Classic Poem

Lost somewhere in the wilds of Mexico,
A poor dry mountain crouches in the sand.
About it, goldenly, the Summers go
And feed with fruit the gorgeous-colored land,
Yet leave it starving on its empty plain,
Forgotten almost by the tender rain,
With loneliness around it like a band.

Nor wing'd nor odorous life glows in the air,
That, dull and dying, toward it heavily creeps,
Yet on its breast, among the clouds, how fair
A strange calm Image sleeps — and sleeps and sleeps!
It is a Man, gigantic, gray in stone,
With dropping eyelids, lying there alone
With the old awful silence that he keeps.

Sharp Southern lightnings on his rocky height
Against him in their glittering fury fall;
The desert's dumbness smites him day and night;
Suns scorch him — but he does not stir at all.
Ages, like bubbles, on his slumber break: —
But glimmering legends say he will awake,
And simple hearts are listening for his call.

For once he was that fabled king, they say,
Whose savage splendor, wavering from the dark
Of long tradition, seems a dream to-day,
Yet still the traveler sometimes stops to mark
In solitary places, shining slow,
(Ah, beautiful belief in long ago!)
The faithful fire in many a tremulous spark.

The languid Spaniard rose and sank again.
Ardent and light-heroic over seas
The young fair Austrian alien drifted then,
And made him a mock throne and tried to please
Himself with playing — till his play was doom'd
And through the world his echoing death-shot boom'd.
The sleeping monarch hears not sounds like these.

He waits. And waiting bosoms know, at last
Those faithful fires they keep will charm him down
Into the jewel'd glory of his Past,
To beat the dust from off his buried crown,
And trail the brightness of his risen name
Across the risen kingdom he shall claim,
Though at his coming newer kings may frown.

So there are lives about us, every-where,
Fruit-fed by tropic suns, yet poison creeps
Across one mountain held by desert air,
Whereon one Image sleeps — and sleeps and sleeps!
It is a Man, gigantic, gray in stone,
With dropping eyelids, lying there alone
With the old awful silence that he keeps.

And if one stranger waste their wealth awhile,
And if another act a tragedy
And close the last scene with a desperate smile:
The sovereign sleeper may not wake to see;
The image on the mountain may not hear
The play-king's death-shot, though it hisses near,
Or cries afar for many an echoing mile.

He waits. And waiting bosoms know at last
The faithful fires they keep will charm him down
Into the jewel'd glory of his Past,
To beat the dust from off his buried crown,
And trail the brightness of his risen name
Across the risen kingdom he shall claim,
Though at his coming newer kings may frown.

Here, see what I have brought you from the hill —
A brier-rose lingering late into July.
Oh, it may tell you, if it can and will,
In its small way, so pink and timid, why
It waited after all its mates were dead,
And wore for mourning-garments only red
While its step-mother month was fierce and dry.

There is no flower with look and bloom and breath.
I faintly fancy, like the faint brier-rose;
No flower so fair for life, so sweet for death,
That in the dew or in the darkness grows;
No flower that has so fairily heard and seen
What fairy things the hum and honey mean,
When in the wind the bee about it blows.

Far off, by black-gray stone, in shatter'd heaps,
The beautiful, familiar, sad home-grace,
Like love itself made palpable, it keeps
Through all the sorrowful forsaken place.
Nor can you find the scented presence there,
On the green ground or in the pensive air,
Of any other of the blossoming race.

A very lovely woman loved to wear
Its cluster of blushes once upon her breast.
She brought it from the woods and set it where
She always loved to be, herself, the best.
The very flowers we think so frail outstay
Our frailer selves — and she is gone away:
Away — and, therefore, as we think, to rest.

On the seventh birthday of her fair twin-boys,
She gave the two a boat, as they were one,
(For until then each own'd the other's toys;)
But when they saw it floating in the sun,
With sails of stained silk so prettily blown,
Each felt that he was now himself alone:
The golden chain that bound them was undone.

" No, it is mine, " each to the other said,
And one raised up an angry arm and made
A quick wide wound, that look'd so strange and red
Each of the other dimly felt afraid.
Then a child-Cain in shadowy terror stood,
And, crying from the ground, his brother's blood
Rose from the pleasant shore where they had play'd.

