And why he still survived the rest,
Why still he had the strength to stir,
Why still he stood like gnarléd oak
That buffets storm and tempest stroke,
One cannot say, save but for her,
That helpless being on his breast;
At rest; that would not let him rest.
She did not speak, she did not stir;
In rippled currents over her
Her black, abundant hair pour'd down
Like mantle or some sable gown.
That sad, sweet dreamer; she who knew
Not any thing of earth at all,
That dove that did not touch the land,
That knew, yet did not understand.
And this may be because she drew
Her all of life right from the hand
Of God, and did not choose to learn
The things that make up earth's concern.
Ah! there be souls none understand;
Like clouds, they cannot touch the land,
Drive as they may by field or town.
Then we look wise at this and frown,
And we cry, "Fool," and cry, "Take hold
Of earth, and fashion gods of gold."
... Unanchor'd ships, they blow and blow,
Sail to and fro, and then go down
In unknown seas that none shall know,
Without one ripple of renown.
Poor drifting dreamers sailing by,
Call these not fools; the test of worth
Is not the hold you have of earth.
Lo! there be gentlest souls sea-blown
That know not any harbor known.
Now it may be the reason is
They touch on fairer shores than this.
XLIII.
And dark-eyed Ina? Nestled there,
Half-hidden in her glorious hair,
The while its midnight folds fell down
From out his great arms nude and brown,
She lay against his hairy breast,
All motionless as death, below
His great white beard like shroud, or snow,
As if in everlasting rest.
He totter'd side to side to keep
Erect and keep his steady tread;
He lean'd, he bent to her his head ...
"She sleeps uncommon sound," he said,
"As if in that eternal sleep,
At last he touch'd a fallen group,
Dead fellows tumbled in the sands,
Dead foemen, gather'd to the dead.
And eager now the man did stoop,
Lay down his load and reach his hands,
And stretch his form and look steadfast
And frightful, and as one aghast
And ghostly from his hollow eyes.
He lean'd and then he raised his head,
And look'd for Vasques, but in vain;
He laid his two great arms crosswise,
Took breath a time with trembling main,
Then peered again along the plain.
Lo! from the sands another face,
The last that follow'd through the deep,
Comes on from out the lonesome place.
And Vasques, too, survives!
But where?
Thrown straight across old Morgan's track,
As if to check him, bid him back.
He stands, he does not dare to stir,
He watches by his child asleep,
He fears, for her: but only her.
The man who ever mock'd at death,
He hardly dares to draw his breath.
Beyond, and still as black despair,
A man rose up, stood dark and tall,
Stretch'd out his neck, reach'd forth, let fall
Dark oaths, and Death stood waiting there.
He drew his blade, came straight as death
Right up before the follower,
The last of Morgan's sable men,
While Morgan watched aside by her,
And saw his foeman wag his beard
And fiercest visage ever seen.
I think no man there drew a breath,
I know that no man quail'd or fear'd.
The tawny dead man stretch'd between,
And Vasques set his foot thereon.
The stars were seal'd, the moon was gone,
The very darkness cast a shade.
The scene was rather heard than seen,
The rattle of a single blade....
A right foot rested on the dead,
A black hand reach'd and clutch'd a beard,
Then neither prayed, nor dreamed of hope ...
A fierce face reach'd, a fierce face peer'd ...
No bat went whirling overhead,
No star fell out of Ethiope....
The dead man lay between them there,
The two men glared as tigers glare,
He wound his hand, he held him fast,
And tighter held, as if he fear'd
The man might 'scape him at the last.
Whiles Morgan did not speak or stir,
But stood in silent watch by her.
Not long.... A light blade lifted, thrust,
A blade that leapt and swept about,
So wizard-like, like wand in spell,
So like a serpent's tongue thrust out ...
Thrust twice, thrust thrice, thrust as he fell,
Thrust through until it touch'd the dust.
Yet ever as he thrust and smote,
The black hand like an iron band
Did tighten to the gasping throat.
He fell, but did not loose his hand;
The two fell dead upon the sand.
Two ghosts came forth like cloud of storms.
Two tall ghosts stood, and looking back,
With hands all bloody, and hands clutch'd,
Strode on together, till they touch'd,
Along the lonesome, chartless track,
Where dim Plutonian darkness fell,
Then touch'd the outer rim of hell,
And looking back their great despair
Sat sadly down as resting there.
