Part 12

The _crampons_ bound to his feet, he leaps Like a chamois now; and again he creeps Or twists, like a snake, o'er the fearful deeps.

"By his cross-bow, baldric, and cap's black curl," Quoth the Abbot below, "I know the churl! 'Tis the hunted outlaw Zyps of Zirl.

"Upon whose head, or dead or alive, The Kaiser hath posted a price.--Saints shrive The King!" quoth Wiltau. "Who may contrive

"To save him now that his foe is there?"-- But, hark! again through the breathless air What words are those that the echoes bear?

"Courage, my King!--To the rescue, ho!" The wild voice rings like a twanging bow, And the staring Abbot stands mute below.

And, lo! the hand of the outlaw grasps The arm of the King--and death unclasps Its fleshless fingers from him who gasps.

And how he guides! where the clean cliffs wedge Them flat to their brows; by chasm and ledge He helps the King from the merciless edge.

Then up and up, past bluffs that shun The rashest chamois; where eagles sun Great wings and brood; where the mists are spun.

And safe at last stand Kaiser and churl On the mountain path where the mosses curl-- And this the revenge of Zyps of Zirl.

THE GLOW-WORM

How long had I sat there and had not beheld The gleam of the glow-worm till something compelled!...

The heaven was starless, the forest was deep, And the vistas of darkness stretched silent in sleep.

And late 'mid the trees had I lingered until No thing was awake but the lone whippoorwill.

And haunted of thoughts for an hour I sat On a lichen-gray rock where the moss was a mat.

And thinking of one whom my heart had held dear, Like terrible waters, a gathering fear

Came stealing upon me with all the distress Of loss and of yearning and powerlessness:

Till the hopes and the doubts and the sleepless unrest That, swallow-like, built in the home of my breast,

Now hither, now thither, now heavenward flew, Wild-winged as the winds are: now suddenly drew

My soul to abysses of nothingness where All light was a shadow, all hope, a despair:

Where truth, that religion had set upon high, The darkness distorted and changed to a lie:

And dreams of the beauty ambition had fed Like leaves of the autumn fell withered and dead.

And I rose with my burden of anguish and doom, And cried, "O my God, had I died in the womb!

"Than born into night, with no hope of the morn, An heir unto shadows, to live so forlorn!

"All effort is vain; and the planet called Faith Sinks down; and no power is real but death.

"O light me a torch in the deepening dark So my sick soul may follow, my sad heart may mark!"--

And then in the darkness the answer!--It came From Earth, not from Heaven--a glimmering flame,

Behold; at my feet! In the shadow it shone Mysteriously lovely and dimly alone:

An ember; a sparkle of dew and of glower; Like the lamp that a spirit hangs under a flower:

As goldenly green as the phosphorous star A fairy may wear in her diadem's bar:

An element essence of moonlight and dawn That, trodden and trampled, burns on and burns on.

And hushed was my soul with the lesson of light That God had revealed to me there in the night:

Though mortal its structure, material its form, The spiritual message of worm unto worm.

A FOREST IDYLL

I

Beneath an old beech-tree They sat together, Fair as a flower was she Of summer weather. They spoke of life and love, While, through the boughs above, The sunlight, like a dove, Dropped many a feather.

II

And there the violet, The bluet near it, Made blurs of azure wet-- As if some spirit, Or woodland dream, had gone Sprinkling the earth with dawn, When only Fay and Faun Could see or hear it.

III

She with her young, sweet face And eyes gray-beaming, Made of that forest place A spot for dreaming: A spot for Oreads To smooth their nut-brown braids, For Dryads of the glades To dance in, gleaming.

IV

So dim the place, so blest, One had not wondered Had Dian's moonéd breast The deep leaves sundered, And there on them a while The goddess deigned to smile, While down some forest aisle The far hunt thundered.

V

I deem that hour, perchance, Was but a mirror To show them Earth's romance And draw them nearer: A mirror where, meseems, All that this Earth-life dreams, All loveliness that gleams, Their souls saw clearer.

