 | Joaquin, et al. |  |
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JOAQUIN.
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Shadows that shroud the to-morrow—
Glists from the life that's within—
Traces of pain and of sorrow.
And maybe a trace of sin—
Reachings for God in the darkness,
And for—what should have been.
Glists from the life that's within—
Traces of pain and of sorrow.
And maybe a trace of sin—
Reachings for God in the darkness,
And for—what should have been.
Stains from the gall and the wormwood—
Dead Sea apples and myrrh—
Ghost of a soul by a nearthstone—
Blotches of heart's blood here,
But never the sound of a wailing—
Never the sign of a tear.
Dead Sea apples and myrrh—
Ghost of a soul by a nearthstone—
Blotches of heart's blood here,
But never the sound of a wailing—
Never the sign of a tear.
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[I.]
Glintings of day in a darkness—
Flashings of flint and of steel—
Blended in gossamer texture,
The ideal and the real,
Limn'd like the phantom-ship-shadow,
Crowding up under the keel.
Flashings of flint and of steel—
Blended in gossamer texture,
The ideal and the real,
Limn'd like the phantom-ship-shadow,
Crowding up under the keel.
I stand beside the mobile sea,
And sails are spread and sails are furled,
And ships go up and ships go down
In haste, like traders in a town,
And seem to see and beckon all.
Afar I see a white shape flee
With arms outstretched like ghost's to me,
Then slides down to the under-world.
Black masts—as if a winter's wind
Had shorn them bare of leaf and limb—
Are rising from the restless sea
So still and desolate and tall,
I almost see them gleam and shine
From clinging drops of dripping brine.
Broad still brown wings slide here and there,
Thin sea-blue wings wheel everywhere,
And white wings whistle through the air.
I hear a thousand sea-gulls call.
And sails are spread and sails are furled,
And ships go up and ships go down
In haste, like traders in a town,
And seem to see and beckon all.
Afar I see a white shape flee
With arms outstretched like ghost's to me,
Then slides down to the under-world.
Black masts—as if a winter's wind
Had shorn them bare of leaf and limb—
Are rising from the restless sea
So still and desolate and tall,
I almost see them gleam and shine
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Broad still brown wings slide here and there,
Thin sea-blue wings wheel everywhere,
And white wings whistle through the air.
I hear a thousand sea-gulls call.
Behold the Ocean on the beach
Kneel lowly down as if in prayer.
I hear a moan as of despair,
While far at sea do toss, and reach
Somethings so like white pleading hands.
The Ocean's thin and hoary hair
Is trailed along the rolling sands,
At every sigh and sounding moan.
'Tis not a place for mirthfulness,
But meditation deep, and prayer,
And kneelings on the salted sod,
Where man must own his littleness
And know the mightiness of God.
The very birds shriek in distress
And sound the Ocean's monotone.
Kneel lowly down as if in prayer.
I hear a moan as of despair,
While far at sea do toss, and reach
Somethings so like white pleading hands.
The Ocean's thin and hoary hair
Is trailed along the rolling sands,
At every sigh and sounding moan.
'Tis not a place for mirthfulness,
But meditation deep, and prayer,
And kneelings on the salted sod,
Where man must own his littleness
And know the mightiness of God.
The very birds shriek in distress
And sound the Ocean's monotone.
Dared I but say a prophecy,
As sang the holy men of old,
Of rock-built cities yet to be
Along these rolling sands of gold,
Crowding athirst into the sea,
What wondrous marvels might be told.
Enough, to know that empire here
Shall burn her loftiest, brightest star.
Here art and eloquence shall reign,
As o'er the wolf-reared realm of old;
Here learned and famous from afar
To pay their noble court shall come,
And shall not seek or see in vain,
But look on all with wonder dumb.
As sang the holy men of old,
Of rock-built cities yet to be
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Crowding athirst into the sea,
What wondrous marvels might be told.
Enough, to know that empire here
Shall burn her loftiest, brightest star.
Here art and eloquence shall reign,
As o'er the wolf-reared realm of old;
Here learned and famous from afar
To pay their noble court shall come,
And shall not seek or see in vain,
But look on all with wonder dumb.
Afar the gleaming Sierras lie
Against a ground of bluest sky.
A long bent line of stainless white,
As if Diana's maid last night
Had in the liquid soft moonlight
Washed out her mistress' garments bright,
And on yon bent and swaying line
Hung all her linen out to dry.
Against a ground of bluest sky.
A long bent line of stainless white,
As if Diana's maid last night
Had in the liquid soft moonlight
Washed out her mistress' garments bright,
And on yon bent and swaying line
Hung all her linen out to dry.
I look along each gaping gorge—
I hear a thousand sounding strokes
Like brawny Vulcan at his forge,
Or giants rending giant oaks.
I see pick-axes flash and shine
And great wheels whirling in a mine.
Here winds a thick and yellow thread,
A mossed and silver stream instead;
And trout that leaped its rippled tide
Have turned upon their sides and died.
Lo! when the last pick in the mine
Is rusting red with idleness,
And rot yon cabins in the mold,
And wheels no more croak in distress,
And tall pines re-assert command,
Sweet bards along this sunset shore
Their mellow melodies will pour—
Will charm as charmers very wise—
Will strike the harp with master hand—
Will sound unto the vaulted skies
The valour of these men of old—
The mighty men of 'Forty-Nine—
Will sweetly sing and proudly say,
Long, long agone there was a day
When there were giants in the land.
I hear a thousand sounding strokes
Like brawny Vulcan at his forge,
Or giants rending giant oaks.
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And great wheels whirling in a mine.
Here winds a thick and yellow thread,
A mossed and silver stream instead;
And trout that leaped its rippled tide
Have turned upon their sides and died.
Lo! when the last pick in the mine
Is rusting red with idleness,
And rot yon cabins in the mold,
And wheels no more croak in distress,
And tall pines re-assert command,
Sweet bards along this sunset shore
Their mellow melodies will pour—
Will charm as charmers very wise—
Will strike the harp with master hand—
Will sound unto the vaulted skies
The valour of these men of old—
The mighty men of 'Forty-Nine—
Will sweetly sing and proudly say,
Long, long agone there was a day
When there were giants in the land.
II.
What rider rushes on the sight
Adown yon rocky long defile
Swift as an eagle in his flight—
Fierce as a winter's storm at night—
In terror born on Sierra's height,
Careening down some yawning gorge?
His face is flushed, his eye is wild,
And 'neath his courser's sounding feet—
A glance could barely be more fleet—
The rocks are flashing like a forge.
Such reckless rider! I do ween
No mortal man his like has seen.
And yet, but for his long serape
All flowing loose and black as crape,
And long silk locks of blackest hair
All streaming wildly in the breeze,
You might believe him in a chair,
Or chatting at some country Fair
With friend or senorita fair,
He rides so grandly at his ease.
Adown yon rocky long defile
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Fierce as a winter's storm at night—
In terror born on Sierra's height,
Careening down some yawning gorge?
His face is flushed, his eye is wild,
And 'neath his courser's sounding feet—
A glance could barely be more fleet—
The rocks are flashing like a forge.
Such reckless rider! I do ween
No mortal man his like has seen.
And yet, but for his long serape
All flowing loose and black as crape,
And long silk locks of blackest hair
All streaming wildly in the breeze,
You might believe him in a chair,
Or chatting at some country Fair
With friend or senorita fair,
He rides so grandly at his ease.
But now he grasps a tighter rein—
A red rein wrought in golden chain—
And in his heavy stirrup stands—
Half turns and shakes a bloody hand
And hurls imaginary blows
And shouts defiance at his foes—
Now lifts his broad hat from his brow
As if to challenge fate, and now
His hand drops to his saddle-bow
And clutches something gleaming there
As if to something more than dare—
While checks the foe as quick as though
His own hand rested on each rein.
