 | Joaquin, et al. |  |
79
II.
‘It may be where white moonbeams kneel
At night beside some rugged steep;
It may be where mad breakers reel,
Or mild waves cradle men to sleep;
It might have been in peaceful life,
Or mad tumult and storm and strife,
I drew my breath; it matters not.
A silvered head, an humble cot,
A peaceful stream, a balmy clime,
A cloudless sky, a sister's smile,
A mother's love, a church-bells' chime
Are mine—are with me all the while—
Are hung on memory's sounding halls—
Are graven on her glowing walls;
But rage, nor rack, nor wrath of man,
Nor prayer of priest, nor price, nor ban,
Can wring from me their place or name,
Or whence they went, or whence I came.
At night beside some rugged steep;
It may be where mad breakers reel,
Or mild waves cradle men to sleep;
It might have been in peaceful life,
Or mad tumult and storm and strife,
I drew my breath; it matters not.
A silvered head, an humble cot,
A peaceful stream, a balmy clime,
A cloudless sky, a sister's smile,
A mother's love, a church-bells' chime
Are mine—are with me all the while—
Are hung on memory's sounding halls—
Are graven on her glowing walls;
But rage, nor rack, nor wrath of man,
Nor prayer of priest, nor price, nor ban,
Can wring from me their place or name,
Or whence they went, or whence I came.
‘Out in the autumn world a waif,
Drifting away like a wayward leaf;
A girlish form and a childish face—
A dead leaf drifting from place to place.
‘Where mountains repose in their blueness—
Where the sun first lands in his newness,
To gather his beams and his lances
Ere down to the vale he advances
With vizor erect, and encounters—
The terrible night in his way,
And slays him, and out of his blackness
Hews out the beautiful day
With his flashing sword of silver,
Dwelt I—and dwelt another—
Another?—not myself!—perchance a brother?
Say, is not life twain?
Didst never think of yourself as one
You knew in the dim days agone?
Drifting away like a wayward leaf;
A girlish form and a childish face—
A dead leaf drifting from place to place.
80
Where the sun first lands in his newness,
To gather his beams and his lances
Ere down to the vale he advances
With vizor erect, and encounters—
The terrible night in his way,
And slays him, and out of his blackness
Hews out the beautiful day
With his flashing sword of silver,
Dwelt I—and dwelt another—
Another?—not myself!—perchance a brother?
Say, is not life twain?
Didst never think of yourself as one
You knew in the dim days agone?
‘O for the skies of rolling blue!
For the face as fair as hers you woo!
For the voice like the call of the cockatoo
In vespers calling the soul to bliss,
In the blessèd love of the world above,
Ere it has taken the stains of this.
For the face as fair as hers you woo!
For the voice like the call of the cockatoo
In vespers calling the soul to bliss,
In the blessèd love of the world above,
Ere it has taken the stains of this.
‘Sweet melodies were in the air,
And tame birds carolled everywhere.
I listened to the lisping grove
And cooing pink-eyed turtle-dove.
And, loving with the holiest love—
Believing with a grand belief
That everything beneath the skies
Was beautiful and born to love—
That man had but to love—believe—
And earth would be a Paradise,
As beautiful as that above;
My goddess, Beauty, I adored,
Devoutly—fervid—her alone,
My priestess. Love, unceasing poured
Pure incense on her altar-stone.
And tame birds carolled everywhere.
I listened to the lisping grove
And cooing pink-eyed turtle-dove.
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Believing with a grand belief
That everything beneath the skies
Was beautiful and born to love—
That man had but to love—believe—
And earth would be a Paradise,
As beautiful as that above;
My goddess, Beauty, I adored,
Devoutly—fervid—her alone,
My priestess. Love, unceasing poured
Pure incense on her altar-stone.
‘With rays of the red rising sun
I pinned the clouds back from the sky,
And stood like holy priest or nun
With curtains parted left and right—
Before the sacred cross and light—
And lifting my two hands on high
Would call to voices in the air;
Then shade my eyes and shout replies
To holy spirits calling there.
And then again, in tamer mood,
With bended knee and temples bare,
Would look and listen as I stood,
With bowed and reverential air,
As if to some sweet sister's prayer.
The while the world went sternly on,
The dusty-booted passer-by,
With blankets on his broad gray back,
And face behind a masque of beard,
Looked back, nor heard another cry
Than shoutings of a dreaming boy—
Seen nought else but the dappled sky;
Then onward bent his weary track
And thought of ounces, slugs, and leads—
And thought of Maud, and Kate, and May,—
Their mother fair and far away—
And raised his coarse sleeve to his eye.
I pinned the clouds back from the sky,
And stood like holy priest or nun
With curtains parted left and right—
Before the sacred cross and light—
And lifting my two hands on high
Would call to voices in the air;
Then shade my eyes and shout replies
To holy spirits calling there.
And then again, in tamer mood,
With bended knee and temples bare,
Would look and listen as I stood,
With bowed and reverential air,
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The while the world went sternly on,
The dusty-booted passer-by,
With blankets on his broad gray back,
And face behind a masque of beard,
Looked back, nor heard another cry
Than shoutings of a dreaming boy—
Seen nought else but the dappled sky;
Then onward bent his weary track
And thought of ounces, slugs, and leads—
And thought of Maud, and Kate, and May,—
Their mother fair and far away—
And raised his coarse sleeve to his eye.
‘And deep down in the cannon's mouth
The long-tom ran and pick-axe rang,
And stringing round the mountain high
Were pack-trains coming from the south
In long gray lines like wild geese fly.
While muleteers shouted hoarse and high,
And dusty, dusky muleteers sang—
Señora with the liquid eye!
No floods can ever quench the flame,
Or Sierra's snow my passion tame,
O Jouana with the coal-black eye!
O señorita, bide a bye!
The long-tom ran and pick-axe rang,
And stringing round the mountain high
Were pack-trains coming from the south
In long gray lines like wild geese fly.
While muleteers shouted hoarse and high,
And dusty, dusky muleteers sang—
Señora with the liquid eye!
No floods can ever quench the flame,
Or Sierra's snow my passion tame,
O Jouana with the coal-black eye!
O señorita, bide a bye!
| Joaquin, et al. | |