Classic Poem

CHANT I

I

That man who lives for self alone
Lives for the meanest mortal known.

I celebrate no man of strife,
I eat no bread with blood upon.
'Twere braver far to live unknown,
To live alone and die alone
Than owe sweet song, aye owe sweet life,
Or sweeter fame, to saber drawn.

II

Wreathe ye who may the victor's bay,
Fill book on book with battles, then
Fill every public park you may
With iron-fashioned fighting men
Begirt with blade and cannon ball,
With not one woman's plinth mid all.

But she who rocks the cradle, she
Who croons and rocks all day, all night,
And knows no public place or name
Makes far the better, braver fight,
Deserves a nobler, fairer fame
Than all bronze men of historie.

The foot that rocks the babe to rest
Keeps step, keeps song with singing dawn.
The hand that holds the babe to breast
Is sceptered as King Solomon.
And yet, for all she does, has done,
Has not one monument, not one!

III

And he who guides the good plowshare,
Binds golden sheaves, unnamed, unknown,
Who harvests what his hand hath sown,
Does more for God, for man, his own —
Dares more than all mad heroes dare.

IV

And like to him the man who keeps
Calm watch on Freedom's outer wall,
Who sees the great moon rise and fall
Yet sleeps and rests and rests and sleeps —
The man who knows, the man who sees
God in the grass, God in the trees,
Sees good in all, sees God in all —
Gets more, gives more, does more true weal
Than all your storied men of steel.

V

But nobler still the man who leads
Far out the deadly firing line
To hew the way, subdue, refine
By dauntless and unselfish deeds;
Who lays aside his student's book
And gathers up his knotted thews
And, facing westward, hews and hews
The way for plowshare, pruning hook
And scarce recks if he win or lose;
Who sees white duty over all,
Fair duty, halo-topt and tall,
Far pointing where his pathway lies,
And dares not falter, rest, repine,
But forward, forward, wins and — dies.

VI

I sing this man who sought man's good,
Who fought for peace, unselfish fought,
Who silent fell and murmured not,
This man whom no man understood,
This great man so well-nigh forgot,
This man who led, who faltered not,
This student, soldier, president,
Who chose the weaker side and sent
Such spirit through his fearless few
As only Khartoum Gordon knew.

VII

I sing those children of the sun
Because I love them and because
I would that you should love them, too,
As tenderly as he had done
Ere Fate laid her cold finger to
His bounding pulse and bade him pause.

VIII

A man to love, a land to love;
A land of gold, of sapphire seas,
Such blue below, such blue above,
Such fruits and ever-flowered trees —
The fairest Eden-land that is,
And I am joyed that it is his;
He won it, holds, with dust-full hands —
This soldier born, born and not made,
Who scorned to make rude war a trade.

IX

A soldier born, let this be said
Above my brave, dishonored dead;
I ask no more, this is not much,
Yet I disdain a colder touch
To memory as dear as his;
For he was true as steel, or star,
And brave as Yuba's grizzlies are,
Yet gentle as a panther is
Mouthing her young in her first fierce kiss.

X

A cash of sadness in his air,
Born, may be, of his over care,
And may be, born of a despair
In early love — I never knew;
I question not, as many do,
Of things as sacred as this is;
I only know that he to me
Was all a father, friend, could be;
I sought to know no more than this
Of history of him or his.

A piercing eye, a princely air,
A presence like a chevalier,
Half angel and half Lucifer;
Sombrero black, with plume of snow
That swept his careless locks below;
A red serape with bars of gold,
All heedless falling, fold on fold,
A sash of silk, where flashing swung
A sword as swift as serpent's tongue,
In sheath of silver chased in gold;
Great Spanish spurs with bells of steel
That dash'd and dangled at the heel;
A face of blended pride and pain,
Of mingled pleading and disdain,
With shades of glory and of grief —
The famous filibuster chief
Stood front his men among the trees
That top the fierce Cordilleras,
With bent arm arched above his brow; —
Stood still, he stands, a picture, now —
Long gazing down his inland seas,

XI

What strange, strong, bearded men were these
He led above his tropic seas!
Men sometimes of uncommon birth,
Men rich in stories all untold,
Who boasted not, though more than bold,
Blown from the four parts of the earth.
Men mighty-thewed, as Sampson was,
That had been kings in any cause,
A remnant of the races past;
Dark-browed, as if in iron cast,
Broad-breasted as twin gates of brass, —
Men strangely brave and fiercely true,
Who dared the West when giants were,
Who erred, yet bravely dared to err —
A remnant of that dauntless few
Who held no crime or curse or vice
As dark as that of cowardice;
With blendings of the worst and best
Of faults and virtues that have blest
Or cursed or thrilled the human breast.

XII

They rode, a troop of bearded men,
Rode two and two out from the town,
And some were blonde and some were brown,
And all as brave as Sioux; but when
From warlike Leon south, the line
That bound them in the laws of man
Was passed, and peace stood mute behind
And streamed a banner to the wind
The world knew not, there was a sign
Of awe, of silence, rear and van.

XIII

Men thought who scarce had thought before;
I heard the clang and clash of steel
From sword at hand and spur at heel
And iron feet, but nothing more.

XIV

Some thought of Texas, some of Maine,
But one of wood-set Tennessee.
And one of Avon thought, and one
Thought of an isle beneath the sun,
And one, a dusky son of Spain,
Soft hummed his senorita's air,

Half laughed, shook back his heavy hair
And then — he would not think again,
And one of Wabash thought, and he
Thought tenderly, thought tearfully;
And one turned sadly to the Spree.

XV

Defeat meant something more than death;
The world was ready, keen to smite,
As stern and still beneath its ban
With iron will and bated breath,
Their hands against their fellow-man,
They rode — each man an Ishmaelite.

XVI

But when we topped the hills of pine,
These men dismounted, doffed their cares,
Talk'd loud and laugh'd old love affairs,
And on the grass took meat and wine,
And never gave a thought again
To land or life that lay behind,
Or love, or care of any kind
Beyond the present cross or pain.

XVII

And I, a waif of stormy seas,
A child among such men as these,
Was blown along this savage surf
And rested with them on the turf,
And took delight below the trees.