XLIV.
Perchance there was a strength in death;
The scene it seem'd to nerve the man
To superhuman strength. He rose,
Held up his head, began to scan
The heavens and to take his breath
Right strong and lustily. He now
Resumed his load, and with his eye
Fixed on a star that filtered through
The farther west, pushed bare his brow,
And kept his course with head held high,
As if he strode his deck and drew
His keel below some lifted light
That watched the rocky reef at night.
How lone he was, how patient she,
It were a sad, unpleasant sight
To follow them through all the night,
Until the time they lifted hand,
And touched at last a watered land.
The turkeys walked the tangled grass,
And scarcely turned to let them pass.
There was no sign of man, or sign
Of savage beast. 'Twas so divine,
It seem'd as if the bended skies
Were rounded for this Paradise.
The large-eyed antelope came down
From off their windy hills, and blew
Their whistles as they wandered through
The open groves of watered wood;
Then came as light as if a-wing,
And reached their noses wet and brown,
And stamped their little feet, and stood
What if this were the Eden true,
They found in far heart of the new
And unnamed westmost world I sing,
Where date and history had birth,
And man first 'gan his wandering
To go the girdles of the earth!
It lies a little isle mid land,
An island in a sea of sand;
With reedy waters and the balm
Of an eternal summer air.
Some blowy pines toss tall and fair;
And there are grasses long and strong,
And tropic fruits that never fail:
The Manzinetta pulp, the palm,
The prickly pear, with all the song
Of summer birds.
And there the quail
Makes nest, and you may hear her call
A land where white man never trod,
And Morgan seems some demi-god,
That haunts the red man's spirit land.
A land where never red man's hand
Is lifted up in strife at all.
He holds it sacred unto those
Who bravely fell before their foes,
And rarely dares its desert wall.
Here breaks nor sound of strife or sign;
Rare times a red man comes this way,
Alone, and battle-scarred and gray,
And then he bends devout before
The maid who keeps the cabin door,
And deems her sacred and divine.
Within the island's heart, 'tis said,
Tall trees are bending down with bread,
And that a fountain pure as truth,
And deep and mossy bound and fair,
Is bubbling from the forest there,—
An isle where never cares betide;
Where solitude comes not, and where
The soul is ever satisfied.
An isle where skies are ever fair,
Where men keep never date nor day,
Where Time has thrown his glass away.
This isle is all their own. No more
The flight by day, the watch by night.
Dark Ina twines about the door
The scarlet blooms, the blossoms white,
And winds red berries in her hair,
And never knows the name of care.
She has a thousand birds; they blow
In rainbow clouds, in clouds of snow;
The birds take berries from her hand;
They come and go at her command.
That sing her summer songs all day;
Small black-hoofed antelope in herds,
And squirrels bushy-tail'd and gray,
With round and sparkling eyes of pink,
And cunning-faced as you can think.
She has a thousand busy birds;
And is she happy in her isle,
With all her feathered friends and herds?
For when has Morgan seen her smile?
She has a thousand cunning birds,
They would build nestings in her hair;
She has brown antelope in herds;
She never knows the name of care;
Why then is she not happy there?
All patiently she bears her part;
She has a thousand birdlings there,
These birds they would build in her hair;
She has a thousand birds; yet she
Would give ten thousand cheerfully,
All bright of plume and loud of tongue,
And sweet as ever trilled or sung,
For one small fluttered bird to come
And sit within her heart, though dumb.
She has a thousand birds; yet one
Is lost, and, lo! she is undone.
She sighs sometimes. She looks away,
And yet she does not weep or say.
She has a thousand birds. The skies
Are fashioned for her paradise;
A very queen of fairy land,
With all earth's fruitage at command,
And yet she does not lift her eyes.
She sits upon the water's brink
She has a thousand birds; and yet
She will look downward, nor forget
The fluttered white-winged turtle dove,
The changeful-throated birdling, love,
That came, that sang through tropic trees,
Then flew for aye across the seas.
The waters kiss her feet; above
Her head the trees are blossoming,
And fragrant with eternal spring.
Her birds, her antelope are there,
Her birds they would build in her hair;
She only waits her birdling, love.
She turns, she looks along the plain,
Imploring love to come again.
Cambridge: Press of John Wilson & Son.