O dark-eyed Ina! All the years
Brought her but solitude and tears.
Lo! ever looking out she stood
Adown the wave, adown the wood,
Adown the strong stream to the south,
Sad-faced, and sorrowful. Her mouth
Push'd out so pitiful. Her eyes
Fill'd full of sorrow and surprise.
Men say that looking from her place
A love would sometimes light her face,
As if sweet recollections stirr'd
Her heart and broke its loneliness,
Like far sweet songs that come to us,
So far, so faint, they fill the air,
A fragrance filling anywhere.
And wasting all her summer years
That utter'd only through her tears,
The seasons went, and still she stood
For ever watching down the wood.
Yet in her heart there held a strife
With all this wasting of sweet life
That none who have not lived and died,
Held up the two hands crucified
Between the ways on either hand,
Can look upon or understand.
The blackest rain-clouds muffle fire:
Between a duty and desire
There lies no middle way or land:
Take thou the right or the left hand,
And so pursue, nor hesitate
In helpless indecisions lie
The rocks on which we strike and die.
'Twere better far to choose the worst
Of all life's ways than to be cursed
With indecision. Turn and choose
Your way, then all the world refuse.
And men who saw her still do say
That never once her lips were heard,
By gloaming dusk or shining day,
To utter or pronounce one word.
Men went and came, and still she stood
In silence watching down the wood.
Yea, still she stood and look'd away,
By tawny night, by fair-fac'd day,
Adown the wood beyond the land,
Her hollow face upon her hand,
Her black, abundant hair all down
And what her thought? her life unsaid?
Was it of love? of hate? of him,
The tall, dark Southerner?
Her head
Bow'd down. The day fell dim
Upon her eyes. She bow'd, she slept.
She waken'd then, and waking wept.
She dream'd, perchance, of island home,
A land of palms ring'd round with foam,
Where summer on her shelly shore
Sits down and rests for evermore.
And one who watch'd her wasted youth
Did guess, mayhap with much of truth,
Her heart was with that band that came
Against her isle with sword and flame:
And this the tale he told of her
A Spaniard and adventurer,
A man who saw her, loved, and fell
Upon his knees and worshipp'd her;
And with that fervor and mad zeal
That only sunborn bosoms feel,
Did vow to love, to follow her
Unto the altar ... or to hell:
That then her gray-hair'd father bore
The beauteous maiden hurriedly
From out her fair isle of the sea
To sombre wold and woody shore
And far away, and kept her well,
As from a habitant of hell,
And vow'd she should not meet him more:
That fearing still the buccaneer,
He silent kept his forests here.
The while men came, and still she stood
For ever watching from the wood.
X.
The black-eyed bushy squirrels ran
Like shadows shatter'd through the boughs;
The gallant robin chirp'd his vows,
The far-off pheasant thrumm'd his fan,
A thousand blackbirds were a-wing
In walnut-top, and it was spring.
Old Morgan left his cabin door,
And one sat watching as of yore;
But why turned Morgan's face as white
As his white beard?
A bird aflight,
A squirrel peering through the trees,
Saw some one silent steal away
Like darkness from the face of day,
Saw two black eyes look back, and these
He knew him, though he had not seen
That form or face for a decade,
Though time had shorn his locks, had made
His form another's, flow'd between
Their lives like some uncompass'd sea,
Yet still he knew him as before.
He pursed his lips, and silently
He turn'd and sought his cabin's door.
Ay! they have come, the sun-brown'd men,
To beard old Morgan in his den.
It matters little who they are,
These silent men from isles afar,
And truly no one cares or knows
What be their merit or demand;
It is enough for this rude land—
At least, it is enough for those,
The loud of tongue and rude of hand—
Proud Morgan! More than tongue can tell
He loved that woman watching there,
That stood in her dark stream of hair,
That stood and dream'd as in a spell,
And look'd so fix'd and far away.
And who, that loveth woman well,
Is wholly bad? be who he may.
Ay! we have seen these Southern men,
These sun-brown'd men from island shore,
In this same land, and long before.
They do not seem so lithe as then,
They do not look so tall, and they
Seem not so many as of old.
But that same resolute and bold
Expression of unbridled will,
That even Time must half obey,
Is with them and is of them still.
They do not counsel the decree
Their breath, nor law nor order knew,
Save but the strong hand of the strong;
Where each stood up, avenged his wrong,
Or sought his death all silently.
They watch along the wave and wood,
They heed, but haste not. Their estate,
Whate'er it be, can bide and wait,
Be it open ill or hidden good.