VI

Beneath an old beech-tree They dreamed of blisses; Fair as a flower was she That summer kisses: They spoke of dreams and days, Of love that goes and stays, Of all for which life prays, Ah me! and misses.

UNDER THE ROSE

He told a story to her, A story old yet new-- And was it of the Faery Folk That dance along the dew?

The night was hung with silence As a room is hung with cloth, And soundless, through the rose-sweet hush, Swooned dim the down-white moth.

Along the east a shimmer, A tenuous breath of flame, From which, as from a bath of light, Nymph-like, the girl-moon came.

And pendent in the purple Of heaven, like fireflies, Bubbles of gold the great stars blew From windows of the skies.

He told a story to her, A story full of dreams-- And was it of the elfin things That haunt the thin moonbeams?

Upon the hill a thorn-tree, Crookéd and gnarled and gray, Against the moon seemed some crutched hag Dragging a child away.

And in the vale a runnel, That dripped from shelf to shelf, Seemed in the night, a woodland witch Who muttered to herself.

Along the land a zephyr, Whose breath was wild perfume, That seemed a sorceress who wove Sweet spells of beam and bloom.

He told a story to her, A story young yet old-- And was it of the mystic things Men's eyes shall ne'er behold?

They heard the dew drip faintly From out the green-cupped leaf; They heard the petals of the rose Unfolding from their sheaf.

They saw the wind light-footing The waters into sheen; They saw the starlight kiss to sleep The blossoms on the green.

They heard and saw these wonders; These things they saw and heard; And other things within the heart For which there is no word.

He told a story to her, The story men call Love, Whose echoes fill the ages past-- And the world ne'er tires of.

SPIRIT OF DREAMS

I

Where hast thou folded thy pinions, Spirit of Dreams? Hidden elusive garments Woven of gleams? In what divine dominions, Brighter than day, Far from the world's dark torments, Dost thou stay, dost thou stay?-- When shall my yearnings reach thee Again? Not in vain let my soul beseech thee! Not in vain! not in vain!

II

I have longed for thee as a lover For her, the one; As a brother for a sister Long dead and gone. I have called thee over and over Names sweet to hear; With words than music trister, And thrice as dear. How long must my sad heart woo thee, Yet fail? How long must my soul pursue thee, Nor avail, nor avail?

III

All night hath thy loving mother, Beautiful Sleep, Lying beside me, listened And heard me weep. But ever thou soughtest another Who sought thee not; For him thy soft smile glistened-- I was forgot. When shall my soul behold thee As before? When shall my heart enfold thee?-- Nevermore? nevermore?

PROCESSIONAL

Universes are the pages Of that book whose words are ages; Of that book which destiny Opens in eternity.

There each syllable expresses Silence; there each thought a guess is; In whose rhetoric's cosmic runes Roll the worlds and swarming moons.

There the systems, we call solar, Equatorial and polar, Write their lines of rushing light On the awful leaves of night.

There the comets, vast and streaming, Punctuate the heavens' gleaming Scroll; and suns, gigantic, shine, Periods to each starry line.

There, initials huge, the Lion Looms and measureless Orion; And, as 'neath a chapter done, Burns the Great-Bear's colophon.

Constellated, hieroglyphic, Numbering each page terrific, Fiery on the nebular black, Flames the hurling zodiac.

In that book, o'er which Chaldean Wisdom poured and many an eon Of philosophy long dead, This is all that man has read:--

He has read how good and evil,-- In creation's wild upheaval,-- Warred; while God wrought terrible At foundations red of Hell.

He has read of man and woman; Laws and gods, both beast and human; Thrones of hate and creeds of lust, Vanished now and turned to dust.

Arts and manners that have crumbled; Cities buried; empires tumbled: Time but breathed on them its breath; Earth is builded of their death.

These but lived their little hour, Filled with pride and pomp and power; What availed it all at last? We shall pass as they have passed.

Still the human heart will dream on Love, part angel and part demon; Yet, I question, what secures Our belief that aught endures?

In that book, o'er which Chaldean Wisdom poured and many an eon Of philosophy long dead, This is all that man has read.

