive with such turkeys of silver and gold,
As never men born to the north may behold.
And Apaches? Aye, Apaches, and they took this game
In a pen, tolled it in. Might not we do the same?
So two of us started, strewing corn, Indian corn,
Tow'rd a great granite gorge with the first flush of morn;
Started gay, laughing back from the broad mesa's breast,
At the bravest of men, who but warned for the best.

We built a great pen from the sweet cedar wood
Tumbled down from a crown where the sentry stars stood.
Scarce done, when the turkeys in line—such a sight!
Picking corn from the sand, russet gold, silver white,
And so fat that they scarcely could waddle or hobble.
And 'twas “Queek, tukee, queek,” and 'twas, “gobble and gobble!”

224

And their great, full crops they did wabble and wabble
As their bright, high heads they did bob, bow and bobble,
Down, up, through the trench, crowding up in the pen.
Now, quick, block the trench! Then the mules and the men!

Springing forth from our cove, guns leaned to a rock,
How we laughed! What a feast! We had got the whole flock.
How we worked till the trench was all blocked close and tight,
For we hungered, and, too, the near coming of night,
Then the thought of our welcome. The news? We could hear
Already, we fancied, the great hearty cheer
As we rushed into camp and exultingly told
Of the mule loads of turkeys in silver and gold.
Then we turned for our guns. Our guns? In their place
Ten Apaches stood there, and five guns in each face.

And we stood! we stood straight and stood strong, track solid to track.
What, turn, try to fly and be shot in the back?
No! We threw hats in the air. We should not need them more.
And yelled! Yelled as never yelled man or Comanche before.

225

We dared them, defied them, right there in their lair.
Why, we leaned to their guns in our splendid despair.
What! spared us for bravery, because we dared death?
You know the tale? Tell it, and spare me my breath.
No, sir. They killed us, killed us both, there and then,
And then nailed our scalps to that turkey pen.

226

USLAND

And where lies Usland, Land of Us?
Where Freedom lives, there Usland lies!
Fling down that map and measure thus
Or argent seas or sapphire skies:
To north, the North Pole; south, as far
As ever eagle cleaved his way;
To east, the blazing morning star,
And west! West to the Judgment Day!

No borrowed lion, rampt in gold;
No bleeding Erin, plaintive strains;
No starving millions, mute and cold;
No plundered India, prone in chains;
No peaceful farmer, forced to fly
Or draw his plowshare from the sod,
And fighting, one to fifty, die
For freedom, fireside, and God.

Fear not, brave, patient, free-born Boers,
Great Usland's heart is yours today.
Aye, England's heart of hearts is yours,
Whatever scheming men may say.
Her scheming men have mines to sell,
And we? Why, meat and corn and wheat.
But, Boers, all brave hearts wish you well;
For England's triumph means defeat.

It is a waste of ink and energy to write “United States of America” always. All our property is marked US. Then why not Usland? And why should we always say American? The Canadian, the Mexican, the Brazilian, and so on, are as entirely entitled to the name “American” as we. Why not say Usman, as Frenchman, German, and so on?

227

THAT USSIAN OF USLAND

“I am an Ussian true,” he said;
“Keep off the grass there, Mister Bull!
For if you don't, I'll bang your head
And bang your belly-full.

“Now mark, my burly jingo-man,
So prone to muss and fuss and cuss,
I am an Ussian, spick and span,
From out the land of Us!”

The stout man smole a frosty smile—
“An Ussian! Russian, Rusk, or Russ?”
“No, no! an Ussian, every while;
My land the land of Us.”

“Aw! Usland, Outland? or, maybe,
Some Venezuela I'd forgot.
Hand out your map and let me see
Where Usland is, and what.”

The Yankman leaned and spread his map
And shewed the land of Us and shewed,
Then eyed and eyed that paunchy chap,
And pulled his chin and chewed.

“What do you want?” A face grew red,
And red chop whiskers redder grew.
“I want the earth,” the Ussian said,
“And all Alaska too.

“My stars swim up yon seas of blue;
No Shind am I, Boer, Turk or Russ.

228

I am an Ussian—Ussian true;
My land the land of Us.

“My triple North Star lights me on,
My Southern Cross leads ever thus;
My sun scarce sets till burst of dawn.
Hands off the land of Us!”