No law for them! For they have stood
With steel, and writ their rights in blood;
And now, whatever 'tis they seek,
Whatever be their dark demand,
Why, they will make it, hand to hand,
Take time and patience: Greek to Greek.
XI.
Like blown and snowy wintry pine,
Old Morgan stoop'd his head and pass'd
Within his cabin door. He cast
A great arm out to men, made sign,
Then turned to Ina; stood beside
A time, then turn'd and strode the floor,
Stopp'd short, breathed sharp, threw wide the door,
Then gazed beyond the murky tide,
Toward where the forky peaks divide.
He took his beard in his hard hand,
Then slowly shook his grizzled head
And trembled, but no word he said.
His thought was something more than pain;
Upon the seas, upon the land
He turn'd to her; but then once more
Quick turn'd, and through the oaken door
He sudden pointed to the west.
His eye resumed its old command,
The conversation of his hand,
It was enough: she knew the rest.
He turn'd, he stoop'd, and smoothed her hair,
As if to smooth away the care
From his great heart, with his left hand.
His right hand hitch'd the pistol round
That dangled at his belt ...
The sound
Of steel to him was melody
More sweet than any song of sea.
He touch'd his pistol, press'd his lips,
Then tapp'd it with his finger-tips,
Seeks out the chords when he is sad
And purposeless.
At last he had
Resolved. In haste he touch'd her hair,
Made sign she should arise—prepare
For some long journey, then again
He look'd awest toward the plain:
Toward the land of dreams and space,
The land of Silences, the land
Of shoreless deserts sown with sand,
Where desolation's dwelling is:
The land where, wondering, you say,
What dried-up shoreless sea is this?
Where, wandering, from day to day
You say, To-morrow sure we come
To rest in some cool resting-place,
And yet you journey on through space
While seasons pass, and are struck dumb
Yea, he would go. Go utterly
Away, and from all living kind,
Pierce through the distances, and find
New lands. He had outlived his race.
He stood like some eternal tree
That tops remote Yosemite,
And cannot fall. He turn'd his face
Again and contemplated space.
And then he raised his hand to vex
His beard, stood still, and there fell down
Great drops from some unfrequent spring,
And streak'd his channell'd cheeks sun-brown,
And ran uncheck'd, as one who recks
Nor joy, nor tears, nor any thing.
And then, his broad breast heaving deep,
Like some dark sea in troubled sleep,
He sudden roused himself, and stood
With all the strength of his stern mood,
Then call'd his men, and bade them go
And bring black steeds with banner'd necks,
And strong like burly buffalo.
XII.
The sassafras took leaf, and men
Push'd west in hosts. The black men drew
Their black-maned horses silent through
The solemn woods.
One midnight when
The curl'd moon tipp'd her horn, and threw
A black oak's shadow slant across
A low mound hid in leaves and moss,
Old Morgan cautious came and drew
From out the ground, as from a grave,
A great box, iron-bound and old,
And fill'd, men say, with pirates' gold,
And then they, silent as a dream,
In long black shadows cross'd the stream.
Lo! here the smoke of cabins curl'd,
And mighty, hairy, half-wild men
Sat down in silence, held at bay
By mailèd forests. Far away
The red men's boundless borders lay,
And lodges stood in legions then,
Strip'd pyramids of painted men.
What strong uncommon men were these,
These settlers hewing to the seas!
Great horny-handed men and tan;
Men blown from any border land;
Men desperate and red of hand,
And men in love and men in debt,
And men who lived but to forget,
And men whose very hearts had died,
Who only sought these woods to hide
Their wretchedness, held in the van;
Yet every man among them stood
Alone, along that sounding wood,
A race of unnamed giants these,
That moved like gods among the trees,
So stern, so stubborn-brow'd and slow,
With strength of black-maned buffalo,
And each man notable and tall,
A kingly and unconscious Saul,
A sort of sullen Hercules.
A star stood large and white awest,
Then Time uprose and testified;
They push'd the mailèd wood aside,
They toss'd the forest like a toy,
That great forgotten race of men,
The boldest band that yet has been
Together since the siege of Troy,
And followed it ... and found their rest.
What strength! what strife! what rude unrest!
A mighty nation moving west,
With all its steely sinews set
Against the living forests. Hear
The shouts, the shots of pioneer!
The rended forests, rolling wheels,
As if some half-check'd army reels,
Recoils, redoubles, comes again,
Loud sounding like a hurricane.