That sharp, swift cut had cleft the two apart.
And, under his light, lovely hair, one wore
A strange-shaped scar. And in the other's heart,
A heart that had been very sweet before,
The snake-like passions started from their sleep
And over it began to writhe and creep.
And so the two were two forevermore.

As they grew older, he who wore the scar
Saw it was like a hand — his brother's hand,
It seem'd, against him. Then he went afar
With a kind kinsman to a colder land,
After he heard the dust begin to fall
On his young mother's coffin. She was all
He had dear. And she was what the shadows are.

Blue-eyed and stately, with a bright, brave scorn
Of wrong, he in a calmer climate grew.
The other, tropic-nursed as tropic-born,
Was fierce and swarthy, and imperious too,
And restless as the wind that bloweth where
It listeth: so he wander'd here and there.
And neither of the other clearly knew.

At last there came a heavy hail of lead
Out of the Northern sky, that Southward fell.
The fields were blasted and the men lay dead;
The women moan'd; and flying shapes of shell
Their ways from roof to hearth-stone madly tore,
And open'd suddenly the deserted door,
By the brier-roses guarded once so well.

And Ruin glided up the weedy path,
And cross'd the moldy threshold and went in,
And sat there, with a sort of a sullen wrath,
Gathering about her all that once had been
Dear and familiar — save the rose, beside
The crumbling porch, from which she vainly tried,
Tearing her hands with thorns, the flowers to win.

And once, when a great ghastly Sight close by
Was terrible in the stillness of the moon,
A tall, slight soldier, with a smother'd cry,
Crept close and broke some buds and vanish'd soon:
But, with an almost human joy-in-grief,
The desolate rose-tree thrill'd from root to leaf
When he said wearily: " Yes — it is I. "

A whole year more, when summer flush'd again,
Near to the same place, in the glitter of heat,
(The earth was red, the sky was smoky then,)
One lay in agony. Against his feet
A gash'd and gory flag from its shot staff
Flutter'd and fell. There was a cruel laugh
From one he had not fear'd again to meet;

And a swift horse, deep-black, with foaming mouth
And angry eyes full of wild wonder, sprung
From its light rider — one who loved the South
With his whole bitter soul. And, as he flung
The reins away and stood in tears beside
The dying creature, gentle, till it died,
He show'd that he was desperate, dark, and young.

There was a beautiful and dreadful charm
About that youthful captain, as he stood
Bare-headed, swordless, with his dead right arm
Loose at his side, his left, whose strength was good,
About his horse — forgetting his own wound,
Forgetting all the horrible things around —
Calling it all the tender names he could.

But when his horse was gone, he turn'd away
And stamp'd the fallen flag and cursed, and shook
The tall, slight soldier in whose blood it lay,
Till he half-raised himself with a dim look,
That made the other loose his hateful hold
And tremble for an instant and grow cold,
As if his thought some deadly trouble took.

Then he crept closer to the wounded youth
And lifted, vaguely, his light lovely hair,
And that strange scar — the brother's hand, in truth
Against him — as in distant days was there.
But now that brother look'd at his distress
With a remorse that changed to tenderness,
And tried to raise him with a timid care.

And watch'd him many a moaning after-night,
Through which the shine of spectral steel would go,
Through which lost armies would rise up and fight
Lost battles, in the air — then waver slow
And haze-like down, and whiten toward the dust,
Leaving behind a little blood and rust
And glory. Glory? Why, I do not know.

At last the War's fierce music left the wind,
And they who answer'd to its infinite cries
With their whole breath were gone where God can find
Them, when He searches land and sea and skies;
And Peace remain'd — a beautiful white vail,
Wrought by hurt hands that dropp'd off thin and pale,
To hide the tears in wan, wet, restless eyes.

And the twin-brothers — one just from his wound —
Talk'd of their brier-rose that would blossom yet,
Talk'd of the river with its far-back sound,
Talk'd of their mother with a still regret,
And of the fairy boat she gave them both:
And then a sudden silence show'd them loath
To talk of — what they did not quite forget.

