PART II.

How soft this moonlight of the South! How sweet my South in soft moonlight! I want to kiss her warm sweet mouth As she lies sleeping here to-night.

How still! I do not hear a mouse. I see some bursting buds appear; I hear God in His garden,--hear Him trim some flowers for His house.

I hear some singing stars; the mouth Of my vast river sings and sings, And pipes on reeds of pleasant things,-- Of splendid promise for my South:

My great South-woman, soon to rise And tiptoe up and loose her hair; Tiptoe, and take from all the skies God's stars and glorious moon to wear!

I.

The poet shall create or kill, Bid heroes live, bid braggarts die. I look against a lurid sky,-- My silent South lies proudly still.

The lurid light of burning lands Still climbs to God's house overhead; Mute women wring white withered hands; Their eyes are red, their skies are red.

Poor man! still boast your bitter wars! Still burn and burn, and burning die. But God's white finger spins the stars In calm dominion of the sky.

And not one ray of light the less Comes down to bid the grasses spring; No drop of dew nor anything Shall fail for all your bitterness.

The land that nursed a nation's youth, Ye burned it, sacked it, sapped it dry. Ye gave it falsehoods for its truth, And fame was fashioned from a lie.

If man grows large, is God the less? The moon shall rise and set the same, The great sun spill his splendid flame And clothe the world in queenliness.

And from that very soil ye trod Some large-souled seeing youth shall come Some day, and he shall not be dumb Before the awful court of God.

II.

The weary moon had turned away, The far North-Star was turning pale To hear the stranger's boastful tale Of blood and flame that battle day.

And yet again the two men glared, Close face to face above that tomb; Each seemed as jealous of the room The other eager waiting shared.

Again the man began to say,-- As taking up some broken thread, As talking to the patient dead,-- The Creole was as still as they:

"That night we burned yon grass-grown town,-- The grasses, vines are reaching up; The ruins they are reaching down, As sun-browned soldiers when they sup.

"I knew her,--knew her constancy. She said, this night of every year She here would come, and kneeling here, Would pray the live-long night for me.

"This praying seems a splendid thing! It drives old Time the other way; It makes him lose all reckoning Of years that pagans have to pay.

"This praying seems a splendid thing! It makes me stronger as she prays-- But oh the bitter, bitter days When I became a banished thing!

"I fled, took ship,--I fled as far As far ships drive tow'rd the North-Star; For I did hate the South, the sun That made me think what I had done.

"I could not see a fair palm-tree In foreign land, in pleasant place, But it would whisper of her face And shake its keen sharp blades at me.

"Each black-eyed woman would recall A lone church-door, a face, a name, A coward's flight, a soldier's shame: I fled from woman's face, from all.

"I hugged my gold, my precious gold, Within my strong, stout, buckskin vest. I wore my bags against my breast So close I felt my heart grow cold.

"I did not like to see it now; I did not spend one single piece. I travelled, travelled without cease As far as Russian ship could plow.

"And when my own scant hoard was gone, And I had reached the far North-land, I took my two stout bags in hand As one pursued, and journeyed on.

"Ah, I was weary! I grew gray; I felt the fast years slip and reel As slip black beads when maidens kneel At altars when out-door is gay.

"At last I fell prone in the road,-- Fell fainting with my cursèd load. A skin-clad cossack helped me bear My bags, nor would one shilling share.

"He looked at me with proud disdain,-- He looked at me as if he knew; His black eyes burned me thro' and thro'; His scorn pierced like a deadly pain.

"He frightened me with honesty; He made me feel so small, so base, I fled, as if the fiend kept chase,-- The fiend that claims my company!

"I bore my load alone; I crept Far up the steep and icy way; And there, before a cross there lay A barefoot priest, who bowed and wept.

"I threw my gold right down and sped Straight on. And oh my heart was light! A spring-time bird in spring-time flight Flies not so happy as I fled.

"I felt somehow this monk would take My gold, my load from off my back; Would turn the fiend from off my track, Would take my gold for sweet Christ's sake!

"I fled; I did not look behind; I fled, fled with the mountain wind. At last; far down the mountain's base I found a pleasant resting-place.

"I rested there so long, so well, More grateful than all tongues can tell. It was such pleasant thing to hear That valley's voices calm and clear:

"That valley veiled in mountain air, With white goats on the hills at morn; That valley green with seas of corn, With cottage islands here and there.

"I watched the mountain girls. The hay They mowed was not more sweet than they; They laid brown hands in my white hair; They marvelled at my face of care.

"I tried to laugh; I could but weep. I made these peasants one request,-- That I with them might toil or rest, And with them sleep the long, last sleep.