The stray winds lift the raven curls—
Soft as a fair Castilian girl's—
And press a brow so full and high,
Its every feature does belie
The thought, he is compelled to fly.
A brow as open as the sky,
On which you gaze and gaze again
As on a picture you have seen
That seems to hold a tale of woe—
Or wonder—you would seek to know.
A brow cut deep, as with a knife,
With many a dubious deed in life;
A brow of blended pride and pain,
And yearnings for what should have been.
A red rein wrought in golden chain—
And in his heavy stirrup stands—
Half turns and shakes a bloody hand
And hurls imaginary blows
And shouts defiance at his foes—
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As if to challenge fate, and now
His hand drops to his saddle-bow
And clutches something gleaming there
As if to something more than dare—
While checks the foe as quick as though
His own hand rested on each rein.
The stray winds lift the raven curls—
Soft as a fair Castilian girl's—
And press a brow so full and high,
Its every feature does belie
The thought, he is compelled to fly.
A brow as open as the sky,
On which you gaze and gaze again
As on a picture you have seen
That seems to hold a tale of woe—
Or wonder—you would seek to know.
A brow cut deep, as with a knife,
With many a dubious deed in life;
A brow of blended pride and pain,
And yearnings for what should have been.
He grasps his gilded gory rein,
And wheeling like a hurricane,
Defying flood, or stone, or wood,
Is dashing down the gorge again.
O never yet has prouder steed
Borne master nobler in his need.
There is a glory in his eye
That seems to dare, and to defy
Pursuit, or time, or space, or race.
His body is the type of speed,
While from his nostril to his heel
Are muscles as if made of steel.
He is not black, nor gray, nor white,
But 'neath that broad serape of night,
And locks of darkness streaming o'er,
His sleek sides seem a fiery red,
Though maybe red with gore.
What crimes have made that red hand red?
What wrongs have written that young face
With lines of thought so out of place?
Where flies he? And from where has fled?
And what his lineage and race?
What glitters in his heavy belt
And from his furred catenas gleam?
What on his bosom that doth seem
A diamond bright or dagger's hilt?
The iron hoofs that still resound
Like thunder from the yielding ground
Alone reply; and now the plain,
Quick as you breathe and gaze again,
Is won. Pursuit is baffled and in vain.
And wheeling like a hurricane,
Defying flood, or stone, or wood,
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O never yet has prouder steed
Borne master nobler in his need.
There is a glory in his eye
That seems to dare, and to defy
Pursuit, or time, or space, or race.
His body is the type of speed,
While from his nostril to his heel
Are muscles as if made of steel.
He is not black, nor gray, nor white,
But 'neath that broad serape of night,
And locks of darkness streaming o'er,
His sleek sides seem a fiery red,
Though maybe red with gore.
What crimes have made that red hand red?
What wrongs have written that young face
With lines of thought so out of place?
Where flies he? And from where has fled?
And what his lineage and race?
What glitters in his heavy belt
And from his furred catenas gleam?
What on his bosom that doth seem
A diamond bright or dagger's hilt?
The iron hoofs that still resound
Like thunder from the yielding ground
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Quick as you breathe and gaze again,
Is won. Pursuit is baffled and in vain.
III.
I stand upon a stony rim.
A rock-lipped cannon plunging south
Yawns deep and darkling at my feet,
So deep, so distant and so dim
Its recess winds, a yellow thread,
And calls so faintly and so far,
I turn aside my swooning head
As from a mighty yawning mouth
Of earth that opens into hell.
I feel a fierce impulse to leap
Adown the beetling precipice
Like some lone, lost, uncertain star—
To plunge into a place unknown
And win a world all, all my own;
Or if I might not meet such bliss,
At least escape the curse of this
A rock-lipped cannon plunging south
Yawns deep and darkling at my feet,
So deep, so distant and so dim
Its recess winds, a yellow thread,
And calls so faintly and so far,
I turn aside my swooning head
As from a mighty yawning mouth
Of earth that opens into hell.
I feel a fierce impulse to leap
Adown the beetling precipice
Like some lone, lost, uncertain star—
To plunge into a place unknown
And win a world all, all my own;
Or if I might not meet such bliss,
At least escape the curse of this
I gaze again. A gleaming star
Shines back as from some mossy well
Reflected from blue fields afar.
Brown hawks are wheeling here and there,
And up and down the broken wall
Cling clumps of dark green chaparral.
While from the rent rocks, gray and bare,
Blue junipers hang in the air.
Then crowding to the yellow stream,
Low cabins nestle as in fear
Among the boulders mossed and brown
That time and storms have tumbled down
From towers undefiled by man,
And look no taller than a span.
From low and shapeless chimneys rise
Some tall straight columns of blue smoke,
And weld them to the bluer skies;
While sounding down the silent gorge,
I hear the steady pick-axe stroke,
As if upon a flashing forge.
Shines back as from some mossy well
Reflected from blue fields afar.
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And up and down the broken wall
Cling clumps of dark green chaparral.
While from the rent rocks, gray and bare,
Blue junipers hang in the air.
Then crowding to the yellow stream,
Low cabins nestle as in fear
Among the boulders mossed and brown
That time and storms have tumbled down
From towers undefiled by man,
And look no taller than a span.
From low and shapeless chimneys rise
Some tall straight columns of blue smoke,
And weld them to the bluer skies;
While sounding down the silent gorge,
I hear the steady pick-axe stroke,
As if upon a flashing forge.
Another scene, another sound.
Sharp shots are fretting through the air,
Red knives are flashing everywhere,
And here and there the yellow flood
Is purpled with warm smoking blood.
The brown hawk swoops low to the ground,
And nimble chip-munks, small and still,
Dart striped lines across the sill
That lordly feet shall press no more.
The flume lies warping in the sun,
The pan sits empty by the door,
The pick-axe on its bed-rock floor
Lies rusting in the silent mine.
There comes no single sound or sign
Of life, besides yon munks in brown
That dart their dim shapes up and down
The rocks that swelter in the sun;
But darting round yon rocky spur
Where scarce a hawk would dare to whir,
Fly horsemen reckless in their flight.
One wears a flowing black capote,
While down the cape doth flow and float
Long locks of hair as dark as night,
And hands are red that erst were white.
Sharp shots are fretting through the air,
Red knives are flashing everywhere,
And here and there the yellow flood
Is purpled with warm smoking blood.
The brown hawk swoops low to the ground,
And nimble chip-munks, small and still,
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That lordly feet shall press no more.
The flume lies warping in the sun,
The pan sits empty by the door,
The pick-axe on its bed-rock floor
Lies rusting in the silent mine.
There comes no single sound or sign
Of life, besides yon munks in brown
That dart their dim shapes up and down
The rocks that swelter in the sun;
But darting round yon rocky spur
Where scarce a hawk would dare to whir,
Fly horsemen reckless in their flight.
One wears a flowing black capote,
While down the cape doth flow and float
Long locks of hair as dark as night,
And hands are red that erst were white.
I look along the valley's edge,
Where curves the white road like a surge
Along a sea of sage, and hedge
Of black and brittle chaparral,
And enters like an iron wedge
Drove deep into yon rocky gorge
As if to split the hills in twain.
Two clouds of dust roll o'er the plain,
And men ride up and men ride down,
And hot men halt and curse and shout,
And coming coursers plunge and neigh.
The clouds of dust are rolled in one,
And horses, horsemen, where are they?
Lo! through a rift of dust and dun—
Of desolation and of route—
I see some long white daggers flash—
I hear the sharp hot pistols crash,
And curses loud in mad despair
Are blended with a plaintive prayer
That struggles through the dust and air.
Where curves the white road like a surge
Along a sea of sage, and hedge
Of black and brittle chaparral,
And enters like an iron wedge
Drove deep into yon rocky gorge
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Two clouds of dust roll o'er the plain,
And men ride up and men ride down,
And hot men halt and curse and shout,
And coming coursers plunge and neigh.