Just then it happen'd that a pretty flash
Of small spring-lightning made their window bright:
They saw a fluttering dress, a bright-plaid sash,
A wide straw-hat, and loose hair falling quite
Half-way to eager feet. And so they guess'd,
Each in a shy half-dreaming way, the rest:
They thought the girl was lovely? They were right.

Her face in glimpses came to haunt the two,
Her voice was not what common voices are;
And soon the twin-born rivals darkly knew
The old feud was not dead. They saw the scar
Out of its dreary quiet rise again:
The brother's hand was terrible and plain
Against the brother, as in years afar.

She loved them both. Which most? I think that she —
At least not yet — nor any other knew.
Sometimes she walk'd with Frederick by the sea,
Sometimes she sung a tremulous song to Hugh,
And in a while, no doubt, began to know
That he was handsome, or she thought him so,
And that his eyes, perhaps, were frankly blue.

Out with the darker brother once, a storm
Broke sharply down the twilight. For a time
She clung to him. But, dry again and warm,
Among their lamps she sung a sobbing rhyme
To her piano — and the gold-hair'd man —
Whose desolate music ended and began
With a far, subtle, creeping sea-like chime.

Then hush'd and went half-tearful to her room,
Asking herself but this: " Which shall I choose?
Have I the saddest need of light or gloom?
The fair one surely is too fair to lose:
Without him half the world were empty, and
Without his brother — — if I understand,
The dark one is too dark to quite refuse.

" And sometimes if I only glance at him,
His richer, fiercer color seems to me
To make his stiller brother look as dim
As a star looks by lightning. Let me be,
My star, with the white constant light you shed;
Fade out, my lightning, or else strike me dead.
For star and lightning can but ill agree. "

But something startled her brown window-bird,
Nested below in perfume. As it flew
She heard her own name spoken, and she heard,
Out in the wind, one ask: " Which of us two?
It is not well that both of us should stay.
Let her decide. " In a bewilder'd way,
Not knowing what she did, she whisper'd, " Hugh. "

They heard below, and Frederick seem'd to laugh
And said: " My boy, our paths again divide.
Your joy is great. If you could give me half,
Enough were left. Good-by. The world is wide,
But all too narrow to hold you and me.
Good-by — — and shall we let the Future be?
Upon my faith you have a charming bride. "

Next morning he was gone. And then, somehow,
Hugh chanced in his vex'd dreamy way to throw
The yellow hair from his unquiet brow,
And started from a glass which seem'd to show
That fearful scar, looking more deadly-white,
More like his brother's hand, too, since last night;
Then scarlet suddenly it seem'd to grow.

She saw it: " Ah, you have a scar, " she said.
" How strange it is — and how much like a hand. "
" It is a hand, " he answered. " See how red
It threatens now. It cut the gentle band
Between us while we yet were children. " " Who? "
" We twins that called each other Fred and Hugh,
And play'd beside a river in the sand. "

A troubled paleness fell upon her face.
She look'd at him an instant. " If I may? "
She said, and, bird-like, flutter'd from her place,
And flush'd and doubted, and — I must not say
She kiss'd the scar. But I can say it grew
Yet deeper scarlet, and look'd darker too,
And seem'd to move — motioning her away.

— — The leaf-bloom of the Fall was in the woods —
(The next day was to be their wedding-day.)
A cruel rain whirl'd down in pitiless floods
And fretted the poor leaves that tried to stay
And wear their splendor for a little yet.
The butterflies were faded out and wet,
Or else the wind had blown them all away.

The crimson-curtain'd, pleasant parlor glow'd
With ferns and asters, and a sparkling fire;
The next-day's bride before the mirror show'd
The trailing mistiness of a bride's attire.
And Hugh look'd at her, smiling from his dream:
He was not happy, quite, nor did he seem;
Yet such sweet vanity he must admire.

She turn'd to take a letter that came in,
And read it, and look'd at him as she read,
And threw it at his feet. " And be your sin, "
She hoarsely whisper'd, " upon your own head. "
" My sin? " " See there, and — say it is not true. "
" I will not. All I say is this: if you
Believe it — let to-morrow not begin! "

Then there were angry words, and — " Let us part, "
She moan'd, and reach'd to him her frighten'd hand,
Thinking that he would hold it — to his heart —
And kiss her pain away, as she had plann'd:
For she forgave him — what he had not done.
He answer'd: " As you please. " And there was none
To come between them, or to understand.