"I begged that I might battle there, For that fair valley-land, for those Who gave me cheer when girt with foes, And have a country, loved and fair.

"Where is that spot that poets name Our country? name the hallowed land? Where is that spot where man must stand Or fall when girt with sword and flame?

"Where is that one permitted spot? Where is the one place man must fight? Where rests the one God-given right To fight, as ever patriots fought?

"I say 'tis in that holy house Where God first set us down on earth: Where mother welcomed us at birth, And bared her breasts, a happy spouse.

"But when some wrong, some deed of shame, Shall make that land no more our own-- Ah! hunger for that holy name My country, I have truly known!

"The simple plough-boy from his field Looks forth. He sees God's purple wall Encircling him. High over all The vast sun wheels his shining shield.

"This King, who makes earth what it is,-- King David bending to his toil! O lord and master of the soil, How envied in thy loyal bliss!

"Long live the land we loved in youth,-- That world with blue skies bent about, Where never entered ugly doubt! Long live the simple, homely truth!

"Can true hearts love some far snow-land, Some bleak Alaska bought with gold? God's laws are old as love is old; And Home is something near at hand.

"Yea, change yon river's course; estrange The seven sweet stars; make hate divide The full moon from the flowing tide,-- But this old truth ye cannot change.

"I begged a land as begging bread; I begged of these brave mountaineers To share their sorrows, share their tears; To weep as they wept, with their dead.

"They did consent. The mountain town Was mine to love, and valley lands. That night the barefoot monk came down And laid my two bags in my hands!

"On! On! And oh the load I bore! Why, once I dreamed my soul was lead; Dreamed once it was a body dead! It made my cold, hard bosom sore.

"I dragged that body forth and back-- O conscience, what a baying hound! Nor frozen seas nor frosted ground Can throw this bloodhound from his track.

"In farthest Russia I lay down A dying man, at last to rest; I felt such load upon my breast As seamen feel, who sinking drown.

"That night, all chill and desperate, I sprang up, for I could not rest; I tore the two bags from my breast, And dashed them in the burning grate.

"I then crept back into my bed; I tried, I begged, I prayed to sleep; But those red, restless coins would keep Slow dropping, dropping, and blood red.

"I heard them clink and clink and clink,-- They turned, they talked within that grate. They talked of her; they made me think Of one who still must pray and wait.

"And when the bags burned crisp and black, Two coins did start, roll to the floor,-- Roll out, roll on, and then roll back, As if they needs must journey more.

"Ah, then I knew nor change nor space, Nor all the drowning years that rolled Could hide from me her haunting face, Nor still that red-tongued talking gold.

"Again I sprang forth from my bed! I shook as in an ague fit; I clutched that red gold, burning red, I clutched, as if to strangle it.

"I clutched it up--you hear me, boy?-- I clutched it up with joyful tears! I clutched it close, with such wild joy I had not felt for years and years!

"Such joy! for I should now retrace My steps, should see my land, her face; Bring back her gold this battle day, And see her, see her, hear her pray!

"I brought it back--you hear me, boy?-- I clutch it, hold it, hold it now: Red gold, bright gold that giveth joy To all, and anywhere or how;

"That giveth joy to all but me,-- To all but me, yet soon to all. It burns my hands, it burns! but she Shall ope my hands and let it fall.

"For oh I have a willing hand To give these bags of gold; to see Her smile as once she smiled on me Here in this pleasant, warm palm-land!"

He ceased, he thrust each hard-clenched fist, He threw his gold hard forth again, As one impelled by some mad pain He would not or could not resist.

The creole, scorning, turned away, As if he turned from that lost thief,-- The one that died without belief That awful crucifixion day.

III.

Believe in man, nor turn away. Lo! man advances year by year; Time bears him upward, and his sphere Of life must broaden day by day.

Believe in man with large belief; The garnered grain each harvest-time Hath promise, roundness, and full prime For all the empty chaff and sheaf.

Believe in man with proud belief: Truth keeps the bottom of her well, And when the thief peeps down, the thief Peeps back at him, perpetual.

Faint not that this or that man fell; For one that falls a thousand rise To lift white Progress to the skies: Truth keeps the bottom of her well.

Fear not for man, nor cease to delve For cool sweet truth, with large belief. Lo! Christ himself chose only twelve, Yet one of these turned out a thief.

IV.

Down through the dark magnolia leaves Where climbs the rose of Cherokee Against the orange-blossomed tree, A loom of moonlight weaves and weaves,--

A loom of moonlight, weaving clothes From snow-white rose of Cherokee, And bridal blooms of orange-tree, For fairy folk in fragrant rose.

