Part 2

Now we can only wait till the day, wait and apportion our shame. These are the dykes our fathers left, but we would not look to the same. Time and again were we warned of the dykes, time and again we delayed: Now, it may fall, we have slain our sons as our fathers we have betrayed.

* * * * *

Walking along the wreck of the dykes, watching the work of the seas, These were the dykes our fathers made to our great profit and ease; But the peace is gone and the profit is gone, and the old sure day withdrawn ... That our own houses show as strange when we come back in the dawn!

THE SONG OF DIEGO VALDEZ [Page 32]

The God of Fair Beginnings Hath prospered here my hand-- The cargoes of my lading, And the keels of my command. For out of many ventures That sailed with hope as high, My own have made the better trade, And Admiral am I!

To me my King’s much honour, To me my people’s love-- To me the pride of Princes And power all pride above; To me the shouting cities, To me the mob’s refrain:-- ‘Who knows not noble Valdez, Hath never heard of Spain.’

But I remember comrades-- Old playmates on new seas-- Whenas we traded orpiment Among the savages-- A thousand leagues to south’ard And thirty years removed-- They knew not noble Valdez, But me they knew and loved.

Then they that found good liquor, They drank it not alone, And they that found fair plunder, They told us every one, About our chosen islands Or secret shoals between, When, walty from far voyage, We gathered to careen.

There burned our breaming-fagots All pale along the shore: There rose our worn pavilions-- A sail above an oar: As flashed each yearning anchor Through mellow seas afire, So swift our careless captains Rowed each to his desire.

Where lay our loosened harness? Where turned our naked feet? Whose tavern ’mid the palm-trees? What quenchings of what heat? Oh fountain in the desert! Oh cistern in the waste! Oh bread we ate in secret! Oh cup we spilled in haste!

The youth new-taught of longing, The widow curbed and wan-- The goodwife proud at season, And the maid aware of man; All souls unslaked, consuming, Defrauded in delays, Desire not more their quittance Than I those forfeit days!

I dreamed to wait my pleasure Unchanged my spring would bide: Wherefore, to wait my pleasure, I put my spring aside Till, first in face of Fortune, And last in mazed disdain, I made Diego Valdez High Admiral of Spain.

Then walked no wind ’neath Heaven Nor surge that did not aid-- I dared extreme occasion, Nor ever one betrayed. They wrought a deeper treason-- (Led seas that served my needs!) They sold Diego Valdez To bondage of great deeds.

The tempest flung me seaward, And pinned and bade me hold The course I might not alter-- And men esteemed me bold! The calms embayed my quarry, The fog-wreath sealed his eyes; The dawn-wind brought my topsails-- And men esteemed me wise!

Yet ’spite my tyrant triumphs Bewildered, dispossessed-- My dream held I before me-- My vision of my rest; But, crowned by Fleet and People, And bound by King and Pope-- Stands here Diego Valdez To rob me of my hope!

No prayer of mine shall move him, No word of his set free The Lord of Sixty Pennants And the Steward of the Sea. His will can loose ten thousand To seek their loves again-- But not Diego Valdez, High Admiral of Spain.

There walks no wind ’neath Heaven Nor wave that shall restore The old careening riot And the clamorous, crowded shore-- The fountain in the desert, The cistern in the waste, The bread we ate in secret, The cup we spilled in haste!

Now call I to my Captains-- For council fly the sign, Now leap their zealous galleys Twelve-oared across the brine. To me the straiter prison, To me the heavier chain-- To me Diego Valdez, High Admiral of Spain!

THE BROKEN MEN [Page 39]

For things we never mention, For Art misunderstood-- For excellent intention That did not turn to good; From ancient tales’ renewing, From clouds we would not clear-- Beyond the Law’s pursuing We fled, and settled here.

We took no tearful leaving, We bade no long good-byes; Men talked of crime and thieving, Men wrote of fraud and lies. To save our injured feelings ’Twas time and time to go-- Behind was dock and Dartmoor, Ahead lay Callao!