The clouds of dust are rolled in one,
And horses, horsemen, where are they?
Lo! through a rift of dust and dun—
Of desolation and of route—
I see some long white daggers flash—
I hear the sharp hot pistols crash,
And curses loud in mad despair
Are blended with a plaintive prayer
That struggles through the dust and air.
The cloud is lifting like a veil.
The frantic curse, the plaintive wail,
Have died away; nor sound or word
Along the dusty plain is heard
Save sounding of yon courser's feet
That flies so fearfully and fleet,
With gory girth and broken rein,
Across the hot and trackless plain.
Behold him, as he trembling flies,
Look back with red and bursting eyes
To where his gory master lies.
The cloud is lifting like a veil,
But underneath its drifting sail
I see a loose and black serape
Far float and fly in careless heed,
So vulture-like above a steed
Of perfect mould and passing speed.
The frantic curse, the plaintive wail,
Have died away; nor sound or word
Along the dusty plain is heard
Save sounding of yon courser's feet
That flies so fearfully and fleet,
With gory girth and broken rein,
Across the hot and trackless plain.
Behold him, as he trembling flies,
Look back with red and bursting eyes
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The cloud is lifting like a veil,
But underneath its drifting sail
I see a loose and black serape
Far float and fly in careless heed,
So vulture-like above a steed
Of perfect mould and passing speed.
Here lies a man of giant mould,
His mighty right arm perfect bare—
Except its sable coat of hair—
Is clutching in its iron clasp
A clump of sage, as if to hold
The earth from slipping from his grasp;
While stealing from his brow a stain
Of purple blood and gory brain
Yields to the parched lips of the plain,
Swift to resolve to dust again.
Here lies a youth whose fair face is
Still holy from a mother's kiss;
While friend and foe blend here and there
With dusty lips and trailing hair;
Some with a cold and sullen stare—
Some with their red hands bent in prayer.
His mighty right arm perfect bare—
Except its sable coat of hair—
Is clutching in its iron clasp
A clump of sage, as if to hold
The earth from slipping from his grasp;
While stealing from his brow a stain
Of purple blood and gory brain
Yields to the parched lips of the plain,
Swift to resolve to dust again.
Here lies a youth whose fair face is
Still holy from a mother's kiss;
While friend and foe blend here and there
With dusty lips and trailing hair;
Some with a cold and sullen stare—
Some with their red hands bent in prayer.
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IV.
The sun is red and flushed and dry,
And fretted from his weary beat
Across the hot and desert sky,
And swollen as from overheat,
And failing too, for, see, he sinks
Swift as a ball of burnished ore.
It may be fancy, but methinks
He never fell so fast before.
And fretted from his weary beat
Across the hot and desert sky,
And swollen as from overheat,
And failing too, for, see, he sinks
Swift as a ball of burnished ore.
It may be fancy, but methinks
He never fell so fast before.
I hear the neighing of hot steeds—
I see the marshalling of men
That silent move among the trees
With step and stealthiness profound,
On carpetings of spindled weeds,
Without a syllable or sound
Save clashing of their burnished arms
Clinking sepulchral alarms—
Grim bearded men and brawny men
That grope among the ghostly trees.
Were ever silent men as these?
Was ever sombre forest deep
And dark as this? Here dreamy sleep
Might wrap the lids a thousand years,
Nor wake nor weep for sun or sound.
A stone's throw to the right, a rock
Has reared his head among the stars—
An island in the bluer deep—
And on his front a thousand scars
Of thunder's crash and earthquake's shock
Are seamed, as if by sabre stroke
Of gods, enraged that he should rear
His front amid their realms of air.
I see the marshalling of men
That silent move among the trees
With step and stealthiness profound,
On carpetings of spindled weeds,
Without a syllable or sound
Save clashing of their burnished arms
Clinking sepulchral alarms—
Grim bearded men and brawny men
That grope among the ghostly trees.
Were ever silent men as these?
Was ever sombre forest deep
And dark as this? Here dreamy sleep
Might wrap the lids a thousand years,
Nor wake nor weep for sun or sound.
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Has reared his head among the stars—
An island in the bluer deep—
And on his front a thousand scars
Of thunder's crash and earthquake's shock
Are seamed, as if by sabre stroke
Of gods, enraged that he should rear
His front amid their realms of air.
What moves along his beetling brow,
So small, so indistinct and far,
This side yon blazing evening star,
Seen through that redwood's shifting bough?
A lookout on the world below?
A watcher for the friend—or foe?
This still troop's sentry it must be.
Yet seems no taller than my knee.
So small, so indistinct and far,
This side yon blazing evening star,
Seen through that redwood's shifting bough?
A lookout on the world below?
A watcher for the friend—or foe?
This still troop's sentry it must be.
Yet seems no taller than my knee.
But for the grandeur of this gloom,
And for the chafing steeds' alarms,
And brown men's sullen clash of arms,
This were but as a living tomb.
These weeds are spindled, pale and white,
As if nor sunshine, life or light
Had ever reached this forest's heart.
Above, the redwood boughs entwine
Thick as a copse of tangled vine;
Above, so fearfully afar,
It seems as 'twere a second sky—
A sky without a moon or star,
The mossed boughs are so thick and high.
At every lisp of leaf I start!
Would I could hear a cricket trill,
Or that yon sentry from his hill
Might shout or show some sign of life,
The place doth seem so deathly still.
‘Mount ye, and forward for the strife,’
Who by yon dark trunk sullen stands,
With black serape and flowing hair,
And coldly gives his brief commands?
And for the chafing steeds' alarms,
And brown men's sullen clash of arms,
This were but as a living tomb.
These weeds are spindled, pale and white,
As if nor sunshine, life or light
Had ever reached this forest's heart.
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Thick as a copse of tangled vine;
Above, so fearfully afar,
It seems as 'twere a second sky—
A sky without a moon or star,
The mossed boughs are so thick and high.
At every lisp of leaf I start!
Would I could hear a cricket trill,
Or that yon sentry from his hill
Might shout or show some sign of life,
The place doth seem so deathly still.
‘Mount ye, and forward for the strife,’
Who by yon dark trunk sullen stands,
With black serape and flowing hair,
And coldly gives his brief commands?
They mount—away.—Quick on his heel
He turns, and grasps his gleaming steel,
Then sadly smiles, and stoops to kiss
An upturned face so sweetly fair—
So sadly, saintly, purely fair—
So rich of blessedness and bliss,
I know she is not flesh and blood,
But some sweet spirit of this wood.
I know it by her wealth of hair,
And step on the unyielding air—
Her seamless robe of shining white,
Her soul-deep eyes of darkest night;
But over all and more than all
That could be said or can befall—
That tongue can tell or pen can trace,
That wondrous witchery of face.
He turns, and grasps his gleaming steel,
Then sadly smiles, and stoops to kiss
An upturned face so sweetly fair—
So sadly, saintly, purely fair—
So rich of blessedness and bliss,
I know she is not flesh and blood,
But some sweet spirit of this wood.
I know it by her wealth of hair,
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Her seamless robe of shining white,
Her soul-deep eyes of darkest night;
But over all and more than all
That could be said or can befall—
That tongue can tell or pen can trace,
That wondrous witchery of face.
Among the trees I see him stride
To where a red steed fretting stands
Impatient for his lord's commands;
And she glides noiseless at his side,
And not a bud, or leaf, or stem,
The way she went, is broke or bent;
They only nodded as she stepped,
And all their grace and freshness kept,
And now will bloom
As though fresh risen from a tomb,
For fairest sun has shone on them.
To where a red steed fretting stands
Impatient for his lord's commands;
And she glides noiseless at his side,
And not a bud, or leaf, or stem,
The way she went, is broke or bent;
They only nodded as she stepped,
And all their grace and freshness kept,
And now will bloom
As though fresh risen from a tomb,
For fairest sun has shone on them.