Down through the mournful myrtle crape, Through moving moss, through ghostly gloom, A long white moonbeam takes a shape Above a nameless, lowly tomb;

A long white finger through the gloom Of grasses gathered round about,-- As God's white finger pointing out A name upon that nameless tomb.

V.

Her white face bowed in her black hair, The maiden prays so still within That you might hear a falling pin,-- Ay, hear her white unuttered prayer.

The moon has grown disconsolate, Has turned her down her walk of stars: Why, she is shutting up her bars, As maidens shut a lover's gate.

The moon has grown disconsolate; She will no longer watch and wait. But two men wait; and two men will Wait on till morning, mute and still:

Still wait and walk among the trees, Quite careless if the moon may keep Her walk along her starry steep Above the Southern pearl-sown seas.

They know no moon, or set or rise Of stars, or anything to light The earth or skies, save her dark eyes, This praying, waking, watching night.

They move among the tombs apart, Their eyes turn ever to that door; They know the worn walks there by heart-- They turn and walk them o'er and o'er.

They are not wide, these little walks For dead folk by this crescent town. They lie right close when they lie down, As if they kept up quiet talks.

VI.

The two men keep their paths apart; But more and more begins to stoop The man with gold, as droop and droop Tall plants with something at their heart.

Now once again with eager zest He offers gold with silent speech; The other will not walk in reach, But walks around, as round a pest.

His dark eyes sweep the scene around, His young face drinks the fragrant air, His dark eyes journey everywhere,-- The other's cleave unto the ground.

It is a weary walk for him, For oh he bears a weary load! He does not like that narrow road Between the dead--it is so dim:

It is so dark, that narrow place, Where graves lie thick, like yellow leaves: Give us the light of Christ and grace, Give light to garner in the sheaves.

Give light of love; for gold is cold, And gold is cruel as a crime; It gives no light at such sad time As when man's feet wax weak and old.

Ay, gold is heavy, hard, and cold! And have I said this thing before? Well, I will tell it o'er and o'er, 'Twere need be told ten thousand fold.

"Give us this day our daily bread,"-- Get this of God, then all the rest Is housed in thine own honest breast, If you but lift a lordly head.

VII.

Oh, I have seen men, tall and fair, Stoop down their manhood with disgust, Stoop down God's image to the dust, To get a load of gold to bear;

Have seen men selling day by day The glance of manhood that God gave: To sell God's image as a slave Might sell some little pot of clay!

Behold! here in this green graveyard A man with gold enough to fill A coffin, as a miller's till; And yet his path is hard, so hard!

His feet keep sinking in the sand, And now so near an opened grave! He seems to hear the solemn wave Of dread oblivion at hand.

The sands, they grumble so, it seems As if he walks some shelving brink. He tries to stop, he tries to think, He tries to make believe he dreams:

Why, he is free to leave the land, The silver moon is white as dawn; Why, he has gold in either hand, Has silver ways to walk upon.

And who should chide, or bid him stay? Or taunt, or threat, or bid him fly? The world's for sale, I hear men say, And yet this man has gold to buy.

Buy what? Buy rest? He could not rest! Buy gentle sleep? He could not sleep, Though all these graves were wide and deep As their wide mouths with the request.

Buy Love, buy faith, buy snow-white truth? Buy moonlight, sunlight, present, past? Buy but one brimful cup of youth That calm souls drink of to the last?

O God! 'tis pitiful to see This miser so forlorn and old! O God! how poor a man may be With nothing in this world but gold!

VIII.

The broad magnolia's blooms are white; Her blooms are large, as if the moon Had lost her way some lazy night, And lodged here till the afternoon.

Oh, vast white blossoms breathing love! White bosom of my lady dead, In your white heaven overhead I look, and learn to look above.

IX.

All night the tall magnolia kept Kind watch above the nameless tomb: Two shapes kept waiting in the gloom And gray of morn, where roses wept.

The dew-wet roses wept; their eyes All dew, their breath as sweet as prayer. And as they wept, the dead down there Did feel their tears and hear their sighs.

The grass uprose as if afraid Some stranger foot might press too near; Its every blade was like a spear, Its every spear a living blade.

The grass above that nameless tomb Stood all arrayed, as if afraid Some weary pilgrim seeking room And rest, might lay where she was laid.

X.

'Twas morn, and yet it was not morn; 'Twas morn in heaven, not on earth,-- A star was singing of a birth, Just saying that a day was born.