What then? The thistles blew across the rain,
The gray, wet thorn-tree glimmer'd once and shook.
She thought: " If one should never come again —
Should never come — after a bitter look? "
And — the dry asters from the mantel fell:
She brought no fresh ones for the vases. Well?
And silence settled in his favorite book.

She did not thin her beauty with her tears,
But was she tearless? Doubtless she was not.
But all the outward gladness of her years
Was not because of one great grief forgot.
Loose hair and laughter, singing quick and sweet,
Follow'd about the green home-grass her feet,
And quieted all wordless, kindly fears.

She had no mother. But her father said:
" You are too hasty, little girl, I fear.
Hugh is a manly fellow; as for Fred — —
The villain! Hugh will come again, my dear,
Before the fashion of your dress shall change,
And we shall have our wedding. " Was it strange?
The dress grew quaint. And Hugh did not appear.

— — — Once at the sea-side, in an evening dance,
She felt — and, fluttering, tried to fly away —
The bird-like terror of the snake-like glance.
Poor, charmed little thing — and must it stay?
" Frederick? " " Well — yes. " " Where is your brother, Hugh? "
" Am I my brother's keeper? Doubtless you
Who wounded and deserted him, can say. "

Hurt and bewilder'd, then she brokenly tried
The secret of his letter to recall.
His letter? With feign'd anger he denied
That he had written — any thing at all!
" What a mysterious piece of villainy!
Hugh never could have thought so ill of me.
He did not read it? " Then he heard her fall.

— — It was the crowded room, and they must go
Into the wide moonlighted air apart.
Where was his brother, then? He said, to know
He would give up the last throb of his heart;
It was two years or more since he had heard
Of Hugh one word, one single precious word:
Then broke into a cry that made her start.

By dim degrees he made himself grow dear,
By seeming every thing his brother was.
Whatever in the other had been clear,
In him she saw — darkly as in a glass.
At last, in some weird, subtle way, he grew
The shadow, or the very self, of Hugh.
And — well, the Summer wither'd from the grass.

What then? The asters in the vases glow'd
Again; the parlor held the shining fire
Again; the mirror, three years older, show'd
The trailing mistiness of a bride's attire;
And, this time, Frederick watch'd her from his dream.
He was not happy, quite, nor did he seem,
Yet such-fair vanity he must admire.

Once more the thistles blew across the rain,
The gray, wet thorn-tree glimmer'd once and shook:
And then she thought: " If one should come again —
Or should not come — after a bitter look! "
And then — a sudden voice, familiar-low,
And phantom-sweet, but heavily-bent and slow,
Read out the silence of the old favorite book.

No matter. In a wedded year or two,
In a far Western land a cottage rose,
With sand and sea and sea-shell shining through
Its many windows — so the story goes.
Frederick was happy there. But his late bride
Had backward-yearning eyes, and sometimes sigh'd
A little — as all women may? Who knows?

Once bitterly he ask'd: " What makes you sad? "
She answer'd languidly: " Perhaps the sea.
I sometimes think it surely has gone mad:
It foams and mutters till it frightens me.
Sometimes when it looks only golden, and
All things look golden in this Golden Land,
Blackly below it threatens things to be. "

And, as her childish words fail'd at her lip,
From silks and spices and a foreign sail,
She saw a man drop from a landing ship
As heavily as he had been a bale
Of precious merchant-freight. With the great light
Of the great evening smitten, he was bright —
But all who look'd at him were dull and pale.

A life-boat brought him strangling to the coast.
He motion'd them, in a despairing way,
To drown his body. For his soul was lost,
He said: it shook him off and plunged away
From the dark deck into the gulfs below,
For utter loneliness. And he must go
And find it, somewhere — for the Judgment Day

Then he died, smiling — — Frederick and his wife
Look'd at him and each other, and then wound
Their arms about him. What was calm or strife
To him or them? What had they lost and found?
What thing was near? What things were gone afar?
With tears, and without words, they kiss'd the scar —
His brother's hand against him all his life.