The widow and the orphan That pray for ten per cent., They clapped their trailers on us To spy the road we went. They watched the foreign sailings (They scan the shipping still), And that’s your Christian people Returning good for ill!

God bless the thoughtful islands Where never warrants come! God bless the just Republics That give a man a home, That ask no foolish questions, But set him on his feet; And save his wife and daughters From the workhouse and the street!

On church and square and market The noonday silence falls; You’ll hear the drowsy mutter Of the fountain in our halls. Asleep amid the yuccas The city takes her ease-- Till twilight brings the land-wind To our clicking jalousies.

Day long the diamond weather, The high, unaltered blue-- The smell of goats and incense And the mule-bells tinkling through. Day long the warder ocean That keeps us from our kin, And once a month our levee When the English mail comes in.

You’ll find us up and waiting To treat you at the bar; You’ll find us less exclusive Than the average English are. We’ll meet you with our carriage, Too glad to show you round, But--we do not lunch on steamers, For they are English ground.

We sail o’ nights to England And join our smiling Boards; Our wives go in with Viscounts And our daughters dance with Lords. But behind our princely doings, And behind each coup we make, We feel there’s Something Waiting, And--we meet It when we wake.

Ah God! One sniff of England-- To greet our flesh and blood-- To hear the hansoms slurring Once more through London mud! Our towns of wasted honour-- Our streets of lost delight! How stands the old Lord Warden? Are Dover’s cliffs still white?

THE FEET OF THE YOUNG MEN [Page 44]

Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose-- Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain; Now the Young Men’s hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues, Now the Red Gods make their medicine again! Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the black-tail mating? Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry? Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting, Or the sea-trout’s jumping-crazy for the fly?

_He must go--go--go away from here! On the other side the world he’s overdue. ’Send your road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o’er you And the Red Gods call for you!_

So for one the wet sail arching through the rainbow round the bow, And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust; And for one the lakeside lilies where the bull-moose waits the cow, And for one the mule-train coughing in the dust. Who hath smelt wood-smoke at twilight? Who hath heard the birch-log burning? Who is quick to read the noises of the night? Let him follow with the others, for the Young Men’s feet are turning To the camps of proved desire and known delight!

_Let him go--go_, etc.

I

Do you know the blackened timber--do you know that racing stream With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end; And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend? It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and traces, To a silent, smoky Indian that we know-- To a couch of new-pulled hemlock with the starlight on our faces, For the Red Gods call us out and we must go!

_They must go--go_, etc.

II

Do you know the shallow Baltic where the seas are steep and short, Where the bluff, lee-boarded fishing-luggers ride? Do you know the joy of threshing leagues to leeward of your port On a coast you’ve lost the chart of overside? It is there that I am going, with an extra hand to bale her-- Just one able ’long-shore loafer that I know. He can take his chance of drowning, while I sail and sail and sail her, For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!

_He must go--go_, etc.

III

Do you know the pile-built village where the sago-dealers trade-- Do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo? Do you know the steaming stillness of the orchid-scented glade When the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap through? It is there that I am going with my camphor, net, and boxes, To a gentle, yellow pirate that I know-- To my little wailing lemurs, to my palms and flying-foxes, For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!

_He must go--go_, etc.

IV

Do you know the world’s white roof-tree--do you know that windy rift Where the baffling mountain-eddies chop and change? Do you know the long day’s patience, belly-down on frozen drift, While the head of heads is feeding out of range? It is there that I am going, where the boulders and the snow lie, With a trusty, nimble tracker that I know. I have sworn an oath, to keep it on the Horns of Ovis Poli, And the Red Gods call me out and I must go!

_He must go--go_, etc.