The marsh hard by that bound the lake,-- The great low sea-lake, Ponchartrain, Shut off from sultry Cuban main,-- Drew up its legs, as half awake:

Drew long stork legs, long legs that steep In slime where alligators creep,-- Drew long green legs that stir the grass, As when the late lorn night-winds pass.

Then from the marsh came croakings low, Then louder croaked some sea-marsh beast; Then, far away against the east, God's rose of morn began to grow.

From out the marsh, against that east, A ghostly moss-swept cypress stood; With ragged arms above the wood It rose, a God-forsaken beast.

It seemed so frightened where it rose! The moss-hung thing it seemed to wave The worn-out garments of the grave,-- To wave and wave its old grave-clothes.

Close by, a cow rose up and lowed From out a palm-thatched milking-shed. A black boy on the river road Fled sudden, as the night had fled:

A nude black boy, a bit of night That had been broken off and lost From flying night, the time it crossed The surging river in its flight:

A bit of darkness, following The sable night on sable wing,-- A bit of darkness stilled with fear, Because that nameless tomb was near.

Then holy bells came pealing out; Then steamboats blew, then horses neighed; Then smoke from hamlets round about Crept out, as if no more afraid.

Then shrill cocks here, and shrill cocks there, Stretched glossy necks and filled the air. How many cocks it takes to make A country morning well awake!

Then many boughs, with many birds,-- Young boughs in green, old boughs in gray,-- These birds had very much to say In their soft, sweet, familiar words.

And all seemed sudden glad; the gloom Forgot the church, forgot the tomb; And yet like monks with cross and bead The myrtles leaned to read and read.

And oh the fragrance of the sod! And oh the perfume of the air! The sweetness, sweetness everywhere, That rose like incense up to God!

I like a cow's breath in sweet spring, I like the breath of babes new-born; A maid's breath is a pleasant thing,-- But oh the breath of sudden morn!

Of sudden morn, when every pore Of mother earth is pulsing fast With life, and life seems spilling o'er With love, with love too sweet to last:

Of sudden morn beneath the sun, By God's great river wrapped in gray, That for a space forgets to run, And hides his face as if to pray.

XI.

The black-eyed Creole kept his eyes Turned to the door, as eyes might turn To see the holy embers burn Some sin away at sacrifice.

Full dawn! but yet he knew no dawn, Nor song of bird, nor bird on wing, Nor breath of rose, nor anything Her fair face lifted not upon.

And yet he taller stood with morn; His bright eyes, brighter than before, Burned fast against that fastened door, His proud lips lifting up with scorn,--

With lofty, silent scorn for one Who all night long had plead and plead, With none to witness but the dead How he for gold must be undone.

Oh, ye who feed a greed for gold, And barter truth, and trade sweet youth For cold hard gold, behold, behold! Behold this man! behold this truth!

Why, what is there in all God's plan Of vast creation, high or low, By sea or land, by sun or snow, So mean, so miserly as man?

Lo, earth and heaven all let go Their garnered riches, year by year! The treasures of the trackless snow, Ah, hast thou seen how very dear?

The wide earth gives, gives golden grain, Gives fruits of gold, gives all, gives all! Hold forth your hand, and these shall fall In your full palm as free as rain.

Yea, earth is generous. The trees Strip nude as birth-time without fear, And their reward is year by year To feel their fulness but increase.

The law of Nature is to give, To give, to give! and to rejoice In giving with a generous voice, And so trust God and truly live.

But see this miser at the last,-- This man who loves, grasps hold of gold, Who grasps it with such eager hold, To hold forever hard and fast:

As if to hold what God lets go; As if to hold, while all around Lets go, and drops upon the ground All things as generous as snow.

Let go your greedy hold, I say! Let go your hold! Do not refuse 'Till death comes by and shakes you loose, And sends you shamed upon your way.

What if the sun should keep his gold? The rich moon lock her silver up? What if the gold-clad buttercup Became a miser, mean and old?

Ah, me! the coffins are so true In all accounts, the shrouds so thin, That down there you might sew and sew, Nor ever sew one pocket in.

And all that you can hold of lands Down there, below the grass, down there, Will only be that little share You hold in your two dust-full hands.

XII.

She comes! she comes! The stony floor Speaks out! And now the rusty door At last has just one word this day, With mute religious lips, to say.

She comes! she comes! And lo, her face Is upward, radiant, fair as prayer! So pure here in this holy place, Where holy peace is everywhere.

Her upraised face, her face of light And loveliness, from duty done, Is like a rising orient sun That pushes back the brow of night.

How brave, how beautiful is truth! Good deeds untold are like to this. But fairest of all fair things is A pious maiden in her youth:

A pious maiden as she stands Just on the threshold of the years That throb and pulse with hopes and fears, And reaches God her helpless hands.

