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

Rank, wild oats, waving in wild strength—
The lion's tawny mane and length!
Rank Artemesia, odorous
And gray with bald antiquity—
The rough arroyo swallowed us
As we rode down by two, by three,
The braying ass, the neighing stud—
And now the mesa, broad and free;
Tall cacti blooms, as tipt with blood:
And here a burning bush, and there
The red night-blooming cereus
Kneeled low, as if saluting us—
Kneeled as some red-robed monk at prayer,
High up the gleaming steeps of snow
Of Zacatecas, Mexico.

To left such green wood, and such green!
To right brown mesa, bald and bare:
But where we rode, the two between—
Such crimson, crimson everywhere!

Aye, earth was gaily garmented;
The great, green robe spread far away,
So far no man would dare to say,
And this great, green robe fringed with red,
Lay trackless, lifeless as the dead.
The yellow lion's skin behind,
The wild oats waving in the wind;
But that dense, silent wold of death
Drew not a breath, knew not a breath!

II

From Oro Yarè toward the sea
Slow rounding down the river's source,
Red men, brown men, foot, cavalry,
We marched, a mottled, maniac force—
We rode so close to this dense wood,
So somber, silent, deep and lorn,
That when at last we slow drew rein
The heat was as a choking pain.
The chief stood in his stirrups; stood
With set lips lifted up in scorn
To thus be baffled by a wood
And looked and looked that sultry morn:
The while our allies looked away
As if in dread to say or stay.

Far, far afield from out the night
Of silent blackness burst a cone
Of comely fashion, marble white,
And lone as God, as white and lone
As God upon the great white throne.

He beck'd some brown men, bade them say:
Then slow, a sandaled, nude old man,

As if not daring to say nay
Began, fast pointing far away—
Then two, then three, then all began.

III

Such stories as our allies said
Of such strange people meshed and hid
That drear, deep wilderness amid—
Their very name they spoke with dread!
They were not white men, brown men, red,
Not Spanish blood, not native blood,
Not Toltec, Aztec, but a race
Of cruel men who claimed to trace
Their fathers back beyond the flood—
Beyond the time when they alone
Took refuge on their rock-ribb'd cone.

Such stories as our allies told
Of gold, of river-beds of gold
Far in that lost land's wood-walled heart
That lay below the comely cone
As made our filibusters start
And think of this and this alone:
The while the silent chief looked down
Upon their zeal with sullen frown.

Such stories of red gold at morn
When savage rivers, sudden born
Of thunder, had swept on and on—
Such seams of gold that lay upon
White beds of quartz, bright as the sun
When night and sudden storm were done:
Free gold for all who deemed it fit
To stoop, take up and husband it.

Such stories as our allies told
Or armlets, wristlets, wrought in gold
So massive that the arms grew long
And sinewy and over strong
For battle from the very weight
Of gold; of gold-wrought arrowheads,
Of gold in shallow brooklet beds
As plentiful as yellow corn
Sown ere the blackbirds swoop at morn
To storm the thrifty farmer's gate:

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!

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:

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.

V

You ask me what my chieftain said?
He rarely said, he simply did.
Dismounting where the lame feet led,
Shut in as shuts a coffin lid,
He chose his choicest at a sign
And silent led right on and on;
Right on all day, right on all night,
And not one foot set left or right,
And not one faltered yea or nay
Or turned his head to see or say
Until, at sudden burst of dawn,
A smell of water was and then
That ugly, growling, bulldog drum!
It turned the very leaves one side
The while it howled, “They come! They come!”

VI

And they, too, came, came as a blast
Of twisting March winds, gust on gust,
Whirl red leaves, dead leaves, ashes, dust—
A cyclone scarce could sweep so fast.
Scant time to choose a friendly tree,
Scarce time to drop a bended knee,
To catch quick carbine to its place
And fall hard fighting, face to face.

Was ever such hot place of death!
Scarce room was there to draw full breath:
Red vines climbed up, green boughs hung down,
Red-pepsin, green-leaved rubber-tree,
Black banyan in black density!
I dared a precious second's pause
To choose my tree: I chose because
Great ivy vines climbed high, climbed higher
All crimson to its very crown—
Elijah's chariot of fire!

