 | Songs of summer lands |  |
9
SONGS OF SUMMER LANDS.
In
that far land, farther than Yucatan,
Hondurian height, or Mahogany steep,
Where the great sea, hollowed by the hand of man.
Hears deep come calling across to deep;
Where the great seas follow in the grooves of men
Down under the bastions of Darien:
Hondurian height, or Mahogany steep,
Where the great sea, hollowed by the hand of man.
Hears deep come calling across to deep;
Where the great seas follow in the grooves of men
Down under the bastions of Darien:
In that land so far that you wonder whether
If God would know it should you fall down dead;
In that land so far through the wilds and weather
That the lost sun sinks like a warrior sped,—
Where the sea and the sky seem closing together,
Seem closing together as a book that is read:
If God would know it should you fall down dead;
In that land so far through the wilds and weather
That the lost sun sinks like a warrior sped,—
Where the sea and the sky seem closing together,
Seem closing together as a book that is read:
10
In that nude, warm world, where the unnamed rivers
Roll restless in cradles of bright buried gold;
Where white flashing mountains flow rivers of silver,
As a rock of the desert flowed fountains of old;
By a dark, wooded river that calls to the dawn,
And calls all day with his dolorous swan:
Roll restless in cradles of bright buried gold;
Where white flashing mountains flow rivers of silver,
As a rock of the desert flowed fountains of old;
By a dark, wooded river that calls to the dawn,
And calls all day with his dolorous swan:
In that land of the wonderful sun and weather,
With green under foot and with gold over head,
Where the spent sun flames, and you wonder whether
'Tis an isle of fire in his foamy bed:
Where the oceans of earth shall be welded together
By the great French master in his forge flame red,—
With green under foot and with gold over head,
Where the spent sun flames, and you wonder whether
'Tis an isle of fire in his foamy bed:
Where the oceans of earth shall be welded together
By the great French master in his forge flame red,—
Lo! the half-finished world! Yon footfall retreating,—
It might be the Maker disturbed at his task.
But the footfall of God, or the far pheasant beating,
It is one and the same, whatever the mask
It may wear unto man. The woods keep repeating
The old sacred sermons, whatever you ask.
It might be the Maker disturbed at his task.
But the footfall of God, or the far pheasant beating,
It is one and the same, whatever the mask
It may wear unto man. The woods keep repeating
The old sacred sermons, whatever you ask.
11
It is man in his garden, scarce wakened as yet
From the sleep that fell on him when woman was made.
The new-finished garden is plastic and wet
From the hand that has fashioned its unpeopled shade;
And the wonder still looks from the fair woman's eyes
As she shines through the wood like the light from the skies.
From the sleep that fell on him when woman was made.
The new-finished garden is plastic and wet
From the hand that has fashioned its unpeopled shade;
And the wonder still looks from the fair woman's eyes
As she shines through the wood like the light from the skies.
And a ship now and then from some far Ophir's shore
Draws in from the sea. It lies close to the bank;
Then a dull, muffled sound of the slow shuffled plank
As they load the black ship; but you hear nothing more,
And the dark, dewy vines, and the tall, sombre wood
Like twilight droop over the deep, sweeping flood.
Draws in from the sea. It lies close to the bank;
Then a dull, muffled sound of the slow shuffled plank
As they load the black ship; but you hear nothing more,
And the dark, dewy vines, and the tall, sombre wood
Like twilight droop over the deep, sweeping flood.
The black masts are tangled with branches that cross,
The rich, fragrant gums fall from branches to deck,
The thin ropes are swinging with streamers of moss
That mantle all things like the shreds of a wreck;
The long mosses swing, there is never a breath:
The river rolls still as the river of death.
The rich, fragrant gums fall from branches to deck,
12
That mantle all things like the shreds of a wreck;
The long mosses swing, there is never a breath:
The river rolls still as the river of death.
244
A GARIBALDIAN'S STORY.
“Ay, signor, that's Nervi, just under the lights
That look down from the forts on the Genoese heights;
And that stone set in stone in the rim of the sea,
Like a tall figure rising and reaching a hand,
Marks the spot where the Chief and his red-shirted band
Hoisted sail. ... Have a light? Ah, yes! as for me
I have lights, and a leg—short a leg, as you see;
And have three fingers hewn from this strong sabre-hand.
That look down from the forts on the Genoese heights;
And that stone set in stone in the rim of the sea,
Like a tall figure rising and reaching a hand,
Marks the spot where the Chief and his red-shirted band
Hoisted sail. ... Have a light? Ah, yes! as for me
I have lights, and a leg—short a leg, as you see;
And have three fingers hewn from this strong sabre-hand.
“Look you there! Do you see where the blue bended floors
Of the heavens are fresco'd with stars? See the heights,
Then the bent hills beneath, where the grape-growers' doors
Open out and look down in a crescent of lights?
Well, there I was born; grew tall. Then the call
For bold men for Sicily. I rose from the vines,
Shook back my long hair, look'd forth, then let fall
My dull pruning-hook, and stood up in the lines.
Then my young promised bride held her head to her breast
As a sword trail'd the stones, and I strode with a zest.
But a sable-crowl'd monk girt his gown, and look'd down
With a leer in her face, as I turned from the town.
Of the heavens are fresco'd with stars? See the heights,
Then the bent hills beneath, where the grape-growers' doors
Open out and look down in a crescent of lights?
245
For bold men for Sicily. I rose from the vines,
Shook back my long hair, look'd forth, then let fall
My dull pruning-hook, and stood up in the lines.
Then my young promised bride held her head to her breast
As a sword trail'd the stones, and I strode with a zest.
But a sable-crowl'd monk girt his gown, and look'd down
With a leer in her face, as I turned from the town.