O bearded, stalwart, westmost men,
So tower-like, so Gothic-built!
A kingdom won without the guilt
Of studied battle; that hath been
Your blood's inheritance....
Your heirs
Know not your tombs. The great ploughshares
Cleave softly through the mellow loam
Where you have made eternal home
And set no sign.
Are writ in furrows. Beauty laughs
While through the green ways wandering
Beside her love, slow gathering
White starry-hearted May-time blooms
Above your lowly levell'd tombs;
And then below the spotted sky
She stops, she leans, she wonders why
The ground is heaved and broken so,
And why the grasses darker grow
And droop and trail like wounded wing.
Yea, Time, the grand old harvester,
Has gather'd you from wood and plain.
We call to you again, again;
The rush and rumble of the car
Comes back in answer. Deep and wide
The wheels of progress have pass'd on;
The silent pioneer is gone.
His ghost is moving down the trees,
Of bluff, bold men who dared and died
In foremost battle, quite aside.
O perfect Eden of the earth,
In poppies sown, in harvest set!
O sires, mothers of my West!
How shall we count your proud bequest?
But yesterday ye gave us birth;
We eat your hard-earn'd bread to-day,
Not toil nor spin nor make regret,
But praise our petty selves and say
How great we are, and all forget
The still endurance of the rude
Unpolish'd sons of solitude.
XIII.
And one was glad at morn, but one,
The tall old sea-king, grim and gray,
Look'd back to where his cabins lay
And seem'd to hesitate.
He rose
At last, as from his dream's repose,
From rest that counterfeited rest,
And set his blown beard to the west,
And drove against the setting sun,
Along the levels vast and dun.
His steeds were steady, strong, and fleet,
The best in all the wide west land,
Their manes were in the air, their feet
Seem'd scarce to touch the flying sand;
They rode like men gone mad, they fled,
All day and many days they ran,
And in the rear a gray old man
Kept watch, and ever turn'd his head,
Half eager and half angry, back
Along their dusty desert track.
And one look'd back, but no man spoke,
They rode, they swallow'd up the plain;
The sun sank low, he look'd again,
With lifted hand and shaded eyes.
Then far arear he saw uprise,
As if from giant's stride or stroke,
Dun dust-like puffs of battle-smoke.
He turn'd, his left hand clutch'd the rein,
He struck awest his high right hand,
His arms were like the limbs of oak,
They knew too well the man's command,
And one look'd back, but no man spoke,
Of all that sullen iron band,
That reached along that barren land.
O weary days of weary blue,
Without one changing breath, without
One single cloud-ship sailing through
The blue seas bending round about
In one unbroken blotless hue.
Yet on they fled, and one look'd back
For ever down their distant track.
The tent is pitch'd, the blanket spread,
The earth receives the weary head,
The night rolls west, the east is gray,
The tent is struck, they mount, away;
They ride for life the livelong day,
They sweep the long grass in their track,
What scenes they pass'd, what camps at morn,
What weary columns kept the road;
What herds of troubled cattle low'd,
And trumpeted like lifted horn;
And everywhere, or road or rest,
All things were pointing to the west;
A weary, long, and lonesome track,
And all led on, but one look'd back.
They climb'd the rock-built breasts of earth,
The Titan-fronted, blowy steeps
That cradled Time.... Where Freedom keeps
Her flag of white blown stars unfurl'd,
They turn'd about, they saw the birth
Of sudden dawn upon the world;
Again they gazed; they saw the face
Of God, and named it boundless space.
Through levell'd distances set round
By room. They saw the Silences
Move by and beckon: saw the forms,
The very beards, of burly storms,
And heard them talk like sounding seas.
On unnamed heights bleak-blown and brown,
And torn like battlements of Mars,
They saw the darknesses come down,
Like curtains loosen'd from the dome
Of God's cathedral, built of stars.
They pitch'd the tent, where rivers run
As if to drown the falling sun.
They saw the snowy mountains roll'd,
And heaved along the nameless lands
Like mighty billows; saw the gold
Of awful sunsets; saw the blush
Of sudden dawn, and felt the hush
Of heaven when the day sat down,
The long and lonesome nights! the tent
That nestled soft in sweep of grass,
The hills against the firmament
Where scarce the moving moon could pass;
The cautious camp, the smother'd light,
The silent sentinel at night!
The wild beasts howling from the hill;
The troubled cattle bellowing;
The savage prowling by the spring,
Then sudden passing swift and still,
And bended as a bow is bent.