‘The world is mantling black again.
Beneath us, o'er the sleeping plain,
Dull steel gray clouds slide up and down
As if the earth still wore a frown.
The west is red with sunlight slain.’
(One hand toys with her waving hair,
Soft lifting from her shoulders bare;
The other holds the loosened rein,
And rests upon the swelling mane
That curls the curved neck o'er and o'er
Like waves that swirl along the shore.
He hears the last retreating sound
Of iron on volcanic stone,
That echoes far from peak to plain,
And 'neath the thick wood's darkened zone
He peers the rugged Sierras down.)
‘But darker yet shall be the frown,
And redder yet shall be the flame.
And yet I would that it were not—
That all forgiven or forgot,
Of curses deep and awful crimes,
Of blood and terror, could but seem
Some troubled and unholy dream—
That even now I could awake,
And waking, find me once again,
With hand and heart without a stain.
Swift gliding o'er that sunny lake,
Begirt with town and castle wall,
Where first I seen the silver light—
Begirt with blossoms, and the bloom
Of orange; sweet with the perfume
Of cactus, pomegranate, and all
The thousand sweets of tropic climes—
And waking, see the mellow moon
Poured out in gorgeous plenilune
On silver ripples of that tide—
And waking, hear soft music pour
Along that flora-formèd shore—
And waking, find you at my side—
My father's mossed and massive halls—
My brothers in their strength and pride.’
(His hand forsakes her raven hair,
His eyes have an unearthly glare.
She shrinks and shudders at his side,
Then lifts to his her moistened eye,
And only looks her sad reply.
A sullenness his soul enthralls—
A silence born of hate and pride.
His fierce volcanic heart, so deep,
Is stirred; his teeth, despite his will,
Do chatter as if in a chill.
His very dagger at his side
Does shake and rattle in its sheath
Like blades of brown grass in a gale
Do rustle on the frosted heath,
And yet he does not bend or weep.)
Beneath us, o'er the sleeping plain,
Dull steel gray clouds slide up and down
As if the earth still wore a frown.
The west is red with sunlight slain.’
19
Soft lifting from her shoulders bare;
The other holds the loosened rein,
And rests upon the swelling mane
That curls the curved neck o'er and o'er
Like waves that swirl along the shore.
He hears the last retreating sound
Of iron on volcanic stone,
That echoes far from peak to plain,
And 'neath the thick wood's darkened zone
He peers the rugged Sierras down.)
‘But darker yet shall be the frown,
And redder yet shall be the flame.
And yet I would that it were not—
That all forgiven or forgot,
Of curses deep and awful crimes,
Of blood and terror, could but seem
Some troubled and unholy dream—
That even now I could awake,
And waking, find me once again,
With hand and heart without a stain.
Swift gliding o'er that sunny lake,
Begirt with town and castle wall,
Where first I seen the silver light—
Begirt with blossoms, and the bloom
20
Of cactus, pomegranate, and all
The thousand sweets of tropic climes—
And waking, see the mellow moon
Poured out in gorgeous plenilune
On silver ripples of that tide—
And waking, hear soft music pour
Along that flora-formèd shore—
And waking, find you at my side—
My father's mossed and massive halls—
My brothers in their strength and pride.’
(His hand forsakes her raven hair,
His eyes have an unearthly glare.
She shrinks and shudders at his side,
Then lifts to his her moistened eye,
And only looks her sad reply.
A sullenness his soul enthralls—
A silence born of hate and pride.
His fierce volcanic heart, so deep,
Is stirred; his teeth, despite his will,
Do chatter as if in a chill.
His very dagger at his side
Does shake and rattle in its sheath
Like blades of brown grass in a gale
Do rustle on the frosted heath,
21
‘I did not vow a girlish vow,
Nor idle imprecation now
Will I bestow by boasting word.
Feats of the tongue become the knave.
A wailing in the land is heard
For those that will not come again;
And weeping for the rashly brave,
Who sleep in many a gulch and glen,
Has wet a hundred hearths with tears,
And darkened them for years and years.
I would their tears were clotted gore,
And every hearth as cold as one
Is now upon that sweet lake shore,
Where my dear kindred dwelt of yore—
Where now is but an ashen heap,
And mass of mossy earth and stone—
Where round the altar black wolves keep
Their carnival and doleful moan—
Where hornèd lizards dart and climb,
And molluscs slide and leave their slime.
But tremble not. This night alone
Shall see my vengeance fully done;
And ere the day-star gleams again
My horse's hoofs shall spurn the dead—
The yet warm reeking dead of those
Of that coarse, cold, inhuman race,
With snake-like eyes and leprous face,
That wrought us all our deadly woes.
While all my glad returning way
Shall be as light as living day,
From towns and campos burning red.
They say they seek me! seek Joaquin!
That they have sought me far and wide!
Ha! Oftener this hand I ween
My boasting foes have felt and seen
Of late, than suits their spleen or pride.
Too well they know, nor day nor night,
But with the least of search or care
They all could find him if they dare
But they, pale boasters of the fight,
Shall deem him never half so near,
Or warm friend never half so dear,
To them as I shall be to-night.
And yet I know I go to meet
Full twice the numbers I have here.
I would their numbers treble were,
My vengeance would be more complete.
‘And then! And then, my peri pearl,—
(As if to charm her from her fears
And drive away the starting tears,
Again his small hand seeks a curl
And voice forgets its sullen tone,
And eye forsakes its lofty scorn,—)
Away to where the orange-tree
Is white through all the cycled years,
And love lives an eternity—
Where birds are never out of tune
And life knows no decline of noon—
Where climes are sweet as woman's breath,
And purpled, dreamy, mellow skies
Are lovely as a woman's eyes.
There, we in calm and perfect bliss
Of boundless faith and sweet delight
Will realise the world above,
Forgetting all the wrongs of this,
Forgetting all of blood and death,
And all your terrors of to-night
In pure devotion and deep love.’
Nor idle imprecation now
Will I bestow by boasting word.
Feats of the tongue become the knave.
A wailing in the land is heard
For those that will not come again;
And weeping for the rashly brave,
Who sleep in many a gulch and glen,
Has wet a hundred hearths with tears,
And darkened them for years and years.
I would their tears were clotted gore,
And every hearth as cold as one
Is now upon that sweet lake shore,
Where my dear kindred dwelt of yore—
Where now is but an ashen heap,
And mass of mossy earth and stone—
Where round the altar black wolves keep
Their carnival and doleful moan—
Where hornèd lizards dart and climb,
And molluscs slide and leave their slime.
But tremble not. This night alone
Shall see my vengeance fully done;
And ere the day-star gleams again
22
The yet warm reeking dead of those
Of that coarse, cold, inhuman race,
With snake-like eyes and leprous face,
That wrought us all our deadly woes.
While all my glad returning way
Shall be as light as living day,
From towns and campos burning red.
They say they seek me! seek Joaquin!
That they have sought me far and wide!
Ha! Oftener this hand I ween
My boasting foes have felt and seen
Of late, than suits their spleen or pride.
Too well they know, nor day nor night,
But with the least of search or care
They all could find him if they dare
But they, pale boasters of the fight,
Shall deem him never half so near,
Or warm friend never half so dear,
To them as I shall be to-night.
And yet I know I go to meet
Full twice the numbers I have here.
I would their numbers treble were,
My vengeance would be more complete.
23
(As if to charm her from her fears
And drive away the starting tears,
Again his small hand seeks a curl
And voice forgets its sullen tone,
And eye forsakes its lofty scorn,—)
Away to where the orange-tree
Is white through all the cycled years,
And love lives an eternity—
Where birds are never out of tune
And life knows no decline of noon—
Where climes are sweet as woman's breath,
And purpled, dreamy, mellow skies
Are lovely as a woman's eyes.