XVIII

I did not question, did not care
To know the right or wrong. I saw
That savage freedom had a spell,
And loved it more than word can tell.
I snapped my fingers at the law,
And dared to laugh, and laughed to dare.

XIX

I bear my burden of the shame, —
I shun it not, and naught forget,
However much I may regret;
I claim some candor to my name,
And courage cannot change or die, —
Did they deserve to die? they died!
Let justice then be satisfied,
And as for me, why, what am I?

XX

The standing side by side till death,
The dying for some wounded friend,
The faith that failed not to the end,
The strong endurance till the breath
And body took their ways apart,
I only know. I keep my trust.
Their vices! earth has them by heart:
Their virtues! they are with the dust.

XXI

How we descended, troop on troop,
As wide-winged eagles downward swoop!
How wound we through the fragrant wood,
With all its broad boughs hung in green,
With sweeping mosses trailed between!
How waked the spotted beasts of prey,
Deep sleeping from the face of day,
And dashed them, like a dashing flood,
Down deep defile and densest wood!

XXII

What snakes! long, lithe and beautiful
As green and graceful boughed bamboo.
How they did twine them through and through
Green boughs that hung red-fruited full!
One, monster-sized, above me hung,
Close eyed me with his bright pink eyes,
Then raised his folds, and swayed and swung,
And licked like lightning his red tongue,
Then oped his wide mouth with surprise;
He writhed and curved and raised and lowered
His folds, like liftings of the tide,
Then sank so low I touched his side,
As I rode by, with my boy's sword.
The trees shook hands high overhead,
And bowed and intertwined across
The narrow way, while leaves and moss
And luscious fruit, gold-hued and red,
Through all the canopy of green,
Let not one sun-shaft shoot between.

XXIII

Birds hung and swung, green-robed and red,
Or drooped in curved lines dreamily,
Rainbows reversed, from tree to tree,
Or sang low hanging overhead —
Sang low, as if they sang and slept,
Sang faint like some far waterfall,
And took no note of us at all,
Though nuts that in the way were spread
Did crash and crackle where we stept.

XXIV

Wild lilies, tall as maidens are,
As sweet of breath, as purely fair,
As fair as faith, as true as truth,
Fell thick before our iron tread,
In fragrant sacrifice of ruth.
Rich ripened fruit a fragrance shed
And hung in hand-reach overhead,
In nest of blossoms on the shoot,
The very shoot that bore the fruit.

XXV

How ran lithe monkeys through the leaves!
How rush'd they through, brown clad and blue,
Like shuttles hurried through and through
The threads a hasty weaver weaves!
How quick they cast us fruits of gold,
Then loosened hand and all foothold,
And hung, limp, limber, as if dead,
Hung low and listless overhead;
And all the time with half-oped eyes
Bent full on us in mute surprise —
Looked wisely too, as wise hens do
That watch you with the head askew.

XXVI

The long day through, from blossomed trees,
There came the sweet song of sweet bees,
With chorus tones of cockatoo
That slid his beak along the bough
And walked and talked and hung and swung,
In crown of gold and coat of blue,
The wisest fool that ever sung,
Or wore a crown or held a tongue.

XXVII

Oh! when we broke the somber wood
And pierced at last a sunny plain,
How wild and still with wonder stood
The proud mustangs with bannered mane
And necks that never knew a rein,
And nostrils lifted high, and blown,
Fierce breathing as a hurricane:
Yet by their leader held the while
In solid column, square and file,
And ranks more martial than our own!

XXVIII

Some one above the common kind,
Some one to look to, lean upon,
May be, is much a woman's mind;
But it was mine, and I had drawn
A rein beside the chief while we
Rode down the mesa leisurely.
Then he grew kind and questioned me
Of kindred, home, and home affair,
Of how I came to wander there,
And had my father herds and land
And men in hundreds at command?

At which I, silent, shook my head,
Then, timid, met his eyes and said:
" Not so. Where sunny foothills run
Down to the North Pacific sea,
And where Willamette meets the sun
In many angles, patiently
My father tends some flocks of snow,
And turns alone the mellow sod
And sows some fields not over broad,
And mourns my long delay in vain,
Nor bids one serve man come or go;
While mother from her wheel or churn,
And maybe from the milking shed,
Oft lifts an humbled wearied head
To watch and wish her boy's return
Across the camas' blossomed plain. "

XXIX

He held his bent head very low,
A sudden sadness in his air;
Then reached and touched my yellow hair
And tossed the long locks in his hand,
Toyed with them, sudden let them go,
Then thrummed about his saddle bow
As thought ran swift across his face;
Then turning instant in his place,
He gave some short and quick command.
They brought the best steed of the band,
They swung a carbine at my side,
He bade me mount and by him ride,
And from that hour to the end
I never felt the need of friend.

XXX

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Far in a wildest quinine wood
We found a city old — so old
Its very walls were turned to mould
And stately trees upon them stood.
No history has mentioned it,
No map has given it a place;
The last dim trace of tribe and race —
The world's forgetfulness is fit.

XXXI

It held one structure grand and moss'd,
Mighty as any castle sung,
And old when oldest Ind was young,
With threshold Christian never crossed;
A temple builded to the sun,
Along whose somber altar-stone
Brown, bleeding virgins had been strown
Like leaves, when leaves are crisp and dun,
In ages ere the Sphynx was born,
Or Babylon knew night, or morn.

XXXII

My chief swift up the marble stept —
He ever led, through that wild land —
When down the stones, with double hand
To his machete, a Sun priest leapt.
Hot bent to barter life for life,
A Texan drave his Bowie knife
Full through his thick and broad breast bone,
And broke the point against the stone,
The dark stone of the temple wall.
I saw him loose all hold and fall
Full length with head hung down the stone;
I saw run down a ruddy flood
Of smoking, pulsing human blood.
Then from the dusk there crept a crone
And kissed the gory hands and face,
And smote herself. Then one by one
Some dusk priests crept and did the same,
Then bore the dead man from the place.
Down darkened aisles the brown priests came,
So picture-like, with sandaled feet
And long, gray, dismal, grass-wove gowns,
So like the pictures of old time,
And stood all still and dark of frowns,
At blood upon the stone and street.
Stern men laid ready hand to sword
And boldly spake some bitter word;
But they were stubborn still and stood
Fierce frowning as a winter wood,
And mutt'ring something of the crime
Of blood upon their temple stone,
As if the first that it had known!