The arrow sent; the arrow spent
And buried in its bloody place,
The dead man lying on his face!
The clouds of dust, their cloud by day;
Their pillar of unfailing fire
They climb'd so high it seem'd eftsoon
That they must face the falling moon,
That like some flame-lit ruin lay
Thrown down before their weary way.
They learn'd to read the sign of storms,
The moon's wide circles, sunset bars,
And storm-provoking blood and flame;
And, like the Chaldean shepherds, came
At night to name the moving stars.
In heaven's face they pictured forms
Of beasts, of fishes of the sea.
They mark'd the Great Bear wearily
Rise up and drag his clinking chain
Of stars around the starry main.
What lines of yoked and patient steers!
What weary thousands pushing west!
What restless pilgrims seeking rest,
What great yoked brutes with briskets low,
With wrinkled necks like buffalo,
With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes,
That turn'd so slow and sad to you,
That shone like love's eyes soft with tears,
That seem'd to plead, and make replies
The while they bow'd their necks and drew
The creaking load; and look'd at you.
Their sable briskets swept the ground,
Their cloven feet kept solemn sound.
Two sullen bullocks led the line,
Their great eyes shining bright like wine;
Two sullen captive kings were they,
That had in time held herds at bay,
And even now they crush'd the sod
With stolid sense of majesty,
And stately stepp'd and stately trod,
As if 'twas something still to be
Kings even in captivity.
XIV.
And why did these same sunburnt men
Let Morgan gain the plain, and then
Pursue him to the utter sea?
You ask me here impatiently.
And I as pertly must reply,
My task is but to tell a tale,
To give a wide sail to the gale,
To paint the boundless plain, the sky;
To rhyme, nor give a reason why.
Mostlike they sought his gold alone,
And fear'd to make their quarrel known
Lest it should keep its secret bed;
Mostlike they thought to best prevail
And conquer with united hands
Alone upon the lonesome sands;
Mostlike they had as much to dread;
And Morgan, ever looking back,
Push'd on, push'd up his mountain track,
Past camp, past train, past caravan,
Past flying beast, past failing man,
Past brave men battling with a foe
That circled them with lance and bow
And feather'd arrows all a-wing;
Till months unmeasured came and ran
The calendar with him, as though
Old Time had lost all reckoning;
Then passed for aye the creaking trains,
And pioneers that named the plains.
Those brave old bricks of Forty-nine!
What lives they lived! what deaths they died!
A thousand cañons, darkling wide
Below Sierra's slopes of pine,
Receive them now.
Along the far, dim, desert route.
Their ghosts are many.
Let them keep
Their vast possessions.
The Piute,
The tawny warrior, will dispute
No boundary with these. And I,
Who saw them live, who felt them die,
Say, let their unploughed ashes sleep,
Untouched by man, by plain or steep.
The bearded, sunbrown'd men who bore
The burthen of that frightful year,
Who toil'd, but did not gather store,
They shall not be forgotten.
Drear
And white, the plains of Shoshonee
Shall point us to that farther shore,
And long white shining lines of bones,
The wild man's yell, the groaning wheel;
The train that moved like drifting barge;
The dust that rose up like a cloud,
Like smoke of distant battle! Loud
The great whips rang like shot, and steel
Of antique fashion, crude and large,
Flash'd back as in some battle charge.
They sought, yea, they did find their rest
Along that long and lonesome way,
These brave men buffeting the West
With lifted faces.
Full were they
Of great endeavor. Brave and true
As stern Crusader clad in steel,
They died a-field as it was fit.
Made strong with hope, they dared to do
Achievement that a host to-day
Would stagger at, stand back and reel,
What brave endeavor to endure!
What patient hope, when hope was past!
What still surrender at the last,
A thousand leagues from hope! how pure
They lived, how proud they died!
How generous with life!
The wide
And gloried age of chivalry
Hath not one page like this to me.
Let all these golden days go by,
In sunny summer weather. I
But think upon my buried brave,
And breathe beneath another sky.
Let beauty glide in gilded car,
And find my sundown seas afar,
Forgetful that 'tis but one grave
From eastmost to the westmost wave.
That o'er uncoffin'd faces fell!
The final, silent, sad farewell!
God! these are with me all the years!
They shall be with me ever. I
Shall not forget. I hold a trust.
They are a part of my existence.
When
Adown the shining iron track
You sweep, and fields of corn flash back,
And herds of lowing steers move by,
And men laugh loud, in mute distrust,
I turn to other days, to men
Who made a pathway with their dust.