SONG AND STORY

TO HARRISON S. MORRIS

_Ah, not for us the Heavens that hold God's message of Promethean fire! The flame that fell on bards of old To hallow and inspire._

_Yet let the soul dream on and dare No less Song's heights where these repose: We can but fail; and may prepare The way for one like those._

SONG AND STORY

I was destined, when a baby, For that land which lieth hidden In the moon; and whither, may be, At their birth all souls are bidden.

She bewitched me then and bound me, She a daughter of Apollo, In a golden snare who wound me, And compelled me thus to follow:--

Once she sent a stallion, sired Of the Wind; a mare his mother, Whom Thessalian madness fired, And the Hurricane his brother.

And a voice said, "Do not tarry! Mount him while the world is sleeping: He, my beautiful, will carry You, my Soul, into my keeping."

And I mounted: tempest whistled In my ears, and, yawning o'er us, Flamed the lightning; boomed the missiled Thunder, crashing far before us.

On we hurled. The world was rubble Underneath us; and the wonder Of our passage seemed to double Heaven's tempest and its thunder.

With us rode the air's wild races: Wisps and witches; all the Brocken, Stunted, gnarled, with fiendish faces, Seemed around us, gibing, mocking:

Hate, that shook the heart with hooting: Humpbacked Horror; gibbet-headed Murder: and,--great ravens shooting Over,--Fear, in bats embedded.

All were left; were passed like water Hurling headlong from a mountain,-- Hag and elf and demon's daughter,-- Ere we reached that mystic fountain.

There we stopped. I drained a beaker Old as Earth: the draught was fire: On my soul the burning liquor Acted like a new desire.

On again! The darkness lifted Like an up-rolled banner. Scattered Overhead, in points that shifted, Shone the stars through tempest tattered.

Then the moon rose. Slowly, slowly, Of a wild and copper color, Rose the moon, in melancholy Deeps; and all the stars grew duller.

And we passed,--an instant's scanning,-- Swift as thought, the spider-arches Of the ray-built bridges spanning Space between her lunar marches.

So I reached her kingdom, olden As the God that was its maker, Where the rocks and trees are golden, And the sea and air are nacre.

Where, 'mid ingot-glowing flowers, Over streams of diamond brightness, Palaces of pearl and towers, Wrought of topaz, loom in whiteness.

Here she met me with a chalice, Like the Giamschid ruby burning; And I entered in her palace, From the world forever turning.

Centuries have passed, have vanished; Still she holds me with her glory, She, whom Earth long since hath banished? She, the Soul of Song and Story.

AN INDIAN LEGEND

On a mountain by a fountain, By a faintly falling stream, Where upon the moss and flowers, Sparkling, fell the spray in showers, In the moonlight's mystic beam, Once a maiden came to dream, Came to sit and sigh and dream: On a mountain by a fountain, By a faintly falling stream.

To the fountain on the mountain Rode a youth upon a steed; In his hair an eagle's feather; Round his waist a belt of leather, Wampum-wrought with shell and bead; In his hands a hollow reed, In his hands a magic reed: To the fountain on the mountain Rode a youth upon a steed.

On the mountain by the fountain, When the moon shone overhead, While the maiden by him wavered, Low upon his reed he quavered, Piped and played and singing said,-- "Listen and be comforted! Heart of mine, be comforted!" On the mountain by the fountain When the moon shone overhead.

By the fountain on the mountain, So the Indian legend saith, Paler, paler grew the maiden, Paler as if sorrow laden, Frailer, paler at each breath, Saying, "Art thou Love or Death?" And he answered, "I am Death." By the fountain on the mountain So the Indian legend saith.

Gone the mountain and the fountain Where the maiden's soul was lost: But in every stream you hear it Whispering, sighing, like a spirit, Hear the Indian maiden's ghost, In the foam as white as frost, Whiter than the winter's frost: Gone the mountain and the fountain Where the maiden's soul was lost.