Now the Four-way Lodge is opened--now the Smokes of Council rise-- Pleasant smokes, ere yet ’twixt trail and trail they choose-- Now the girths and ropes are tested: now they pack their last supplies: Now our Young Men go to dance before the Trues! Who shall meet them at those altars--who shall light them to that shrine? Velvet-footed, who shall guide them to their goal? Unto each the voice and vision: unto each his spoor and sign-- Lonely mountain in the Northland, misty sweat-bath ’neath the Line-- And to each a man that knows his naked soul!

White or yellow, black or copper, he is waiting, as a lover, Smoke of funnel, dust of hooves, or beat of train-- Where the high grass hides the horseman or the glaring flats discover-- Where the steamer hails the landing, or the surf-boat brings the rover-- Where the rails run out in sand-drift ... Quick! ah, heave the camp-kit over! For the Red Gods make their medicine again!

_And we go--go--go away from here! On the other side the world we’re overdue! ’Send the road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o’er you, And the Red Gods call for you!_

THE TRUCE OF THE BEAR [Page 51]

Yearly, with tent and rifle, our careless white men go By the pass called Muttianee, to shoot in the vale below. Yearly by Muttianee he follows our white men in-- Matun, the old blind beggar, bandaged from brow to chin.

Eyeless, noseless, and lipless--toothless, broken of speech. Seeking a dole at the doorway he mumbles his tale to each; Over and over the story, ending as he began: ‘Make ye no truce with Adam-zad--the Bear that walks like a man!

‘There was a flint in my musket--pricked and primed was the pan, When I went hunting Adam-zad--the Bear that stands like a man. I looked my last on the timber, I looked my last on the snow, When I went hunting Adam-zad fifty summers ago!

‘I knew his times and his seasons, as he knew mine, that fed By night in the ripened maizefield and robbed my house of bread; I knew his strength and cunning, as he knew mine, that crept At dawn to the crowded goat-pens and plundered while I slept.

‘Up from his stony playground--down from his well-digged lair-- Out on the naked ridges ran Adam-zad the Bear; Groaning, grunting, and roaring, heavy with stolen meals, Two long marches to northward, and I was at his heels!

‘Two full marches to northward, at the fall of the second night, I came on mine enemy Adam-zad all panting from his flight. There was a charge in the musket--pricked and primed was the pan-- My finger crooked on the trigger--when he reared up like a man.

‘Horrible, hairy, human, with paws like hands in prayer, Making his supplication rose Adam-zad the Bear! I looked at the swaying shoulders, at the paunch’s swag and swing, And my heart was touched with pity for the monstrous, pleading thing.

‘Touched with pity and wonder, I did not fire then ... I have looked no more on women--I have walked no more with men. Nearer he tottered and nearer, with paws like hands that pray-- From brow to jaw that steel-shod paw, it ripped my face away!

‘Sudden, silent, and savage, searing as flame the blow-- Faceless I fell before his feet, fifty summers ago. I heard him grunt and chuckle--I heard him pass to his den, He left me blind to the darkened years and the little mercy of men.

‘Now ye go down in the morning with guns of the newer style, That load (I have felt) in the middle and range (I have heard) a mile? Luck to the white man’s rifle, that shoots so fast and true, But--pay, and I lift my bandage and show what the Bear can do!’

(Flesh like slag in the furnace, knobbed and withered and grey-- Matun, the old blind beggar, he gives good worth for his pay.) ‘Rouse him at noon in the bushes, follow and press him hard-- Not for his ragings and roarings flinch ye from Adam-zad.

‘But (pay, and I put back the bandage) this is the time to fear, When he stands up like a tired man, tottering near and near; When he stands up as pleading, in wavering, man-brute guise, When he veils the hate and cunning of the little, swinish eyes; ‘When he shows as seeking quarter, with paws like hands in prayer, _That_ is the time of peril--the time of the Truce of the Bear!’