There, we in calm and perfect bliss
Of boundless faith and sweet delight
Will realise the world above,
Forgetting all the wrongs of this,
Forgetting all of blood and death,
And all your terrors of to-night
In pure devotion and deep love.’
As gently as a mother bows
Her first-born sleeping babe above
The cherished cherub lips to kiss,
He bends to her his stately head.
I do not heed the hallowed kiss—
I do not hear the hurried vows
Of passion, faith, unfailing love—
I do not mark the prisoned sigh—
I do not meet the moistened eye.
A low, sweet melody is heard
Like cooing of some Orient bird,
So fine it does not touch the air—
So faint it stirs not anywhere.
Faint as the falling of the dew;
Low as a pure unuttered prayer;
The meeting—mingling, as it were,
Of souls in paradisial bliss.
Her first-born sleeping babe above
The cherished cherub lips to kiss,
24
I do not heed the hallowed kiss—
I do not hear the hurried vows
Of passion, faith, unfailing love—
I do not mark the prisoned sigh—
I do not meet the moistened eye.
A low, sweet melody is heard
Like cooing of some Orient bird,
So fine it does not touch the air—
So faint it stirs not anywhere.
Faint as the falling of the dew;
Low as a pure unuttered prayer;
The meeting—mingling, as it were,
Of souls in paradisial bliss.
Erect, again he grasps the rein
So tight, as to the seat he springs
The horse doth on his haunches poise
And beat the air with iron feet,
And curve his noble, glossy neck,
And toss on high his swelling mane—
And leap—away—he spurns the rein
And flies so fearfully and fleet,
But for the hot hoofs' ringing noise,
'Twould seem as if he was on wings.
And she is gone—gone like a breath,
Gone like a white sail seen at night,
A moment and then lost to sight—
Gone like a star you look upon
That glimmers to a bead—a speck,
Then softly melts into the dawn,
And all is still as death.
Where has that passing glory gone?
That coal-black curling cloud of hair?
The dark woods answering, echo, where?
So tight, as to the seat he springs
The horse doth on his haunches poise
And beat the air with iron feet,
And curve his noble, glossy neck,
And toss on high his swelling mane—
And leap—away—he spurns the rein
And flies so fearfully and fleet,
But for the hot hoofs' ringing noise,
'Twould seem as if he was on wings.
25
Gone like a white sail seen at night,
A moment and then lost to sight—
Gone like a star you look upon
That glimmers to a bead—a speck,
Then softly melts into the dawn,
And all is still as death.
Where has that passing glory gone?
That coal-black curling cloud of hair?
The dark woods answering, echo, where?
V.
She stands upon the wild watch-tower
And with her own hand feeds the flame—
The beacon light to guide again
His coming from the battle plain.
'Tis wearing past the midnight hour,
The latest that he ever came,
Yet silence reigns around the tower.
'Tis hours past the midnight hour,
She calls, she looks, she lists in vain
For sight or sound from peak or plain.
She moves along the beetling tower—
She stoops, her ear low to the ground,
In hope to catch the welcome sound
Of iron on the rugged stone.
In vain she peers down in the night,
But for one feeble flash of light
From flinty stone and feet of steel.
She stands upon the fearful rim,
Where even coolest head would reel,
And fearless leans her form far o'er
Its edge, and lifts her hands to him,
And calls in words as sweetly wild,
As bleeding saint or sorrowing child;
She looks, she lists, she leans in vain,
In vain his dalliance does deplore;
She turns her to the light again,
And bids the watchman to the plain,
Defying night or dubious way,
To guide the flight or join the fray,
And she is watching all alone.
And with her own hand feeds the flame—
The beacon light to guide again
His coming from the battle plain.
'Tis wearing past the midnight hour,
The latest that he ever came,
Yet silence reigns around the tower.
'Tis hours past the midnight hour,
She calls, she looks, she lists in vain
For sight or sound from peak or plain.
She moves along the beetling tower—
She stoops, her ear low to the ground,
In hope to catch the welcome sound
26
In vain she peers down in the night,
But for one feeble flash of light
From flinty stone and feet of steel.
She stands upon the fearful rim,
Where even coolest head would reel,
And fearless leans her form far o'er
Its edge, and lifts her hands to him,
And calls in words as sweetly wild,
As bleeding saint or sorrowing child;
She looks, she lists, she leans in vain,
In vain his dalliance does deplore;
She turns her to the light again,
And bids the watchman to the plain,
Defying night or dubious way,
To guide the flight or join the fray,
And she is watching all alone.
The day-star dances on the snow
That gleams along the Sierra's crown,
In gorgeous everlasting glow
And frozen glory and renown.
Yet still she feeds the beacon flame,
And lists, and looks, and leans in vain.
The day has dawned. She still is there!
Yet in her sad and silent air
I read the stillness of despair.
Why burns the red light on the tower
So brightly at this useless hour?
But see! The day-king hurls a dart
At darkness, and his cold black heart
Is pierced, and he, compelled to flee,
Flies to his caverns in the sea.
And now, behold, she radiant stands,
And lifts her thin white jewelled hands
Unto the broad, unfolding sun,
And hails him Tonatiu and King,
With hallowed mien and holy prayer.
Her fingers o'er some symbols run,
Her knees are bowed in worshipping
Her God—beheld when thine is not—
In form and faith long, long forgot.
That gleams along the Sierra's crown,
In gorgeous everlasting glow
And frozen glory and renown.
Yet still she feeds the beacon flame,
And lists, and looks, and leans in vain.
27
Yet in her sad and silent air
I read the stillness of despair.
Why burns the red light on the tower
So brightly at this useless hour?
But see! The day-king hurls a dart
At darkness, and his cold black heart
Is pierced, and he, compelled to flee,
Flies to his caverns in the sea.
And now, behold, she radiant stands,
And lifts her thin white jewelled hands
Unto the broad, unfolding sun,
And hails him Tonatiu and King,
With hallowed mien and holy prayer.
Her fingers o'er some symbols run,
Her knees are bowed in worshipping
Her God—beheld when thine is not—
In form and faith long, long forgot.
Again she lifts her white arms bare
That gleam with jewels rich and rare.
Was ever mortal half so fair?
Was ever such a wealth of hair?
Was ever such a plaintive air?
Was ever such a sweet despair?
Still humbler now her form she bends—
Still higher now the flame ascends,
She bares her bosom to the sun.
Again her jewelled fingers run
In signs, and sacred form and prayer.
She bows with awe and holy air
In lowly worship to the sun,
The rising, calls her lover's name,
And leaps into the leaping flame.
I do not hear the faintest moan,
Or sound, or syllable, or tone.
The red flames stoop a moment down
As if to raise her from the ground;
Then stand up, tall, tiptoed, as one
Would hand a soul up to the sun.
That gleam with jewels rich and rare.
Was ever mortal half so fair?
Was ever such a wealth of hair?
Was ever such a plaintive air?
Was ever such a sweet despair?
28
Still higher now the flame ascends,
She bares her bosom to the sun.
Again her jewelled fingers run
In signs, and sacred form and prayer.
She bows with awe and holy air
In lowly worship to the sun,
The rising, calls her lover's name,
And leaps into the leaping flame.
I do not hear the faintest moan,
Or sound, or syllable, or tone.
The red flames stoop a moment down
As if to raise her from the ground;
Then stand up, tall, tiptoed, as one
Would hand a soul up to the sun.
VI.
Eternal Popocatapetl!
Isolated and apart
In the untrod desert's heart;
Grandly, grimly, and alone
He stands a burning mono-stone.
Unceasing as the numian shrine,
Afar his red lips glow and shine,
And typify the flames of hell.
Who in the under-world unknown
For ever feed this awful flame,
And make this mount their altar-stone?
Who but the Montezumas gone,
Kings of the children of the sun?
Last of a thousand ruined shrines!