“Then from yonder green hills bending down to the seas,
Grouping here, grouping there, in the grey olive trees,
We watch'd the slow sun; slow saw him retire
At last in the sea, like a vast isle of fire.
Then the Chief drew his sword: there was that in his air,
As the care on his face came and went and still came,
As he gazed out at sea, and yet gazed anywhere,
That meant more, signor, more than a peasant can say.
Then at last, when the stars in the soft-tempered breeze
Glow'd red and grew large, as if fann'd to a flame,
Lo! something shot up from a black-muffled ship
Deep asleep in the bay, like a star gone astray:
Then down, double quick, with the sword-hilt a-trip,
Came the troop with a zest, and—that stone tells the rest.
Grouping here, grouping there, in the grey olive trees,
We watch'd the slow sun; slow saw him retire
At last in the sea, like a vast isle of fire.
Then the Chief drew his sword: there was that in his air,
As the care on his face came and went and still came,
246
That meant more, signor, more than a peasant can say.
Then at last, when the stars in the soft-tempered breeze
Glow'd red and grew large, as if fann'd to a flame,
Lo! something shot up from a black-muffled ship
Deep asleep in the bay, like a star gone astray:
Then down, double quick, with the sword-hilt a-trip,
Came the troop with a zest, and—that stone tells the rest.
“Hot times at Marsala! and then under Rome
It was hell, sure enough, and a whole column fell
Like new vines in a frost. Then year follow'd year,
Until, stricken and sere, at last I came home—
As the strife lull'd a spell, came limping back here—
Stealing back to my home, limping up out of hell,
But we won, did we not? Won, I scarcely know what—
Yet the whole land is free from the Alps to the sea—
Ah! my young promised bride? Christ! that cuts! Why, I thought
That her face had gone by, like a dream that was not.
It was hell, sure enough, and a whole column fell
Like new vines in a frost. Then year follow'd year,
Until, stricken and sere, at last I came home—
As the strife lull'd a spell, came limping back here—
Stealing back to my home, limping up out of hell,
247
Yet the whole land is free from the Alps to the sea—
Ah! my young promised bride? Christ! that cuts! Why, I thought
That her face had gone by, like a dream that was not.
.... “Yes, peaches must ripen and show the sun's red,
In their time, I suppose, like the full of a rose,
And some one must pluck them; that's very well said,
As they swell and grow rich and look luscious to touch:
Yet I fancy some men, some fiends, must have much
To repent of: this reaching up rudely of hand
For the early sweet fruits of a warm, careless land;
This plucking and biting of every sweet peach
Ere yet it be ripe and come well to its worth,
Then casting it down, and quite spoil'd, to the reach
Of the swine and the things that creep close to the earth. ...
In their time, I suppose, like the full of a rose,
And some one must pluck them; that's very well said,
As they swell and grow rich and look luscious to touch:
Yet I fancy some men, some fiends, must have much
To repent of: this reaching up rudely of hand
For the early sweet fruits of a warm, careless land;
This plucking and biting of every sweet peach
Ere yet it be ripe and come well to its worth,
Then casting it down, and quite spoil'd, to the reach
248
“But he died! Look you here. Stand aside. Yes, he died
Like a dog in a ditch. In that low battle-moat
He was found on a morn. The red line on his throat
They said was a rope. ‘Bah! the one-finger'd man
Might have done it,’ said one. Then I laugh'd till I cried
When the guard led me forth, and the judge sat to scan
My hands and my strength, and to question me sore:
‘Why, what has the match-man to do with all this,—
The one-finger'd man, with his life gone amiss?’
I cried as I laugh'd, and they vex'd me no more.
Like a dog in a ditch. In that low battle-moat
He was found on a morn. The red line on his throat
They said was a rope. ‘Bah! the one-finger'd man
Might have done it,’ said one. Then I laugh'd till I cried
When the guard led me forth, and the judge sat to scan
My hands and my strength, and to question me sore:
‘Why, what has the match-man to do with all this,—
The one-finger'd man, with his life gone amiss?’
I cried as I laugh'd, and they vex'd me no more.
“Some men must fill trenches. Ten thousand go down
As unnamed and unknown as the stones in a wall,
For the few to pass over and on to renown:
And I am of these. The old king has his crown,
And my country is free; and what more, after all,
Did I ask from the first? Don't you think that yon lights
Through the black olive trees look divine on the seas?
Then look you above, where the Appennines bend:
Why, you scarcely can tell, as you peer through the trees,
Where the great stars begin or the cottage-lights end!
As unnamed and unknown as the stones in a wall,
249
And I am of these. The old king has his crown,
And my country is free; and what more, after all,
Did I ask from the first? Don't you think that yon lights
Through the black olive trees look divine on the seas?
Then look you above, where the Appennines bend:
Why, you scarcely can tell, as you peer through the trees,
Where the great stars begin or the cottage-lights end!
“Yes, a little bit lonely, that can't be denied:
But as good place to wait for a sign as may be.
I shall watch on the shore, looking out as before;
And the Chief on his isle in the calm middle sea,
With his sword gather'd up, stands waiting with me
For the great silent ship. We shall cross to the shore
Where a white city lies yon Alps in the skies,
And look down on this sea; and right well satisfied.
“Have a light, sir, to-night? Ah, thanks, signor, thanks!
Bon voyage, bon voyage! Bless you and your francs.”
But as good place to wait for a sign as may be.
I shall watch on the shore, looking out as before;
And the Chief on his isle in the calm middle sea,
With his sword gather'd up, stands waiting with me
For the great silent ship. We shall cross to the shore
Where a white city lies yon Alps in the skies,
And look down on this sea; and right well satisfied.
250
Bon voyage, bon voyage! Bless you and your francs.”
| Songs of summer lands | |