229

SAYS PLATO

Says Plato, “Once in Greece the gods
Plucked grapes, pressed wine, and reveled deep
And drowsed below their popy-pods,
And lay full length the hills asleep.
Then, waking, one said, ‘Overmuch
We toil: come, let us rise and touch
Red clay, and shape it into man,
That he may build as we shall plan!’
And so they shaped man, all complete,
Self-procreative, satisfied;
Two heads, four hands, four feet.

“And then the gods slept, heedless, long;
But waking suddenly one day,
They heard their valley ring with song
And saw man reveling as they.
Enraged, they drew their swords and said,
‘Bow down! bend down!’—but man replied
Defiant, fearless, everywhere
His four fists shaking in the air.
The gods descending cleft in twain
Each man; then wiped their swords on grapes;
And let confusion reign.

“And such confusion! each half ran,
Ran here, ran there; or weep or laugh
Or what he would, each helpless man
Ran hunting for his other half.
And from that day, thenceforth the grapes
Bore blood and flame, and restless shapes
Of hewn-down, helpless halves of men,
Ran searching ever; crazed, as when

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First hewn in twain, they grasped, let go,
Then grasped again; but rarely found
That lost half once loved so.”

Now, right or wrong, or false or true,
'Tis Plato's tale of bitter sweet;
But I know well and well know you
The quest keeps on at fever heat.
Let Love, then, wisely sit and wait!
The world is round; sit by the gate,
Like blind Belisarius: being blind,
Love should not search; Love shall not find
By searching. Brass is so like gold,
How shall this blind Love know new brass
From pure soft gold of old?

231

WELCOME TO THE GREAT AMERICAN OCEAN

Aloha! Wahwah! Quelle raison?
Ship ahoy! What sails are these?
What tuneful Orpheus, what Jason
Courts Colchis and her Golden Fleece?
For never since the oak-keeled Argo
Such sweet chords, such kingly cargo.

Never since the mad Magellan
Dared the Philippines and died,
Did these boundless billows swell in
Such surprised and saucy pride.
Are they laughing, chaffing at you?
Waiting but to bang and bat you?

Doughty Vikings, dauntless Norsemen,
White-maned stallions plunge and fret;
Ride them, ride them, daring horsemen,
Ride or perish in ........ the wet!
Galleons, doubloons galore
Paved of old this proud sea floor!

Carabellos, caballeros!
Where your boasted Totus Munda?
Chile carne con tamales. ...
And the bull-fight of a Sunday!

232

That is all there is to say
Of all your yesterdays, to-day.

Heed my heroes, heed the story;
Gone the argent galleon;
Gone the gold and gone the glory,
Gone the gaudy, haughty Don.
His sword, his pride, sleep side by side,
Nor reck, at all, yond ebb or tide.

Ye who buckle on bright armor,
Read and heed nor boast at all
Till ye have worn it warm and warmer,
Fronting pride that runs to fall.
And heed, my heroes, where away
We all, a span of years today?

But welcome, walls of flame and thunder,
Isles of steel and miles of launches!
Welcome to these seas of wonder,
Men of war with olive branches;
Welcome to dear Crusoe's seas,
These sundown seas, this sun-born breeze.

Welcome to the oldest, newest!
Here God's spirit moved upon
The waters, these the broadest, bluest,
Ere that sudden burst of dawn
Dividing day from primal night,
When He said, “Let there be light.”

But, beware the wild tornadoes!
Entre nous, they are terrific!
Scout that dago's gay bravados!
Cut that silly name, Pacific!

233

Balboa, wading to his knees,
Cried: “Lo, the calm, pacific seas!”

Straightway Cortez hewed his head off!
Nay, blame not, accuse nor cavil.
Spite of all that has been said of
He should have hewed it to the navel;
Aye, cut his neck off to his knees,
For naming these “Pacific Seas!”

Pacific? No, American!
Her go, her get there, gown or gun!
Her British, “Get, and keep who can,”
All places, races, rolled in one.
Pacific Ocean? Mild of motion?
Never such a silly notion!

So, beware the sometimes tidal
Wave Tahitian, where bananas
Bathe; where fig-leafed parties bridal
Dine in tree-tops on mananas!
Samoa's typhoons, too, beware—
Her mermaids combing kinky hair.

Aye, tidals, typhoons, 'clones beware!
But when you touch sea-set Nippon,
Where lift three thousand isles mid-air,
And each an Eden dear as dawn,
With dimpled Eves and dainty elves—
Why, then beware your bloomin' selves.