XXXIII

We strode on through each massive door
With clash of steel at heel, and with
Some swords all red and ready drawn.
I traced the sharp edge of my sword
Along both marble wall and floor
For crack or crevice; there was none,
From one vast mount of marble stone
The mighty temple had been cored
By nut-brown children of the sun,
When stars were newly bright and blithe
Of song along the rim of dawn,
A mighty marble monolith!

CHANT II

I

So old, so new and yet how old
This forest's green, that mesa's gold!

Rank, wild oats, waving in wild strength —
The lion's tawny mane and length!
Rank Artemesia, odorous
And gray with bald antiquity —
The rough arroyo swallowed us
As we rode down by two, by three,
The braying ass, the neighing stud —
And now the mesa, broad and free;
Tall cacti blooms, as tipt with blood:
And here a burning bush, and there
The red night-blooming cereus
Kneeled low, as if saluting us —
Kneeled as some red-robed monk at prayer,
High up the gleaming steeps of snow
Of Zacatecas, Mexico.

To left such green wood, and such green!
To right brown mesa, bald and bare:
But where we rode, the two between —
Such crimson, crimson everywhere!
Aye, earth was gaily garmented;
The great, green robe spread far away,
So far no man would dare to say,
And this great, green robe fringed with red,
Lay trackless, lifeless as the dead.
The yellow lion's skin behind,
The wild oats waving in the wind;
But that dense, silent wold of death
Drew not a breath, knew not a breath!

II

From Oro Yare toward the sea
Slow rounding down the river's source,
Red men, brown men, foot, cavalry,
We marched, a mottled, maniac force —
We rode so close to this dense wood
So somber, silent, deep and lorn,
That when at last we slow drew rein
The heat was as a choking pain.
The chief stood in his stirrups; stood
With set lips lifted up in scorn
To thus be baffled by a wood
And looked and looked that sultry morn:
The while our allies looked away
As if in dread to say or stay.

Far, far afield from out the night
Of silent blackness burst a cone
Of comely fashion, marble white,
And lone as God, as white and lone
As God upon the great white throne.

He beck'd some brown men, bade them say:
Then slow, a sandaled, nude old man,
As if not daring to say nay
Began, fast pointing far away —
Then two, then three, then all began.

III

Such stories as our allies said
Of such strange people meshed and hid
That drear, deep wilderness amid —
Their very name they spoke with dread!
They were not white men, brown men, red,
Not Spanish blood, not native blood,
Not Toltec, Aztec, but a race
Of cruel men who claimed to trace
Their fathers back beyond the flood —
Beyond the time when they alone
Took refuge on their rock-ribb'd cone.

Such stories as our allies told
Of gold, of river-beds of gold
Far in that lost land's wood-walled heart
That lay below the comely cone
As made our filibusters start
And think of this and this alone:
The while the silent chief looked down
Upon their zeal with sullen frown.

Such stories of red gold at morn
When savage rivers, sudden born
Of thunder, had swept on and on —
Such seams of gold that lay upon
White beds of quartz, bright as the sun
When night and sudden storm were done:
Free gold for all who deemed it fit
To stoop, take up and husband it.

Such stories as our allies told
Of armlets, wristlets, wrought in gold
So massive that the arms grew long
And sinewy and over strong
For battle from the very weight
Of gold; of gold-wrought arrowheads,
Of gold in shallow brooklet beds
As plentiful as yellow corn
Sown ere the blackbirds swoop at morn
To storm the thrifty farmer's gate:

IV

Such stories as our allies told
Of how, in armored days of old,
The Spaniard here had dared and died
In all his splendid strength and pride,
In maddened greed for this red gold:
How, many times in after years,
Troop after troop went forth again,
The Spanish Don, the dauntless son,
To dare the dread obsidian spears,
The gold-wrought arrowheads like rain —
But never one returned, not one!

Such stories as our allies said
Of tall, dusk women, garmented
Like unto fairest flowered trees;
Of busy women, like to bees,
Who chased the purple butterfly
Far up the gray steeps of the sky
And plucked his little silken nest
To spin and weave the gorgeous vest,
The yellow robe, raboso red:

Such stories as our allies told
Of temples builded to the sun,
Of human sacrifice and how,
Like stealthy panthers, even now,
These beauteous, sultry, moonlight nights,
Hard men steal down, just as of old,
And seize fair maidens for their rites
That this was why the land lay bare:
Of flock or field or maiden fair,
All up and down, for leagues away —
That even now, this very day,
Their yonder homeward trail was plain
With little footprints made in pain:
Torn feet that turn not back again.

V

You ask me what my chieftain said?
He rarely said, he simply did.
Dismounting where the lame feet led,
Shut in as shuts a coffin lid,
He chose his choicest at a sign
And silent led right on and on;
Right on all day, right on all night,
And not one foot set left or right,
And not one faltered yea or nay
Or turned his head to see or say
Until, at sudden burst of dawn,
A smell of water was and then
That ugly, growling bulldog drum!
It turned the very leaves one side
The while it howled, " They come! They come! "

VI

And they, too, came, came as a blast
Of twisting March winds, gust on gust,
Whirl red leaves, dead leaves, ashes, dust —
A cyclone scarce could sweep so fast,
Scant time to choose a friendly tree,
Scarce time to drop a bended knee,
To catch quick carbine to its place
And fall hard fighting, face to face.

Was ever such hot place of death!
Scarce room was there to draw full breath:
Red vines climbed up, green boughs hung down,
Red-pepsin, green-leaved rubber-tree,
Black banyan in black density!
I dared a precious second's pause
To choose my tree: I chose because
Great ivy vines climbed high, climbed higher
All crimson to its very crown —
Elijah's chariot of fire!

VII

Such tangle, jungle, who could stand?
Such jungle, tangle, who could see?
What need, indeed, to see when we
Fell instant fighting, hand to hand?
Long bamboo lances searched us out,
Short javelins, with points of glass,
Great arrowheads of gold, like hail!
Ah! it had been a sorry rout
Had each not held his narrow pass —
With not one left to tell the tale.