VII

Such tangle, jungle, who could stand?
Such jungle, tangle, who could see?
What need, indeed, to see when we
Fell instant fighting, hand to hand?
Long bamboo lances searched us out,
Short javelins, with points of glass,
Great arrowheads of gold, like hail!
Ah! it had been a sorry rout
Had each not held his narrow pass—
With not one left to tell the tale.

They fought in herd, they fell in heap,
Rushed here, rushed there, like silly sheep,
And met behind each blazing tree
A double-barreled battery,
A dozen deadly, leaden shot,
Till suddenly the rush and din
Of arrow, spear, lance, javelin,
And all that frenzied host was not.

VIII

And yet, what scores could not retreat!
'Twas pitiful! Spare me the pain,
The hard, sad detail of the slain,
The brave dead clutching to the loam
As if to hold their ancient home
Forever back from stranger feet!

IX

He dashed right on, but bade me stay;
No time for parley or delay;
He called his every man to come—
As ever, he was still the first—
His men were dying, dead of thirst:
And then to drive the vantage home!

X

A little time, then such a shout!
I knew the men then drank their fill,
I felt their feasting, do not doubt,
I smelled ripe plantains, rind of red
And cored like unto yellow cream;
I saw bananas bank the stream,

Ripe mangoes hanging overhead—
So dead with hunger, thirst! I seem
To see them, breathe them, taste them still:
To see men feasting to their fill,
One hand the gun, red fruit in one,
The swift, sweet water at their feet:
And I shall see, shall feel them eat
And drink and drink till life is done.

I heard a cautious low-bird call.
He came, and with him came just one:
Canteen, machete, ripe mangoes, gun,
And I must eat, drink, share with all.

XI

Just then a child, her sweet face red
With blood, crept from a heap of dead.
I leaned down, drew her to my knee,
Bathed her sweet face, then hurriedly
To where a dying comrade lay
Beside his war-torn battle tree;
And lo! the poor girl followed me
And tried to help, to soothe, to say.

The chief had chased the frenzied throng
On o'er the stream a short half mile;
Had watched it melt into the isle
And then, as if ten thousand strong
Stood at his back in bold guard line,
Had placed his every man, save one—
Then up and down, machete and gun,
They paced and passed the countersign,

And laughed their city, Chantalè,
Laughed gold-strewn, gory Chantalè
Dim seen through copse of banyan tree.

And light of step, as jaunty, gay
As on some happy holiday
They stepped with head high in the air,
And sang, sang loud and saucily.
And now and then a shot rang out
At interval of song and shout
Tow'rd gold-strewn, gory Chantalè
And tore through island vine and tree.

XII

Gods! what a dauntless, daring sight!
Why, these strange men had fought all day!
Why, these strong men had marched all night;
Why, they had scarcely ate or slept,
Yet still with saucy pride they stept
And still each step was spank and gay.

XIII

Dusk came, such solemn, stately dusk!
Black clouds blocked up a sky of red,
The hot wood had a smell of musk—
Of dying roses for the dead.

Then lightning was, and thunder low,
Low rumbling lion-like and slow,
Then that dread drum began to beat
A bow-shot front us mid the isle!
Why, they had made a mad retreat—
Were they not marshaling meanwhile?

XIV

That bull-dog drum was like a chill;
It made night monstrous; men stood still
And looked their brave chief in the face.
Why, had God filled the fiery skies
With thunder, lightning, had He filled
The earth with every fighting race
That knows the ugly trade of death
And asked their lives in sacrifice
These men had scarcely cared a breath,
Yet now they stood unnerved and chilled.

Would it but miss a single note,
Pause but to take a single breath,
As any bull-dog's breath is drawn,
'Twere not so worse to bear than death!
But no, that belching, bull-dog throat
Belched on, belched on, right on and on.