Look round you where the cactus twines
His yellow roots through thin green sods
That grow above the marble hewn
Thick with their chronicles unread,
And deeds of their great forgotten dead.
On columns o'er white deserts strewn—
On cities where the hearth appears
Rent by roots of a thousand years;
Yet this one altar, this alone
Of all the relics that are known
Of the faithful children of the sun
Burns to their strange forgotten gods.
And this one lone eternal flame,
Which robber's knife,
Nor red castile,
Nor civil strife,
Nor Hapsburg steel,
Nor time, nor tyranny can tame,
Shall burn when all but time are not—
When even their names shall be forgot.
Isolated and apart
In the untrod desert's heart;
Grandly, grimly, and alone
He stands a burning mono-stone.
Unceasing as the numian shrine,
Afar his red lips glow and shine,
And typify the flames of hell.
29
For ever feed this awful flame,
And make this mount their altar-stone?
Who but the Montezumas gone,
Kings of the children of the sun?
Last of a thousand ruined shrines!
Look round you where the cactus twines
His yellow roots through thin green sods
That grow above the marble hewn
Thick with their chronicles unread,
And deeds of their great forgotten dead.
On columns o'er white deserts strewn—
On cities where the hearth appears
Rent by roots of a thousand years;
Yet this one altar, this alone
Of all the relics that are known
Of the faithful children of the sun
Burns to their strange forgotten gods.
And this one lone eternal flame,
Which robber's knife,
Nor red castile,
Nor civil strife,
Nor Hapsburg steel,
Nor time, nor tyranny can tame,
Shall burn when all but time are not—
30
O Italy of the Occident!
Land of flowers and summer climes—
Of holy priests and horrid crimes;
Land of the cactus and sweet cocoa,
Richer than all the Orient
In gold and glory—in want and woe—
In self-denial—in days misspent—
In truth and treason—in good and guilt—
In ivied ruins and altars low—
In battered walls and blood misspilt,
Glorious, gory Mexico!
Land of flowers and summer climes—
Of holy priests and horrid crimes;
Land of the cactus and sweet cocoa,
Richer than all the Orient
In gold and glory—in want and woe—
In self-denial—in days misspent—
In truth and treason—in good and guilt—
In ivied ruins and altars low—
In battered walls and blood misspilt,
Glorious, gory Mexico!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
I look far down a dewy vale
Where cool palms lean along a brook
As crooked as a shepherd's crook.
Red parrots call from orange-trees,
Whose white lips kiss the idle breeze,
And murmur with the hum of bees—
The gray dove cooes his low love-tale.
With cross outstretched like pleading hands
That mutely plead the faith of Christ,
Amid the palms a low church stands.
I would that man might learn from these
The priceless victories of peace,
And deem strife but a deadly vice.
Where cool palms lean along a brook
As crooked as a shepherd's crook.
Red parrots call from orange-trees,
Whose white lips kiss the idle breeze,
And murmur with the hum of bees—
The gray dove cooes his low love-tale.
With cross outstretched like pleading hands
31
Amid the palms a low church stands.
I would that man might learn from these
The priceless victories of peace,
And deem strife but a deadly vice.
I see black clouds of troops afar
Sweep like a surge that sweeps the shore,
And checkering all the green hills o'er
Are battlements and signs of war.
Sweep like a surge that sweeps the shore,
And checkering all the green hills o'er
Are battlements and signs of war.
I hear the hoarse-voiced cannon roar—
The red-mouthed orators of war—
Plead as they never plead before;
While outdone thunder stops his car
And leans in wonderment afar.
A Hapsburg king has crossed the main
And Gaul and Aztec strew the plain.
God will not look upon the scene,
But sorrowing spreads a sombre screen
Of smoke o'er those that battle there,
And leaves them to death and despair.
The red-mouthed orators of war—
Plead as they never plead before;
While outdone thunder stops his car
And leans in wonderment afar.
A Hapsburg king has crossed the main
And Gaul and Aztec strew the plain.
God will not look upon the scene,
But sorrowing spreads a sombre screen
Of smoke o'er those that battle there,
And leaves them to death and despair.
A fragment from the battle broke
Forsakes the sullen dun of smoke
And winds it painfully and slow
Amid the cool and peaceful palms
To where yon gray church open stands,
As if it bore a load of woe.
Currajo! 'tis a chief they bear!
And by his black and flowing hair
Methinks I have seen him before.
A black priest guides them through the door—
They lay him bleeding on the floor.
Forsakes the sullen dun of smoke
32
Amid the cool and peaceful palms
To where yon gray church open stands,
As if it bore a load of woe.
Currajo! 'tis a chief they bear!
And by his black and flowing hair
Methinks I have seen him before.
A black priest guides them through the door—
They lay him bleeding on the floor.
He moves, he lifts his feeble hand
And points with tried and trenchèd brand,
And bids them to the battle plain.
They turn—they pause—he bids again—
They turn a last time to their chief,
And gaze in silence and deep pain,
For silence speaks the deepest grief.
They clutch their blades—they turn—are gone,
And priest and chief are left alone.
And points with tried and trenchèd brand,
And bids them to the battle plain.
They turn—they pause—he bids again—
They turn a last time to their chief,
And gaze in silence and deep pain,
For silence speaks the deepest grief.
They clutch their blades—they turn—are gone,
And priest and chief are left alone.
‘And here it ends. Here all is not.
I am content. 'Tis what I sought.
There is nor price, nor ban, nor power,
Nor plea, nor place, nor woman's smile
That could my weary soul beguile,
Or keep it from repose an hour.
Yet even had I ties on earth,
I know not why I should deplore
To die e'en at this age and hour,
Since I have seen and suffered more
Than they who live a full threescore;
And sorrow is the sum of life,
And I began it at my birth.
And I have known, I know not why,
Through all my dubious days of strife,
That when we live our deeds we die—
That man may in one hour live
All that his life can bear or give.
This I have done, and do not grieve;
For I am older by a score
Then many born long, long before,
If sorrows be the sum of life.
I am content. 'Tis what I sought.
There is nor price, nor ban, nor power,
Nor plea, nor place, nor woman's smile
That could my weary soul beguile,
33
Yet even had I ties on earth,
I know not why I should deplore
To die e'en at this age and hour,
Since I have seen and suffered more
Than they who live a full threescore;
And sorrow is the sum of life,
And I began it at my birth.
And I have known, I know not why,
Through all my dubious days of strife,
That when we live our deeds we die—
That man may in one hour live
All that his life can bear or give.
This I have done, and do not grieve;
For I am older by a score
Then many born long, long before,
If sorrows be the sum of life.
‘Aye! I am old—old as the years
Could brand me with their blood and tears,
For with my fingers I can trace
Grief's trenches on my hollow face,
And through my thin frame I can feel
The pulses of my frozen heart
Beat with a dull uncertain start.
And mirrored in my sword to-day,
Before its edge of gleaming steel
Had lost its lustre in the fray,
I seen around my temples stray
Thin, straggling locks of steely gray.
Could brand me with their blood and tears,
For with my fingers I can trace
Grief's trenches on my hollow face,
And through my thin frame I can feel
The pulses of my frozen heart
Beat with a dull uncertain start.
34
Before its edge of gleaming steel
Had lost its lustre in the fray,
I seen around my temples stray
Thin, straggling locks of steely gray.
‘O for the rest!—for the rest eternal!
O for the deep and the dreamless sleep!
Where never a hope lures to deceive!
Where never a heart beats but to grieve;
Nor thoughts of heaven or hells infernal
Shall even wake or dare to break
The rest of an everlasting sleep!
Time has not set his seal on you—
Not one dark hair has lost its hue;
Yet I, indeed, might be your son,
In years—but not in actions done.
But what is time? and what are years
In reckoning of age and life?
'Tis measured by the deeds of strife—
And passions—hate—and love—and tears.
O for the deep and the dreamless sleep!