They fought in herd, they fell in heap,
Rushed here, rushed there, like silly sheep,
And met behind each blazing tree
A double-barreled battery,
A dozen deadly, leaden shot,
Till suddenly the rush and din
Of arrow, spear, lance, javelin,
And all that frenzied host was not.

VIII

And yet, what scores could not retreat!
'Twas pitiful! Spare me the pain,
The hard, sad detail of the slain,
The brave dead clutching to the loam
As if to hold their ancient home
Forever back from stranger feet!
IX

He dashed right on, but bade me stay;
No time for parley or delay;
He called his every man to come —
As ever, he was still the first —
His men were dying, dead of thirst:
And then to drive the vantage home!

X

A little time, then such a shout!
I knew the men then drank their fill,
I felt their feasting, do not doubt,
I smelled ripe plantains, rind of red
And cored like unto yellow cream;
I saw bananas bank the stream,
Ripe mangoes hanging overhead —
So dead with hunger, thirst! I seem
To see them, breathe them, taste them still:
To see men feasting to their fill,
One hand the gun, red fruit in one,
The swift, sweet water at their feet:
And I shall see, shall feel them eat
And drink and drink till life is done.

I heard a cautious low-bird call.
He came, and with him came just one:
Canteen, machete, ripe mangoes, gun,
And I must eat, drink, share with all.

XI

Just then a child, her sweet face red
With blood, crept from a heap of dead.
I leaned down, drew her to my knee,
Bathed her sweet face, then hurriedly
To where a dying comrade lay
Beside his war-torn battle tree;
And lo! the poor girl followed me
And tried to help, to soothe, to say.

The chief had chased the frenzied throng
On o'er the stream a short half mile;
Had watched it melt into the isle
And then, as if ten thousand strong
Stood at his back in bold guard line,
Had placed his every man, save one —
Then up and down, machete and gun,
They paced and passed the countersign,
And laughed their city, Chantale,
Laughed gold-strewn, gory Chantale
Dim seen through copse of banyan tree.

And light of step, as jaunty, gay
As on some happy holiday
They stepped with head high in the air,
And sang, sang loud and saucily.
And now and then a shot rang out
At interval of song and shout
Tow'rd gold-strewn, gory Chantale
And tore through island vine and tree.

XII

Gods! what a dauntless, daring sight!
Why, these strange men had fought all day!
Why, these strong men had marched all night;
Why, they had scarcely ate or slept,
Yet still with saucy pride they stept
And still each step was spank and gay.

XIII

Dusk came, such solemn, stately, dusk!
Black clouds blocked up a sky of red,
The hot wood had a smell of musk —
Of dying roses for the dead.
Then lightning was, and thunder low,
Low rumbling lion-like and slow,
Then that dread drum began to beat
A bow-shot front us amid the isle!
Why, they had made a mad retreat —
Were they not marshaling meanwhile?

XIV

That bull-dog drum was like a chill;
It made night monstrous; men stood still
And looked their brave chief in the face.
Why, had God filled the fiery skies
With thunder, lightning, had He filled
The earth with every fighting race
That knows the ugly trade of death
And asked their lives in sacrifice
These men had scarcely cared a breath,
Yet now they stood unnerved and chilled.

Would it but miss a single note,
Pause but to take a single breath,
As any bull-dog's breath is drawn,
'Twere not so worse to bear than death!
But no, that belching bull-dog throat
Belched on, belched on, right on and on.

XV

He saw their dread then slowly said
" How many? and when will they come? "
" Pass me the guard line, chief, " I said,
" Pass me the guard and you shall know
What says, what means that chilling drum:
Night gathers, and the ghostly dead
Are not more noiseless where they go
Than I shall go, go, come again;
Or, silent, join the happier slain. "

XVI

He wrote, wrote calmly; they must feel
His confidence, his nerve of steel,
His sure possession to the last.
I thrust the thin script down my boot,
Stept back, stood firm, made slow salute,
Turned on my heel and hastened past.

XVII

The dappled sky now darkened till
The moon came out, and then was gone,
And all was black and wild and wide.
I should have lost my way and died
Had not that drum beat on and on.
The warm wave swept above my waist;
I pushed right on in eager haste.
I felt a light touch suddenly,
Looked down in dread and lo! 'twas she.

And how could she have passed the line?
And why? I thought her surely crazed;
Or, may be, sadly hurt and dazed,
And took her little hand in mine.
I led her up the shallow sand
Against the somber, wooded land
To where the mango, tamarind
And black, wide-rooted banyan tree
Reached out to warn and welcome me.

I was so worn, so weak and worn,
My dripping hands hung down as lead.
I could not lift my sinking head;
I heard the widowed mothers mourn,
Still heard that hoarse dog bark and beat
And knew they would not now retreat.

XVIII

And yet I could not lift a hand,
But drooped and sank upon the sand.
I tried, I tried, I could not rise,
I could not open my dull eyes.
And all the time that dog kept on,
A dog that never would be gone!

It made me sleep, it made me dream —
That drum seemed some deep orchestra
Where I could see sweet players play,
Low-voiced; then sudden all did seem
A coarse and cruel tragedy.
Red lightning lit the ample stage;
Black thunder thrust italics through
The bloody text, then in his rage,
As if not knowing what to do,
Turned back and hewed with such mad stroke
My mighty trees that I awoke.

How I had slept! just clay and clod,
For all the living, all the dead,
The might, the majesty of God,
The hideous, haunting death, the dread —
I could but hear that monodin,
That monster alligator skin
Right on, right on, dog-like and deep,
And sleep right on, and sleep and sleep!

I thrust, thrust hard out either hand:
And still, all chill! I was alone!
And she had sold me, my command
At sun the sacrificial stone;
And then no more that horrid drum —
Why had she gone? where had she gone?
I tried to hope she yet might come —
The while that drum beat on and on.

A finger to her lip, then sand
She plucked and let it sift and run
And pointed sunward, ere the sun!
So many? and they come so soon?
The sky was spotted, rain and moon;
But with the first cloud we were gone;
The while that bull-dog barked right on!