Eyeless, noseless, and lipless, asking a dole at the door, Matun, the old blind beggar, he tells it o’er and o’er; Fumbling and feeling the rifles, warming his hands at the flame, Hearing our careless white men talk of the morrow’s game;

Over and over the story, ending as he began:-- ‘_There is no truce with Adam-zad, the Bear that looks like a man!_’

THE OLD MEN [Page 57]

_This is our lot if we live so long and labour unto the end-- That we outlive the impatient years and the much too patient friend: And because we know we have breath in our mouth and think we have thought in our head, We shall assume that we are alive, whereas we are really dead._

We shall not acknowledge that old stars fade or alien planets arise (That the sere bush buds or the desert blooms or the ancient well-head dries), Or any new compass wherewith new men adventure ’neath new skies.

We shall lift up the ropes that constrained our youth to bind on our children’s hands; We shall call to the water below the bridges to return and replenish our lands; We shall harness horses (Death’s own pale horses) and scholarly plough the sands.

We shall lie down in the eye of the sun for lack of a light on our way-- We shall rise up when the day is done and chirrup, ‘Behold, it is day!’ We shall abide till the battle is won ere we amble into the fray.

We shall peck out and discuss and dissect, and evert and extrude to our mind, The flaccid tissues of long-dead issues offensive to God and mankind-- (Precisely like vultures over an ox that the Army has left behind).

We shall make walk preposterous ghosts of the glories we once created-- (Immodestly smearing from muddled palettes amazing pigments mismated) And our friends will weep when we ask them with boasts if our natural force be abated.

The Lamp of our Youth will be utterly out: but we shall subsist on the smell of it, And whatever we do, we shall fold our hands and suck our gums and think well of it. Yes, we shall be perfectly pleased with our work, And that is the perfectest Hell of it!

_This is our lot if we live so long and listen to those who love us-- That we are shunned by the people about and shamed by the Powers above us. Wherefore be free of your harness betimes; but being free be assured, That he who hath not endured to the death, from his birth he hath never endured!_

THE EXPLORER [Page 61]

‘There’s no sense in going further--it’s the edge of cultivation,’ So they said, and I believed it--broke my land and sowed my crop-- Built my barns and strung my fences in the little border station Tucked away below the foothills where the trails run out and stop.

Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated--so: ‘Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges-- ‘Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!’

So I went, worn out of patience; ’never told my nearest neighbours-- Stole away with pack and ponies--left ’em drinking in the town; And the faith that moveth mountains didn’t seem to help my labours As I faced the sheer main-ranges, whipping up and leading down.

March by march I puzzled through ’em, turning flanks and dodging shoulders, Hurried on in hope of water, headed back for lack of grass; Till I camped above the tree-line--drifted snow and naked boulders-- Felt free air astir to windward--knew I’d stumbled on the Pass.

’Thought to name it for the finder: but that night the Norther found me-- Froze and killed the plains-bred ponies; so I called the camp Despair (It’s the Railway Gap to-day, though). Then my Whisper waked to hound me:-- ‘Something lost behind the Ranges. Over yonder. Go you there!’

Then I knew, the while I doubted--knew His Hand was certain o’er me. Still--it might be self-delusion--scores of better men had died-- I could reach the township living, but ... He knows what terrors tore me ... But I didn’t ... but I didn’t. I went down the other side.

Till the snow ran out in flowers, and the flowers turned to aloes, And the aloes sprung to thickets and a brimming stream ran by; But the thickets dwined to thorn-scrub, and the water drained to shallows-- And I dropped again on desert, blasted earth, and blasting sky....

I remember lighting fires; I remember sitting by them; I remember seeing faces, hearing voices through the smoke; I remember they were fancy--for I threw a stone to try ’em. ‘Something lost behind the Ranges,’ was the only word they spoke.

I remember going crazy. I remember that I knew it When I heard myself hallooing to the funny folk I saw. Very full of dreams that desert: but my two legs took me through it ... And I used to watch ’em moving with the toes all black and raw.