Where never a hope lures to deceive!
Where never a heart beats but to grieve;
Nor thoughts of heaven or hells infernal
Shall even wake or dare to break
The rest of an everlasting sleep!
Time has not set his seal on you—
Not one dark hair has lost its hue;
Yet I, indeed, might be your son,
In years—but not in actions done.
But what is time? and what are years
In reckoning of age and life?
'Tis measured by the deeds of strife—
And passions—hate—and love—and tears.
‘She was the last—last of her kind—
Last of a race of gods and kings—
Last of the Montezumas' line
That dwelt up in the yellow sun;
But sorrowing for man's despair,
Slid by his trailing, yellow hair
To earth, to rule with love and bring
The blessedness of peace to man.
She was the last—last earthly one
Of the eternal children of the sun—
A sweet perfume still lingering
In essence pure, and living on
In blessedness about the spot
When rose, and bush, and bloom were not.
Last of a race of gods and kings—
35
That dwelt up in the yellow sun;
But sorrowing for man's despair,
Slid by his trailing, yellow hair
To earth, to rule with love and bring
The blessedness of peace to man.
She was the last—last earthly one
Of the eternal children of the sun—
A sweet perfume still lingering
In essence pure, and living on
In blessedness about the spot
When rose, and bush, and bloom were not.
‘Beside Tezcuco's flowery shore
Where waves were washing evermore
The massive columns of the wall,
Stood Montezumas' mighty hall.
And here the Montezumas reigned
In perfect peace and love unfeigned,
Until from underneath the sea—
Where all sin is, or ought to be—
Came men of death and strange device,
Who taught a strange and mystic faith
Of crucifixion and of Christ—
More hated than the plague or death.
Nay do not swing your cross o'er me—
You crossed you once, but do not twice,
Nor dare repeat the name of Christ—
Nor start—not think to fly—nor frown,
While you the stole and surplice wear,
For I do clutch your sable gown,
And you shall hear my curse—or prayer,
And be my priest in my despair;
Since neither priest, or sign, or shrine,
Is left in all the land, of mine.
Where waves were washing evermore
The massive columns of the wall,
Stood Montezumas' mighty hall.
And here the Montezumas reigned
In perfect peace and love unfeigned,
Until from underneath the sea—
Where all sin is, or ought to be—
Came men of death and strange device,
Who taught a strange and mystic faith
Of crucifixion and of Christ—
More hated than the plague or death.
36
You crossed you once, but do not twice,
Nor dare repeat the name of Christ—
Nor start—not think to fly—nor frown,
While you the stole and surplice wear,
For I do clutch your sable gown,
And you shall hear my curse—or prayer,
And be my priest in my despair;
Since neither priest, or sign, or shrine,
Is left in all the land, of mine.
‘Enough! We know, alas! too well
How Christ has ruled—Tonatiu fell.
The black wolf in our ancient halls
Unfrightened sleeps the live-long day.
The stout roots burst our mossy walls,
And in the moonlight wild dogs play
Around the plaza overgrown
Where nude boars hold their carnivals.
The moss is on our altar-stone,
The mould on Montezumas' throne,
And symbols in the desert strown.
How Christ has ruled—Tonatiu fell.
The black wolf in our ancient halls
Unfrightened sleeps the live-long day.
The stout roots burst our mossy walls,
And in the moonlight wild dogs play
Around the plaza overgrown
Where nude boars hold their carnivals.
The moss is on our altar-stone,
The mould on Montezumas' throne,
And symbols in the desert strown.
‘And when your persecutions ceased
From troop, and king, and cowlèd priest,
That we had felt for centuries—
(Ah, know you priest that cross of thine
Is but death's symbol; and the sign
Of blood and butchery and tears?)—
Returned again the faithful few,
Beside Tezcuco's sacred shore
To build their broken shrines anew,
They numbered scarce a broken score.
Here dwelt my father—here she dwelt:
Here kept one altar burning bright—
Last of the thousands that had shone
Along yon mountain's brow of stone—
Last of a thousand stars of night.
To Tonatiu Ytzaqual we knelt.
Nay, do not start, nor shape the sign
Of horror at this creed of mine,
Nor call again the name of Christ.
You cross you once, you cross you twice—
I warn you do not cross you thrice.
Nor will I brook a sign or look
Of anger at the faith she felt.
I am no creedist. Faith to me
Is but a name for mystery.
I only know this faith was hers,
I care to know no more to be
The truest of its worshippers.
From troop, and king, and cowlèd priest,
37
(Ah, know you priest that cross of thine
Is but death's symbol; and the sign
Of blood and butchery and tears?)—
Returned again the faithful few,
Beside Tezcuco's sacred shore
To build their broken shrines anew,
They numbered scarce a broken score.
Here dwelt my father—here she dwelt:
Here kept one altar burning bright—
Last of the thousands that had shone
Along yon mountain's brow of stone—
Last of a thousand stars of night.
To Tonatiu Ytzaqual we knelt.
Nay, do not start, nor shape the sign
Of horror at this creed of mine,
Nor call again the name of Christ.
You cross you once, you cross you twice—
I warn you do not cross you thrice.
Nor will I brook a sign or look
Of anger at the faith she felt.
I am no creedist. Faith to me
Is but a name for mystery.
I only know this faith was hers,
I care to know no more to be
38
‘But useless that I do prolong
The tale of tyranny and wrong,
Well known to you as 'tis to me.
The Saxon came across the sea
With gory blade and brand of flame.
I know not that he knew or cared
What was our race, or creed, or name;
I only know the Paynim dared
Assault and sack for sake of gain
Of sacred vessels wrought in gold
The temple where gods dwelt of old;
And that my father, brothers, dared
Defend their shrines, and all were slain.
The tale of tyranny and wrong,
Well known to you as 'tis to me.
The Saxon came across the sea
With gory blade and brand of flame.
I know not that he knew or cared
What was our race, or creed, or name;
I only know the Paynim dared
Assault and sack for sake of gain
Of sacred vessels wrought in gold
The temple where gods dwelt of old;
And that my father, brothers, dared
Defend their shrines, and all were slain.
‘Full well we knew that we must fall
When first the rude assault was made.
“It is not well we perish all,
Fly, fly you with the holy maid.
A boat chafes at the causeway side,
Your youthful arm is useless here,”
My noble father to me cried.
I fled; was it the flight of fear?
O how I chafed to join the fray!
But I had been taught to obey;
We gained the boat—sprang in—away
We dashed along the dimpled tide.
It must have been they thought we bore
The treasure in our sudden flight,
For in an instant from the shore
An hundred crafts were making chase,
And as their sharp prows drew apace
I caught my carbine to my face.
She, rising, dashed it quick aside;
And when their hands were stretched to clasp
The boat's prow in their eager grasp,
She turned to me, and sudden cried,
“Come, come,” and plunged into the tide.
I plunged into the dimpled wave,
I had no thought but 'twas my grave;
But faith had never follower
More true than I to follow her.
On through the purple wave she cleaves,
As darts a sunbeam through the leaves.
At last—what miracle was there?—
Again we breathed the welcome air,
And resting by the rising tide,
The secret outlet of the lake,
Safe hid by trackless fern and brake,
With yellow lilies at our side,
She told me how in ages gone
Her fathers built with sacred stone
This secret way beneath the tide,
That now was known to her alone.
When first the rude assault was made.
“It is not well we perish all,
Fly, fly you with the holy maid.
A boat chafes at the causeway side,
Your youthful arm is useless here,”
My noble father to me cried.
I fled; was it the flight of fear?
O how I chafed to join the fray!
39
We gained the boat—sprang in—away
We dashed along the dimpled tide.
It must have been they thought we bore
The treasure in our sudden flight,
For in an instant from the shore
An hundred crafts were making chase,
And as their sharp prows drew apace
I caught my carbine to my face.