He waiting, leaned and caught her hand,
She stooped, took up, let fall the sand;
Then pointed sunward, ere the sun —
A sign, and that brave, worn, guard line,
Swift, single file, still as the dead,
They passed with mournful, martial tread,
Paced back that midnight track again,
A pietous line of blood and pain:
Yet not one man there to repine,
Not one impatient word, not one.

XIX

He paused, the last man to retreat,
When all had silent passed the dead,
He stood with bowed, uncovered head,
Devoutest hero of defeat.
And then he turned, hat still in hand,
And bowed before her, low, so low
He almost touched her sandaled feet,
And gently beckoned she should go:
She stirred not and he spake command.

I had not known she was so tall,
Knew not that she was nobly born
Until I saw her black eyes burn
And instant take command of all
In that long, sudden, sad return,
So silent, drooping and forlorn.

She beckoned him and he obeyed,
Kneeled only as brave men can kneel,
Up rose; and then the clank of steel,
The eager clutching of a blade —
And then the sullen tread and tread:
That baying dog behind — the dead!

XX

She stripped the gold hoops from each hand,
From wrists, from arms and nothing said,
But laid them gently by the dead:
Then beckoned quiet, quick command.

" Pass on, on, on, at any cost,
Not one brief moment to be lost! "
Then on, on, on, fast and more fast,
And she, alone, the very last,
Until, just at the break of day —
Were ever bugle notes so clear?
Was ever dinner-horn so dear?
We heard, we heard our horses neigh!

CHANT III

I

More marches through brown mesa, wood.
More marches through too much blood,
And then at last sweet inland seas.
A city there, white-walled, and brown
With age, in nest of orange trees;
And this we won and many a town
And rancho reaching up and down,
Then rested long, sweet, sultry days
Beneath the blossom'd orange trees,
Made drowsy with the hum of bees,
And drank in peace the south-sea breeze,
Made sweet with sweeping bough of bays.

II

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Aye, she was shy, so shy at first,
And then, ere long, not over shy,
Yet pure of soul and proudly chare.
No love on earth has such an eye!
No land there is, is bless'd or curs'd
With such a limb or grace of face,
Or gracious form or genial air!
In all the bleak North-land not one
Hath been so warm of soul to me
As coldest soul by that warm sea,
Beneath the bright, hot-centered sun.

III

No lands where northern ices are
Approach, or even dare compare
With warm loves born beneath the sun —
The one so near, the one so far!
The one the cold, white, steady star,
The yellow, shifting sun the one.

IV

I grant you fond, I grant you fair,
I grant you honor, trust and truth,
And years as beautiful as youth,
And many years beneath the sun,
And faith as fixed as any star;
But all the North-land hath not one
So warm of soul as sun-maids are.

V

I was but in my boyhood then —
Nor knew the coarse, hard ways of men.
I count my fingers over so,
And find it years and years ago;
But I was tall and lithe and fair,
With rippled tide of yellow hair,
And prone to mellowness of heart,
While she was tawny-red like wine,
With black hair boundless as the night.
As for the rest, I learned my part,
At least was apt, and willing quite
To learn, to listen, and incline
To teacher warm and wise as mine.

VI

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
O bright, bronzed maidens of the Sun!
So fairer far to look upon
Than curtains of King Solomon,
Or Kedar's tents, or any one,
Or any thing beneath the Sun!
What followed then? What has been done,
And said, and writ, and read, and sung?
What will be writ and read again,
While love is life and life remain,
While maids will heed and men have tongue?

VII

What followed then? But let that pass.
I hold one picture in my heart,
Hung curtain'd, and not any part
Of all its blood tint ever has
Been looked upon by any one
Beneath the broad, all-seeing sun.

VIII

Love well who will, love wise who can,
But love, be loved, for God is love;
Love pure, as cherubim above;
Love maid, and hate not any man.
Sit as sat we by orange tree,
Beneath the broad bough and grapevine
Top-tangled in the tropic shine,
Close face to face, close to the sea,
And full of the red-centered sun,
With sweet sea-songs upon the soul,
Rolled melody on melody,
As echoes of deep organ's roll,
And love, nor question any one.

IX

If God is love, is love not God?
As high priests say, let prophets sing,
Without reproach or reckoning;
This much I say, knees knit to sod,
And low voice lifted, questioning.

X

Let hearts be pure, let love be true.
Let lips be luscious, love be red,
Let earth in gold be garmented
And tented in her tent of blue;
Let goodly rivers glide between
Their leaning willow walls of green,
Let all things be filled of the sun,
And full of warm winds of the sea,
And I beneath my vine and tree
Take rest, nor war with any one;
Then I will thank God with full cause,
Say this is well, is as it was.

XI

Let lips be red, for God has said
Love is as one gold-garmented,
And made them so for such a time,
Therefore let lips be red, therefore
Let love be ripe in ruddy prime,
Let hope beat high, let hearts be true,
And you be wise thereat, and you
Drink deep and ask not any more.

XII

Let red lips lift, proud curl'd to kiss,
And round limbs lean and lift and reach
In love too passionate for speech,
Too full of blessedness and bliss
For anything but this and this;
Let pure lips lean warm, kind to kiss;
Swoon in sweet love, while all the air
Is redolent with balm of trees,
And mellow with the song of bees,
While birds sit singing everywhere —
And you will have not any more
Than I in boyhood, by that shore
Of olives, had in years of yore.

XIII

Let men unclean think things unclean;
I swear tip-toed, with lifted hand,
That we were pure as sea-wash'd sand,
That not one coarse thought came between;
Believe or disbelieve who will,
Unto the pure all things are pure,
As for the rest, love can endure
Alike your good will or your ill.

XIV

Aye, she was rich in blood and, gold —
More rich in love, grown over-bold
From its own consciousness of strength.
How warm! Oh, not for any cause
Could I declare how warm she was,
In her brown beauty and hair's length.

XV

We loved in the sufficient sun,
We lived in elements of fire,
For love is fire, not fierce desire;
Yet lived as pure as priest and nun.