How fair is she! How fond is she! Her foot upon the threshold there. Her breath is as a blossomed tree,-- This maiden mantled in her hair!

Her hair, her black, abundant hair, Where night, inhabited all night And all this day, will not take flight, But finds content and houses there.

Her hands are clasped, her two small hands; They hold the holy book of prayer Just as she steps the threshold there, Clasped downward where she silent stands.

XIII.

Once more she lifts her lowly face, And slowly lifts her large, dark eyes Of wonder; and in still surprise She looks full forward in her place.

She looks full forward on the air Above the tomb, and yet below The fruits of gold, the blooms of snow, As looking--looking anywhere.

She feels--she knows not what she feels; It is not terror, is not fear, But there is something that reveals A presence that is near and dear.

She does not let her eyes fall down, They lift against the far profound: Against the blue above the town Two wide-winged vultures circle round.

Two brown birds swim above the sea,-- Her large eyes swim as dreamily And follow far, and follow high, Two circling black specks in the sky.

One forward step,--the closing door Creaks out, as frightened or in pain; Her eyes are on the ground again-- Two men are standing close before.

"My love," sighs one, "my life, my all!" Her lifted foot across the sill Sinks down,--and all things are so still You hear the orange blossoms fall.

But fear comes not where duty is, And purity is peace and rest; Her cross is close upon her breast, Her two hands clasp hard hold of this.

Her two hands clasp cross, book, and she Is strong in tranquil purity,-- Ay, strong as Samson when he laid His two hands forth, and bowed and prayed.

One at her left, one at her right, And she between, the steps upon,-- I can but see that Syrian night, The women there at early dawn

'Tis strange, I know, and may be wrong, But ever pictured in my song; And rhyming on, I see the day They came to roll the stone away.

XIV.

The sky is like an opal sea, The air is like the breath of kine, But oh her face is white, and she Leans faint to see a lifted sign,--

To see two hands lift up and wave To see a face so white with woe, So ghastly, hollow, white as though It had that moment left the grave.

Her sweet face at that ghostly sign, Her fair face in her weight of hair, Is like a white dove drowning there,-- A white dove drowned in Tuscan wine.

He tries to stand, to stand erect. 'Tis gold, 'tis gold that holds him down! And soul and body both must drown,-- Two millstones tied about his neck.

Now once again his piteous face Is raised to her face reaching there. He prays such piteous, silent prayer As prays a dying man for grace.

It is not good to see him strain To lift his hands, to gasp, to try To speak. His parched lips are so dry Their sight is as a living pain.

I think that rich man down in hell Some like this old man with his gold,-- To gasp and gasp perpetual Like to this minute I have told.

XV.

At last the miser cries his pain,-- A shrill, wild cry, as if a grave Just ope'd its stony lips and gave One sentence forth, then closed again.

"'Twas twenty years last night, last night!" His lips still moved, but not to speak; His outstretched hands so trembling weak Were beggar's hands in sorry plight.

His face upturned to hers, his lips Kept talking on, but gave no sound; His feet were cloven to the ground; Like iron hooks his finger-tips.

"Ay, twenty years," she sadly sighed: "I promised mother every year That I would pray for father here, As she had prayed, the night she died:

"To pray as she prayed, fervidly; As she had promised she would pray The sad night of her marriage day, For him, wherever he might be."

Then she was still; then sudden she Let fall her eyes, and so outspake As if her very heart would break, Her proud lips trembling piteously:

"And whether he come soon or late To kneel beside this nameless grave, May God forgive my father's hate As I forgive, as she forgave!"

He saw the stone; he understood With that quick knowledge that will come Most quick when men are made most dumb With terror that stops still the blood.

And then a blindness slowly fell On soul and body; but his hands Held tight his bags, two iron bands, As if to bear them into hell.

He sank upon the nameless stone With oh such sad, such piteous moan As never man might seek to know From man's most unforgiving foe.

He sighed at last, so long, so deep, As one heart breaking in one's sleep,-- One long, last, weary, willing sigh, As if it were a grace to die.

And then his hands, like loosened bands, Hung down, hung down on either side; His hands hung down and opened wide: He rested in the orange lands.

University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE.

The following emendations have been made to the text:

"You will not touch it? In God's name for 'You will not touch it? In God's name

"That night of rainbow-shot and shell for That night of rainbow-shot and shell

"That night amid the maimed and dead,-- for That night amid the maimed and dead,--

End of Project Gutenberg's Songs of the Mexican Seas, by Joaquin Miller