 | Joaquin, et al. |  |
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.
11
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,
12
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
13
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
14
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.
| Joaquin, et al. | |