XVI

We lay slow rocking by the bay
In slim canoe beneath the crags
Thick-topp'd with palms, like sweeping flags
Between us and the burning day.
The alligator's head lay low
Or lifted from his rich rank fern,
And watch'd us and the tide by turn,
As we slow cradled to and fro.

XVII

And slow we cradled on till night,
And told the old tale, overtold,
As misers in recounting gold
Each time to take a new delight.

XVIII

With her pure passion-given grace
She drew her warm self close to me;
And her two brown hands on my knee,
And her two black eyes in my face,
She then grew sad and guessed at ill,
And in the future seemed to see
With woman's ken and prophecy,
Yet proffer'd her devotion still.

XIX

And plaintive so she gave a sign,
A token cut of virgin gold,
That all her tribe should ever hold
Its wearer as some one divine,
Nor touch him with unkindly hand.
And I in turn gave her a blade,
A dagger, worn as well by maid
As man, in that hot-temper'd land.

XX

It had a massive silver hilt,
It had a keen and cunning blade,
A gift of chief and comrades made
For blood at Rivas reckless spilt.

XXI

" Show this, " said I, " too well 'tis known,
And worth a hundred lifted spears,
Should ill beset your sunny years;
There is not one in Walker's band,
But at the sight of this alone,
Will reach a brave and ready hand
And make your right, or wrong, his own. "

XXII

Love while 'tis day; night cometh soon,
Wherein no man or maiden may;
Love in the strong young prime of day;
Drink drunk with love in ripe red noon,
Red noon of love and life and sun;
Walk in love's light as in sunshine,
Drink in that sun as drinking wine,
Drink swift, nor question any one;
For fortunes change, like man, or moon,
And wane like warm full day of June.

XXIII

Oh Love, so fair of promises,
Bend here thy bow, blow here thy kiss,
Bend here thy bow above the storm
But once, if only this once more!
Comes there no patient Christ to save,
Touch and reanimate thy form
Long three days dead and in the grave?
Yea, spread ye now thy silken net;
Since fortunes change, turn and forget,
Since man must fall for some sharp sin,
Be thou the pit that I fall in;
I seek no safer fall than this.

XXIV

You lift your face to ask of her,
This wine-hued woman, warm sunmaid,
This wine-hued woman warm as wine,
So purely and so surely mine,
Who loved, who dared, was not afraid —
Or Princess? Priestess? Prisoner?
I never knew or sought to know;
I cared not what she might have been;
I only knew she was such queen
As only death could overthrow.

XXV

Aye, lover, would you love with zest,
Win, hold, and hold her fast and well?
Believe, believe the best the best
Though she have singed her skirts in hell!
Hold not one doubt, house just this thought —
That she is all in all you sought.
I loved, loved purely, loved profound,
I raised love's temple, round by round.
I built my temple heavens high,
Then shut the door, and she and I
Forgot all things, all things save one,
Beneath the hot path of the sun.

XXVI

I would I could forget, and yet
I would not to my death forget.
I reared my temple to the sky,
That glad full moon, and laughed that I
Could toy with lightning, till I found,
Like some poor fool who toys with fire,
And counts him stronger than desire,
My temple burning to the ground.

XXVII

Aye, I had knelt, as priest might kneel
Before his saint's shrine, all that day;
Had dared to count me strong as steel
To stand for aye, clean, tall and white.
Yet I broke in that very night,
And stole shewbread and wine away.

XXVIII

I would forget that scene, that place,
I would forget that pleading face,
Yet hide it deepest in my heart,
As coffin in the heart of earth —
Alas! a heart so little worth —
Locked iron doors and somber lid!
Yea, I would have my shrine so hid,
So sacred and so set apart,
That only I might enter in,
Each sleepless, penitential night,
And, kneeling, burn my lorn love light
To burn away my bitter sin.

XXIX

Love lifts on white wings to the gates
Of Paradise and enters in:
Lust has for wings two leaden weights
That sink into the lake of sin.
Lust squats, toad-like, his loathsome cell,
Love seeks the light, on, on, above;
Love is as God, as God is love,
But lust is Lucifer in hell.

XXX

Ills come not singly, birds of prey
Flock not more closely on than they;
Ill comes disguised in many forms;
Fair winds are but a prophecy
Of foulest winds full soon to be —
The brighter these, the blacker they;
The brightest night has darkest day
And brightest days bring blackest storms.

XXXI

A land-lost sea with sable bredes,
Save where some bastions still are seen,
A river stealing through the reeds,
Dark, silent, sinuous, serpentine,
In sullen haste toward the sun —
Such lonesome land, such lonesome sea,
Such wine-hued women at the oar,
In silent pairs along the shore!
But not one man in sight, not one
To draw machete or bear a gun.

XXXII

A shaft of flame, a lifted torch,
Leaps sudden from this midland sea,
As if to light the very porch
Of God's high house eternally.
It drops its ashen embers slow
And slantwise, like belated snow,
On granite columns, gods of stone
Hewn ere the gods of Baal were known.

XXXIII

Some sweet brown hills, like Galilee,
Group here or there this dark, still sea,
Some costly woods, mahogany,
Red cedar, like to Lebanon,
Broad olives, like Gethsemane;
But silence sits all things upon,
As in some dark, hushed house of death.
You look behind, you would turn back,
You question if you yet take breath.
The blackness of this silent sea
Is oiled and burnished ebony —
The very silence turns to black.

XXXIV

The silence is as when your dead
Lies waiting, candles foot and head,
When mourners turn them slowly back
With all their sad, sweet prayers said.
The sea is black, the shore is black
Below Granada's storied steep,
Save where red trumpet blossoms blow
And trumpet, trumpet night and day,
For brave brown soldiers far away
In battle for this dreamful deep
Where silent women come and go.

XXXV

Such wine-hued women! such soft eyes!
What need one single word be said?
A fool might talk and talk all day,
Talk, talk and talk until he dies,
And yet, for all his hard, loud lies,
Will never make one inch advance,
Will never say, year and a day,
So much as she in one warm glance.

XXXVI

I see sad mothers here and there
Sit by and braid their heavy hair,
The while they watch their babes at play.
I note no fear, I hear no sigh,
Not even hear a baby cry;
But Oh! Madonna, mother, bride,
Dark mourning with your ebon tide,
My heart is with you here today,
As yours is with him far away.