She, rising, dashed it quick aside;
And when their hands were stretched to clasp
The boat's prow in their eager grasp,
She turned to me, and sudden cried,
“Come, come,” and plunged into the tide.
I plunged into the dimpled wave,
I had no thought but 'twas my grave;
But faith had never follower
More true than I to follow her.
On through the purple wave she cleaves,
As darts a sunbeam through the leaves.
At last—what miracle was there?—
Again we breathed the welcome air,
And resting by the rising tide,
The secret outlet of the lake,
Safe hid by trackless fern and brake,
40
She told me how in ages gone
Her fathers built with sacred stone
This secret way beneath the tide,
That now was known to her alone.
‘When night came on and all was still,
And stole the white moon down the hill,
Soft, as if she too feared some ill,
Again I sought the sacred halls
And on the curving causeway stood.
I looked—naught but the blackened walls
And charred bones of my kindred blood
Was left beside the dimpled flood.
And stole the white moon down the hill,
Soft, as if she too feared some ill,
Again I sought the sacred halls
And on the curving causeway stood.
I looked—naught but the blackened walls
And charred bones of my kindred blood
Was left beside the dimpled flood.
‘We fled, and swiftly fled—and far
Toward the frozen polar star
Where Sierra's white locks float and flow
In sheen of everlasting snow—
Where meek-eyed violets in blue
Were shining in the beaded dew,
And yellow blooms were bursting through
The very crust of dripping snow.
Toward the frozen polar star
Where Sierra's white locks float and flow
In sheen of everlasting snow—
Where meek-eyed violets in blue
Were shining in the beaded dew,
And yellow blooms were bursting through
The very crust of dripping snow.
41
‘There is one thing I would forget,
One theme I would not dwell upon;
A skeleton for ever set
Beside my desolate hearthstone—
A wrong to her so deep and base—
A deed so terrible and damned
That even you would hide your face
In shame to bear the shape of man,
Should you but guess its black disgrace.
One theme I would not dwell upon;
A skeleton for ever set
Beside my desolate hearthstone—
A wrong to her so deep and base—
A deed so terrible and damned
That even you would hide your face
In shame to bear the shape of man,
Should you but guess its black disgrace.
‘My arm was nerved—my soul was fire,
I vented full the darkest ire.
This steel has known no maiden stain
To-day on yonder battle plain,
A marvel if my northern slain
Outnumbered not those of to-day
That dead and dying yonder lay.
I vented full the darkest ire.
This steel has known no maiden stain
To-day on yonder battle plain,
A marvel if my northern slain
Outnumbered not those of to-day
That dead and dying yonder lay.
‘My vengeance was complete; but she,
Too sainted, beautiful, and pure,
To stay on earth and still endure
The dark stain and deep treachery,
Returned back to the yellow sun.
Too sainted, beautiful, and pure,
To stay on earth and still endure
The dark stain and deep treachery,
Returned back to the yellow sun.
‘I had enough of death and blood,
I might, of life too, say the same,
Since life and death, and good and ill,
Had neither choice, or charm, or name,
But all alike to me were one.
I roamed o'er many a realm since then
In sullen loneliness of thought,
And inly smiled to talk to men
Who boasted they had ofttimes seen
The trunkless head of dread Joaquin.
But when I learned a stranger sought
To sit on Montezuma's throne
That had in justice been my own,
And make your cross the nation's creed,
As did the Castile kings of old,
My cold heart beat no longer cold.
To tell the rest is little need—
And little time left to reveal—
My eyes are dim—my senses reel—
Enough! Mine was no tempered steel
To-day upon the sulphurous field,
As many trenched heads yonder feel,
And many felt, that feel no more,
That fought beneath your cross and sign,
And falling, vainly called on Christ—
You black monk! dare you cross you thrice?
When I have warned you twice before,
And swing your cursed cross o'er and o'er,
But for which she had been my bride
And sat a princess at my side?
To you and your damned faith I owe
My heritage of crime and woe;
You shall not live to mock me more
If there be temper in this brand,
Or nerve left in this bloody hand—
I start, I leave this stony ground,
Despite of blood or mortal wound,
Or darkness that has dimmed the eye,
Or senses that do dance and reel—
I clutch a throat—I clench a steel—
I thrust—I fail—I fall—I die—’
42
Since life and death, and good and ill,
Had neither choice, or charm, or name,
But all alike to me were one.
I roamed o'er many a realm since then
In sullen loneliness of thought,
And inly smiled to talk to men
Who boasted they had ofttimes seen
The trunkless head of dread Joaquin.
But when I learned a stranger sought
To sit on Montezuma's throne
That had in justice been my own,
And make your cross the nation's creed,
As did the Castile kings of old,
My cold heart beat no longer cold.
To tell the rest is little need—
And little time left to reveal—
My eyes are dim—my senses reel—
Enough! Mine was no tempered steel
To-day upon the sulphurous field,
As many trenched heads yonder feel,
And many felt, that feel no more,
That fought beneath your cross and sign,
And falling, vainly called on Christ—
You black monk! dare you cross you thrice?
43
And swing your cursed cross o'er and o'er,
But for which she had been my bride
And sat a princess at my side?
To you and your damned faith I owe
My heritage of crime and woe;
You shall not live to mock me more
If there be temper in this brand,
Or nerve left in this bloody hand—
I start, I leave this stony ground,
Despite of blood or mortal wound,
Or darkness that has dimmed the eye,
Or senses that do dance and reel—
I clutch a throat—I clench a steel—
I thrust—I fail—I fall—I die—’
VII.
The tinkle of bells on the blended hills,
The hum of bees in the orange-trees
And the lowly call of the beaded rills,
Are heard in the land as I look again
Over the peaceful battle-plain.
For murderous man from the field has fled
As if he feared the face of his dead.
He bled—he battled—he ruled a day,
And peaceful nature resumed her sway.
But the sward where yonder corses lay,
When the verdant season shall come again
Shall greener grow than it grew before;
Taking its freshness back once more
From they that despoiled it yesterday.
The hum of bees in the orange-trees
And the lowly call of the beaded rills,
Are heard in the land as I look again
Over the peaceful battle-plain.
For murderous man from the field has fled
As if he feared the face of his dead.
He bled—he battled—he ruled a day,
44
But the sward where yonder corses lay,
When the verdant season shall come again
Shall greener grow than it grew before;
Taking its freshness back once more
From they that despoiled it yesterday.
Death has been in at the low church door,
For his foot-prints lie on the stony floor.
There are raven locks of flowing hair;
The stole and the surplice too are there;
And I have seen them all before.
A cross is clasped in one right hand,
And one is clutching a blood-red brand,
And all are silent, and thick with gore.
The door is wide, the sill unpressedFor his foot-prints lie on the stony floor.
There are raven locks of flowing hair;
The stole and the surplice too are there;
And I have seen them all before.
A cross is clasped in one right hand,
And one is clutching a blood-red brand,
And all are silent, and thick with gore.
By saint, or Sadducee, or priest—
By friend or foe, or host or guest.
The black bats cling about the wall,
And from the cross that leans afar
The gaunt, ungainly vultures call
Like wolves that prowl and howl in war.
The spiders' web, and dust within
45
And all the holy things therein
Save but the cross, and Christ divine;
There spiders weave a circle lace
For ever round the holy face.
The peons pass that way no more
Except in bands, quick, stepping light,
For white bones rattle in the aisle
And hot blood smokes along the floor.
While all the night a priest in white
That watches in the open door,
Will cross him once, and twice, and thrice,
And wailing call the name of Christ?
Then cross again; and all the while
The white bones rattle in the aisle.
While ever at the noon of day
There rises from the gory floor
A loose capote and cloud of hair,
All darker than a thunder-storm,
Enveloping a sullen form
That looks a weary, sad despair.
One worships Christ by night, and one
By day is worshipping the sun.
| Joaquin, et al. | |