XV.
At last he pass'd all men or sign
Of man. Yet still his long black line
Was push'd and pointed for the west;
The sea, the utmost sea, and rest.
He climbed, descended, climbed again,
Until he stood at last as lone,
As solitary and unknown,
As some lost ship upon the main.
O there was grandeur in his air,
An old-time splendor in his eye,
When he had climb'd the bleak, the high,
The rock-built bastions of the plain,
And thrown a-back his blown white hair,
And long, from out his lofty place,
He look'd far down the fading plain
For his pursuers, but in vain.
Yea, he was glad. Across his face
A careless smile was seen to play,
The first for many a stormy day.
He turn'd to Ina, dark and fair
As some sad twilight; touch'd her hair,
Stoop'd low, and kiss'd her silently,
Then silent held her to his breast.
Then waved command to his black men,
Look'd east, then mounted slow, and then
Led leisurely against the west.
And why should he, who dared to die,
Who more than once with hissing breath
Had set his teeth and pray'd for death,
Have fled these men, or wherefore fly
His midnight men were strong and true,
And not unused to strife, and knew
The masonry of steel right well,
And all its signs that lead to hell.
It might have been his youth had wrought
Some wrong his years would now repair
That made him fly and still forbear;
It might have been he only sought
To lead them to some fatal snare
And let them die by piece-meal there.
It might have been that his own blood,
A brother, son, pursued with curse.
It might have been this woman fair
Was this man's child, an only thing
To love in all the universe,
And that the old man's iron will
Kept pirate's child from pirate still.
These rovers had a world their own,
I trow it was not shame or fear
Of any man or any thing
That death in any shape might bring.
It might have been some lofty sense
Of his own truth and innocence,
And virtues lofty and severe—
Nay, nay! what need of reasons here?
They touch'd a fringe of tossing trees
That bound a mountain's brow like bay,
And through the fragrant boughs a breeze
Blew salt-flood freshness.
Far away,
From mountain brow to desert base
Lay chaos, space, unbounded space,
In one vast belt of purple bound.
The black men cried, "The sea!" They bow'd
Their black heads in their hard black hands.
They laugh'd, and broke
The silence of an age, and spoke
Of rest at last; and, group'd in bands,
They threw their long black arms about
Each other's necks, and laugh'd aloud,
Then wept again with laugh and shout.
Yet Morgan spake no word, but led
His band with oft-averted head
Right through the cooling trees, till he
Stood out upon the lofty brow
And mighty mountain wall.
And now
The men who shouted, "Lo, the sea!"
Rode in the sun; but silently:
Stood in the sun, then look'd below.
They look'd but once, then look'd away,
Then look'd each other in the face.
They could not lift their brows, nor say,
Nor sea, nor voice of sea, nor breath
Of sea, but only sand and death,
And one eternity of space
Confronted them with fiery face.
'Twas vastness even as a sea,
So still it sang in symphonies;
But yet without the sense of seas,
Save depth, and space, and distances.
'Twas all so shoreless, so profound,
It seem'd it were earth's utter bound.
'Twas like the dim edge of death is,
'Twas hades, hell, eternity!
XVI.
Then Morgan hesitating stood,
Look'd down the deep and steep descent
With wilder'd brow and wonderment,
Then gazed against the cooling wood.
And she beside him gazed at this,
Then turn'd her great, sad eyes to his;
He shook his head and look'd away,
Then sadly smiled, and still did say,
"To-morrow, child, another day."
O thou to-morrow! Mystery!
O day that ever runs before!
What has thine hidden hand in store
For mine, to-morrow, and for me?
O thou to-morrow! what hast thou
O day in which we shall forget
The tangled troubles of to-day!
O day that laughs at duns, at debt!
O day of promises to pay!
O shelter from all present storm!
O day in which we shall reform!
O day of all days for reform!
Convenient day of promises!
Hold back the shadow of the storm.
O bless'd to-morrow! Chiefest friend,
Let not thy mystery be less,
But lead us blindfold to the end.
XVII.
Old Morgan eyed his men, look'd back
Against the groves of tamarack,
Then tapp'd his stirrup-foot, and stray'd
His hard left hand along the mane
Of his strong steed, and careless play'd
His fingers through the silken skein,
And seemed a time to touch the rein.
And then he spurr'd him to her side,
And reach'd his hand and, leaning wide,
He smiling push'd her falling hair
Back from her brow, and kiss'd her there.