XXXVII

Yet is this sea not always so:
I've seen him laughing in the sun,
Seen soft brown wavelets leap and flow,
Seen opal dimples come and go,
Seen argent billows rise and run,
Seen fleets of gay boats lifting, borne
Along his leaping, laughing tide
In all their semi-savage pride.
But list! the sea, the shore, is black
For those who passed and came not back —
He mourns because his daughters mourn.

XXXVIII

Yon solitary cone of flame
That lifts mid-sea to light the skies?
I nothing know, scarce know the name,
Of yon lost, buried town that lies
Beneath its ashes, yet I know
The story is, a pretty town,
With people passing up and down,
Lies just beyond, and deep, so deep
That never plummet breaks its sleep.

XXXIX

And, too, the tale is we are dead
And cast forth unto burning hell,
While they, down there, live, laugh instead;
That with them, down there, all is well,
The while they dance all night, all day —
While we are dead and cast in hell.

XL

Aye, idle talk, and yet the town
Is there, and perfect, to this day.
Row out, far out, and peer you down,
A half mile down, some sultry noon,
And see shapes passing up and down,
As dancers dancing to a tune
On some fair, happy day in May.

XLI

Aye, idle talk, and maybe these,
The dancers, be but kelp adrift
With undertow of under-seas —
Strange under-seas that fall or lift
And voiceless ever ebb and flow
Beneath the burning crater's plain
Through unknown channels to the main;
I only note the things I know
And loved and lived long years ago.

XLII

Then came reverses to our arms;
I saw the signal light's alarms
All night red-crescenting the bay.
The foe poured down a flood next day
As strong as tides when tides are high,
And drove us to the open sea,
In such wild haste of flight that we
Had hardly time to arm and fly.

XLIII

Far tossed upon the broadest sea,
I lifted my two hands on high,
With wild soul plashing to the sky,
And cried, " O more than crowns to me,
Farewell at last to love and thee! "
I walked the deck, I kissed my hand
Back to the far and fading shore,
And bent a knee as to implore,
Until the last dark head of land
Slid down behind the dimpled sea.
At last I sank in troubled sleep,
A very child, rocked by the deep,
Sad questioning the fate of her
Before the cruel conqueror.

XLIV

The loss of comrades, power, place,
A city walled, cool, shaded ways,
Cost me no care at all, somehow,
I only saw her sad, sweet face,
And — I was younger then than now.

XLV

Red flashed the sun across the deck,
Slow flapped the idle sail, and slow
The black ship cradled to and fro.
The black ship cradled to and fro.
Afar my city lay, a speck
Of white against a line of blue;
Hard by, half-lounging on the deck,
Some comrades chatted, two by two.
I held a new-filled glass of wine,
And with the mate talked as in play
Of fierce events of yesterday,
To coax his light life into mine.

XLVI

He jerked the wheel, as slow he said,
Low laughing with averted head,
And so half sad: " You bet, they'll fight;
They followed in canim, canoe,
A perfect fleet, that on the blue
Lay dancing till the mid of night.
Would you believe! one little cuss —
(He turned his hard head slow sidewise
And 'neath his hat-rim took the skies) —
" In petticoats did follow us
The livelong night, and at the dawn
Her boat lay rocking in the fee,
Scarce one short pistol-shot from me. "
This said the mate, half mournfully,
Then pecked at us; for he had drawn,
By bright light heart and homely wit,
A knot of men around the wheel,
Which he stood whirling like a reel,
For the still ship reck'd not of it.

XLVII

" And where's she now? " one careless said,
With eyes slow lifting to the brine,
Swift swept the instant far by mine,
The bronze mate listed, shook his head,
Spirted a stream of ambier wide
Across and over the ship side,
Jerked at the wheel and slow replied:
" She had a dagger in her hand,
She rose, she raised it, tried to stand,
But fell, and so upset herself;
Yet still the poor brown, pretty elf,
Each time the long, light wave would toss
And lift her form from out the sea,
Would shake a sharp, bright blade at me,
With rich hilt chased a cunning cross.
At last she sank, but still the same
She shook her dagger in the air,
As if to still defy or dare,
And sinking seemed to call your name. "

XLVIII

I let the wine glass crashing fall,
I rushed across the deck, and all
The sea I swept and swept again,
With lifted hand, with eye and glass,
But all was idle and in vain.
I saw a red-billed sea bird pass,
A petrel sweeping 'round and 'round,
I heard the far, white sea-surf sound,
But no sign could I hear or see
Of one so more than all to me.

XLIX

I cursed the ship, the shore, the sea,
The brave brown mate, the bearded men;
I had a fever then, and then
Ship, shore and sea were one to me:
And weeks we on the dead waves lay,
And I more truly dead than they.

L

At last some rested on an isle;
The few strong-breasted, with a smile,
Returning to the hostile shore,
Scarce counting of the pain or cost,
Scarce recking if they won or lost;
They sought but action, asked no more;
They counted life but as a game,
With full per cent against them, and
Staked all upon a single hand,
And lost or won, content the same.

LI

I never saw my chief again,
I never sought again the shore,
Or saw the wood-walled city more.
I could not bear the more than pain
At sight of blossom'd orange trees,
Or blended song of birds and bees,
The sweeping shadows of the palm
Or spicy breath of bay and balm.

LII

'And, striving to forget the while,
I wandered through a dreary isle,
Here black with juniper, and there
Made white with goats in shaggy coats,
The only things that anywhere
We found with life in all the land,
Save birds that ran, long-bill'd and brown,
Long-legg'd and still as shadows are,
Like dancing shadows, up and down
The sea-rim on the swelt'ring sand.

LIII

The warm sea laid his dimpled face,
With all his white locks smoothed in place,
As if asleep against the land;
Great turtles slept upon his breast,
As thick as eggs in any nest;
I could have touched them with my hand.