But at last the country altered--White man’s country past disputing-- Rolling grass and open timber, with a hint of hills behind-- There I found me food and water, and I lay a week recruiting, Got my strength and lost my nightmares. Then I entered on my find.

Thence I ran my first rough survey--chose my trees and blazed and ringed ’em-- Week by week I pried and sampled--week by week my findings grew. Saul he went to look for donkeys, and by God he found a kingdom! But by God, who sent His Whisper, I had struck the worth of two!

Up along the hostile mountains, where the hair-poised snow-slide shivers-- Down and through the big fat marshes that the virgin ore-bed stains, Till I heard the mile-wide mutterings of unimagined rivers, And beyond the nameless timber saw illimitable plains!

’Plotted sites of future cities, traced the easy grades between ’em; Watched unharnessed rapids wasting fifty thousand head an hour; Counted leagues of water-frontage through the axe-ripe woods that screen ’em-- Saw the plant to feed a people--up and waiting for the power!

Well I know who’ll take the credit--all the clever chaps that followed-- Came, a dozen men together--never knew my desert fears; Tracked me by the camps I’d quitted, used the water-holes I’d hollowed. They’ll go back and do the talking. They’ll be called the Pioneers!

They will find my sites of townships--not the cities that I set there. They will rediscover rivers--not my rivers heard at night. By my own old marks and bearings they will show me how to get there, By the lonely cairns I builded they will guide my feet aright.

Have I named one single river? Have I claimed one single acre? Have I kept one single nugget--(barring samples)? No, not I. Because my price was paid me ten times over by my Maker. But you wouldn’t understand it. You go up and occupy.

Ores you’ll find there; wood and cattle; water-transit sure and steady (That should keep the railway rates down), coal and iron at your doors. God took care to hide that country till He judged His people ready, Then He chose me for His Whisper, and I’ve found it, and it’s yours!

Yes, your ‘Never-never country’--yes, your ‘edge of cultivation’ And ‘no sense in going further’--till I crossed the range to see. God forgive me! No, _I_ didn’t. It’s God’s present to our nation. Anybody might have found it but--His Whisper came to Me!

THE WAGE-SLAVES [Page 70]

Oh glorious are the guarded heights Where guardian souls abide-- Self-exiled from our gross delights-- Above, beyond, outside: An ampler arc their spirit swings-- Commands a juster view-- We have their word for all these things, Nor doubt their words are true.

Yet we the bondslaves of our day, Whom dirt and danger press-- Co-heirs of insolence, delay, And leagued unfaithfulness-- Such is our need must seek indeed And, having found, engage The men who merely do the work For which they draw the wage.

From forge and farm and mine and bench, Deck, altar, outpost lone-- Mill, school, battalion, counter, trench, Rail, senate, sheepfold, throne-- Creation’s cry goes up on high From age to cheated age: ‘Send us the men who do the work For which they draw the wage.’

Words cannot help nor wit achieve, Nor e’en the all-gifted fool, Too weak to enter, bide, or leave The lists he cannot rule. Beneath the sun we count on none Our evil to assuage, Except the men that do the work For which they draw the wage.

When through the Gates of Stress and Strain Comes forth the vast Event-- The simple, sheer, sufficing, sane Result of labour spent-- They that have wrought the end unthought Be neither saint nor sage, But men who merely did the work For which they drew the wage.

Wherefore to these the Fates shall bend (And all old idle things--) Wherefore on these shall Power attend Beyond the grasp of kings: Each in his place, by right, not grace, Shall rule his heritage-- The men who simply do the work For which they draw the wage.

Not such as scorn the loitering street, Or waste to earn its praise, Their noontide’s unreturning heat About their morning ways: But such as dower each mortgaged hour Alike with clean courage-- Even the men who do the work For which they draw the wage-- Men like to Gods that do the work For which they draw the wage-- Begin--continue--close the work For which they draw the wage!

THE BURIAL [Page 74]

C. J. RHODES, buried in the Matoppos,

April 10, 1902