A letter from Rio says there are more fiddles than guns on some of the great battleships, and that music is more in evidence than munitions of war. Amen! Amen! And may they all be as melodious and happy as Orpheus and Argus, although it is said Orpheus went to hell later on, soon after Jason's quest for the yellow wool.

234

TWO WISE OLD MEN OF OMAR'S LAND

The world lay as a dream of love,
Lay drowned in beauty , drowsed in peace,
Lay filled with plenty, fat-increase,
Lay low- voiced as a wooing dove.
And yet, poor, blind man was not glad,
But to and fro, contentious, mad,
Rebellious, restless, hard he sought
And sought and sought—he scarce knew what.

The Persian monarch shook his head,
Slow twirled his twisted, raven beard,
As one who doubted, questioned, feared.
Then called his poet up and said:
“What aileth man, blind man, that he,
Stiff-necked and selfish, will not see
Yon gorgeous glories overhead,
These flowers climbing to the knee,
As climb sweet babes that loving cling
To hear a song?—Go forth and sing!”

The poet passed. He sang all day,
Sang all the year, sang many years;
He sang in joy, he sang in tears,
By desert way or watered way,
Yet all his singing was in vain.
Man would not list, man would not heed
Save but for lust and selfish greed
And selfish glory and hard gain.

And so at last the poet sang
In biting hunger and hard pain
No more, but tattered, bent and gray,
He hanged his harp and let it hang

235

Where keen winds walked with wintry rain,
High on a willow by the way,
The while he sought his king to cry
His failure forth and reason why.

The old king pulled his thin white beard,
Slow sipped his sherbet nervously,
Peered right and left, suspicious peered,
Thrummed with a foot as one who feared,
Then fixed his crown on close; then he
Clutched tight the wide arm of his throne,
And sat all sullen, sad and lone.

At last he savagely caught up
And drained, deep drained, his jeweled cup;
Then fierce he bade his poet say,
And briefly say, what of the day?
The trembling poet felt his head,
He felt his thin neck chokingly.
“Oh, king, this world is good to see!
Oh, king, this world is beautiful!”
The king's thin beard was white as wool,
The while he plucked it terribly,
Then suddenly and savage said:
“Cut that! cut that! or lose your head!”

The poet's knees smote knee to knee,
The poet's face was pitiful.
“Have mercy, king! hear me, hear me!
This gorgeous world is beautiful,
This beauteous world is good to see;
But man, poor man, he has not time
To see one thing at all, save one—”

236

“Haste, haste, dull poet, and have done
With all such feeble, foolish rime!
No time? Bah! man, no bit of time
To see but one thing? Well, that one?”
“That one, oh, king, that one fair thing
Of all fair things on earth to see,
Oh, king, oh, wise and mighty king,
That takes man's time continually,
That takes man's time and drinks it up
As you have drained your jeweled cup—
Is woman, woman, wilful, fair—
Just woman, woman, everywhere!”

The king scarce knew what next to do;
He did not like that ugly truth;
For, far back in his sunny youth,
He, too, had loved a goodly few.
He punched a button, punched it twice,
Then as he wiped his beard he said:
“Oh, threadbare bard of foolish rime,
If man looks all his time at her,
Sees naught but her, pray tell me, sir,
Why, how does woman spend her time?”

The singer is a simple bird,
The simplest ever seen or heard.
It will not lie, it knows no thing
Save but to sing and truly sing.
The poet reached his neck, his head,
As if to lay it on the shelf
And quit the hard and hapless trade
Of simple truth and homely rime
That brought him neither peace nor pelf;
Then with his last, faint gasp he said:
“Why, woman, woman, matron, maid,

237

She puts in all her precious time
In looking, looking at herself!”

A silence then was heard to fall
So hard it broke into a grin!
The old king thought a space and thought
Of when her face was all in all—
When love was scarce a wasteful sin,
And even kingdoms were as naught.
At last he laughed, and in a trice
He banged the button, banged it thrice,
Then clutched his poet's hand and then
These two white-bearded, wise old men
They sat that throne and chinned and chinned,
And grinned, they did, and grinned and grinned!

The dower of song is, to my mind, a sacred gift. The prophet and the seer should rise above the levities of this life. And so it is that I make humble apology for now gathering up from recitation books these next half dozen pieces. The only excuse for doing it is their refusal to die; even under the mutilations of the compilers of “choice selections.”