XV

He saw their dread then slowly said
“How many? and when will they come?”
“Pass me the guard line, chief,” I said,
“Pass me the guard and you shall know
What says, what means that chilling drum:
Night gathers, and the ghostly dead
Are not more noiseless where they go
Than I shall go, go, come again;
Or, silent, join the happier slain.”

XVI

He wrote, wrote calmly; they must feel
His confidence, his nerve of steel,
His sure possession to the last.
I thrust the thin script down my boot,
Stept back, stood firm, made slow salute,
Turned on my heel and hastened past.

XVII

The dappled sky now darkened till
The moon came out, and then was gone,
And all was black and wild and wide.
I should have lost my way and died
Had not that drum beat on and on.
The warm wave swept above my waist;
I pushed right on in eager haste.
I felt a light touch suddenly,
Looked down in dread and lo! 'twas she.

And how could she have passed the line?
And why? I thought her surely crazed;
Or, may be, sadly hurt and dazed,
And took her little hand in mine.
I led her up the shallow sand
Against the somber, wooded land
To where the mango, tamarind
And black, wide-rooted banyan tree
Reached out to ward and welcome me.

I was so worn, so weak and worn
My dripping hands hung down as lead.
I could not lift my sinking head;
I heard the widowed mothers mourn,

Still heard that hoarse dog bark and beat
And knew they would not now retreat.

XVIII

And yet I could not lift a hand,
But drooped and sank upon the sand.
I tried, I tried, I could not rise,
I could not open my dull eyes.
And all the time that dog kept on,
A dog that never would be gone!

It made me sleep, it made me dream—
That drum seemed some deep orchestra
Where I could see sweet players play,
Low-voiced; then sudden all did seem
A coarse and cruel tragedy.
Red lightning lit the ample stage;
Black thunder thrust italics through
The bloody text, then in his rage,
As if not knowing what to do,
Turned back and hewed with such mad stroke
My mighty trees that I awoke.

How I had slept! just clay and clod.
For all the living, all the dead,
The might, the majesty of God,
The hideous, haunting death, the dread—
I could but hear that monodin,
That monster alligator skin
Right on, right on, dog-like and deep,
And sleep right on, and sleep and sleep!

I thrust, thrust hard out either hand:
All still, all chill! I was alone!

And she had sold me, my command!
At sun the sacrificial stone;
And then no more that horrid drum—
Why had she gone? where had she gone?
I tried to hope she yet might come—
The while that drum beat on and on!

A finger to her lip, then sand
She plucked and let it sift and run
And pointed sunward, ere the sun!
So many? and they come so soon?
The sky was spotted, rain and moon,
But with the first cloud we were gone;
The while that bull-dog barked right on!

He, waiting, leaned and caught her hand,
She stooped, took up, let fall the sand
Then pointed sunward, ere the sun—
A sign, and that brave, worn, guard line,
Swift, single file, still as the dead,
They passed with mournful, martial tread,
Paced back that midnight track again,
A piteous line of blood and pain:
Yet not one man there to repine,
Not one impatient word, not one.

XIX

He paused, the last man to retreat,
When all had silent passed the dead,
He stood with bowed, uncovered head,
Devoutest hero of defeat.
And then he turned, hat still in hand,
And bowed before her, low, so low
He almost touched her sandaled feet,

And gently beckoned she should go:
She stirred not and he spake command.

I had not known she was so tall,
Knew not that she was nobly born
Until I saw her black eyes burn
And instant take command of all
In that long, sudden, sad return,
So silent, drooping and forlorn.

She beckoned him and he obeyed,
Kneeled only as brave men can kneel,
Up rose; and then the clank of steel,
The eager clutching of a blade—
And then the sullen tread and tread:
That baying dog behind—the dead!

XX

She stripped the gold hoops from each hand
From wrists, from arms and nothing said,
But laid them gently by the dead:
Then beckoned quiet, quick command.

“Pass on, on, on, at any cost,
Not one brief moment to be lost!”
Then on, on, on, fast and more fast,
And she, alone, the very last,
Until, just at the break of day—
Were ever bugle notes so clear?
Was ever dinner-horn so dear?
We heard, we heard our horses neigh!