LIV

I would some things were dead and hid,
Well dead and buried deep as hell,
With recollection dead as well,
And resurrection God-forbid.
They irk me with their weary spell
Of fascination, eye to eye,
And hot, mesmeric, serpent-hiss,
Through all the dull, eternal days.
Let them turn by, go on their ways,
Let them depart or let me die;
For life is but a beggar's lie,
And as for death, I grin at it;
I do not care one whiff or whit
Whether it be or that or this.

LV

I give my hand; the world is wide;
Then farewell, memories of yore!
Between us let strife be no more;
Turn as you choose to either side;
Say Fare-you-well, shake hands and say —
Speak fair, and say with stately grace,
Hand clutching hand, face bent to face —
Farewell, forever and a day!

LVI

O passion-toss'd and piteous past,
Part now, part well, part wide apart,
As ever ships on ocean slid
Down, down the sea, hull, sail and mast;
And in the album of your heart
Let hide the pictures of your face,
With other pictures in their place,
Slid over, like a coffin's lid.

LVII

The days and grass grow long together;
They now fell short and crisp again,
And all the fair face of the main
Grew dark and wrinkled as the weather.
Through all the summer sun's decline
Fell news of triumphs and defeats,
Of hard advances, hot retreats —
Then days and days and not a line.

LVIII

At last one night they came. I knew,
Ere yet the boat had touched the land,
That all was lost; they were so few
I near could count them on one hand;
But he, the leader, led no more.
The proud chief still disdained to fly,
But like one wrecked, clung to the shore,
And struggled on, and struggling fell
From power to a prison cell,
And only left that cell to die.

LIX

My recollection, like a ghost,
Goes from this sea to that sea-side,
Goes and returns, as turns the tide,
Then turns again unto the coast.
I know not which I mourn the most,
My chief or my unwedded wife.
The one was as the lordly sun,
To joy in, bask in and admire;
The twilight star was as the one
To love, to look to and desire,
And both a part of my young life.

LX

*****

Years after, sheltered from the sun
Beneath a Sacramento bay,
A black Muchacho by me lay
Along the long grass crisp and dun,
His brown mule browsing by his side,
And told with all a peon's pride
How he once fought; how long and well,
Brave breast to breast, red hand to hand,
Against a foe for his fair land,
And how the fierce invader fell;
And, artless, told me how he died;
How walked he from the prison-wall,
Serene, prince-like, as for parade,
And made no note of man or maid,
But gazed out calmly over all —
How looked he far, half paused, and then
Above the mottled sea of men
Slow kissed his thin hand to the sun;
Then smiled so proudly none had known
But he was stepping to a throne.

LXI

A nude brown beggar Peon child,
Encouraged as the captive smiled,
Looked up, half scared, half pitying;
He stopped, he caught it from the sand,
Put bright coins in its two brown hands,
Then strode on like another king.

LXII

Two deep, a musket's length they stood
Afront, in sandals, grim and dun
As death and darkness wove in one,
Their thick lips thirsting for his blood.
He took each black hand, one by one,
And, bowing with a patient grace,
Forgave them all and took his place.

LXIII

He bared his broad brow pleasantly,
Gave one long, last look to the sky,
The white-winged clouds that hurried by,
The olive hills in orange hue;
A last list to the cockatoo
That hung by beak from mangobough
Hard by and hung and cried as though
He never was to call again,
Hung all red-crowned and robed in green,
With belts of gold and blue between. —

*****

*****

A bow, a touch of heart, a pall
Of purple smoke, a crash, a thud,
A warrior's raiment rolled in blood,
A face in dust and — that was all.
Success had made him more than king;
Defeat made him the vilest thing
In name, contempt or hate can bring;
So much the leaden dice of war
Do make or mar of character.

LXIV

Speak ill who will of him, he died
In all disgrace, say of the dead
His heart was black, his hands were red —
Say this much and be satisfied;
Gloat over it all undenied.
I simply say he was my friend
When strong of hand and fair of fame:
Dead and disgraced, I stand the same
To him, and so shall to the end.

LXV

I lay this crude wreath on his dust,
Inwove with sad, sweet memories
Recall'd here by these colder seas.
I leave the wild bird with his trust,
To sing and say him nothing wrong;
I wake no rivalry of song.

LXVI

He lies low in the level'd sand,
Unshelter'd from the tropic sun,
And now, of all he knew, not one
Will speak him fair in that far land.
Perhaps 'twas this that made me seek,
Disguised, his grave one winter-tide,
A weakness for the weaker side,
A siding with the helpless weak.

LXVII

His warm Hondurian seas are warm,
Warm to the heart, warm all the time;
Huge sea-beasts wallow in their slime
And slide, claw foot and serpent form,
Slow down the bank, and bellow deep
And pitiful, as if it were
A very pain to even stir,
So close akin to death they keep.

LXVIII

The low sea bank is worn and torn,
All things seem old, so very old;
All things are gray with moss and mould,
The very seas seem old and worn.
Life scarce bides here in any form,
The very winds wake not nor say,
But sleep all night and sleep all day
Nor even dream of stress or storm.

LXIX

The Carib sea comes in so slow!
It stays and stays, as loath to go,
A sense of death is in the air,
A sense of listless, dull despair,
As if Truxillo, land and tide,
And all things, died when Walker died.

LXX

A palm not far held out a hand,
Hard by a long green bamboo swing,
And bent like some great bow unstrung,
And quiver'd like a willow wand;
Perched on its fruit that crooked hang,
Beneath a broad banana's leaf,
A bird in rainbow splendor sang
A low, sad song of temper'd grief.

LXXI

No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone,
But at his side a cactus green
Upheld its lances long and keen;
It stood in sacred sands alone,
Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears;
One bloom of crimson crowned its head,
A drop of blood, so bright, so red,
Yet redolent as roses' tears.

LXXII

In my left hand I held a shell,
All rosy-lipp'd and pearly red;
I laid it by his lowly bed,
For he did love so passing well
The grand songs of his solemn sea.
O shell! sing well, wild, with a will,
When storms blow loud and birds be still,
The wildest sea-song known to thee!

LXXIII

I said some things with folded hands,
Soft whisper'd in the dim sea-sound,
And eyes held humbly to the ground,
And frail knees sunken in the sands.
He had done more than this for me,
And yet I could not well do more;
I turned me down the olive shore,
And set a sad face to the sea.