JOHN DAVIS, BOUCANIER

High time, high time, good gentlemen, to sail the Spanish Main! Three months we've watched for galleons and treasure bound for Spain; Three months! and not a vessel, neither barque nor brigantine! No Cartagena plate-ship, or De Dios, have we seen. Our sails are idle as the wind, our ships as gulls or waves.-- And shall inaction rot us like a gang of shackled slaves? Up, boucaniers! the land is wide, and wider far the sea-- Somewhere between the dusk and dawn and dusk some hope must be; Some ship somewhere or city there beneath the Indian sky-- What matter whether east or west!--some ship with decks built high, With treasure packed from stem to stern: some huge ship of the line, Against whose ports we'll cram our ports, while all our cannon shine And thunder; then, with blade to blade, and shouting horde on horde, Swarm up her sides and sweep her decks with pistol and with sword; And, sink or swim, our flag flies there, we boucaniers aboard.

Say, what availed your patron saints, Iago and Saint Marc, Lanceros, Adelantados, against Ravenau's barque? O butchers of good Jean Ribault, well might your cheeks turn pale When Montebaro's brigantine shook to the wind her sail! Around the coasts where New Spain boasts the haughtiness of Old, Her tyranny, her bigotry, her sordid greed for gold, From east to west, from north to south, among the Carib Isles, Swift to revenge the Frenchman swept across the foaming miles. The spirit of Pierre-le-Grand and of his gallant crew, Who took a galleon with a boat, beneath the tropic blue, Be with us now!--Up, gentlemen! and, Spain, oh, woe to you!

Prime arquebus and brighten blade, and let the culverin Gleam, burnished as the morning-star, as through the foam we spin; And now be glad as when we had Granada in our hold, And stabbed the city's sentinels and took the city's gold: New Spain's good homes and churches, aye, will not forget too soon The boucanier, John Davis, sirs, who taught their Dons a tune-- Dutch serenades of belts and blades they danced to by the moon!

What helped the Latin of their monks to curse what Satan blessed! Those pieces,--broad,--of eight and plate we counted in our chest. And now that we may double or may treble every piece, Pipe up the anchor, boatswain! and, before the hawser cease, Let every sail salute the gale and every rope be taunt-- The Devil take all care and us, if jaundiced colors daunt!

The sea-gulls dip and dive and float, and swim and soar again; Be like them, merry gentlemen, high-hearted!--May it rain Rich galleons for us!--Mix a bowl and drink, "The ships of Spain!" Be merry as the sea-gulls are; and, as the case may go, Who cares a curse for wealth!--Now drink: "Here's to Spain's overthrow!"-- Doff caps and follow: though the prize be over-fat or lean, Kneel down now; give her praise who leads, Dame Fortune, our good Queen! Upon our prow she guides us now!--On to Saint Augustine!

VOYAGERS

Where are they, that song and tale Tell of, lands our childhood knew? Sea-locked Fairy-lands that trail Morning summits, wet with dew, Crimson, o'er a crimson sail?

Where, in dreams, we entered on Wonders eyes have never seen: Whither often we have gone, Sailing a dream-brigantine On from voyaging dawn to dawn.

Leons seeking lands of song; Fabled fountains pouring spray; Where our anchors dropped among Corals of some blooming bay, With its swarthy native throng.

Shoulder axe and arquebus!-- We may find it, past yon range Of sierras, vaporous, Rich with gold and wild and strange, That dim region lost to us.

Yet, behold, although our zeal Darien summits may subdue, Our Balboa eyes reveal But a vaster sea come to; New endeavor for our keel.

Yet!--who sails with face set hard Westward, while behind him lies Unfaith; where his dreams keep guard Round it, in the sunset skies, He may reach it--afterward.

HIEROGLYPHS

I

All dreams are older than the seas, Being but newer forms of change; Some savage dreamed mine; and 'twas these De Leon sought where seas were strange.

All thoughts are older than the Earth Being of beauty ages wrought; Old when creation gave them birth, When Homer sang them, Shakespeare thought.

II

If souls could travel as can thought, Beyond the farthest arcs that span Imagination, what would man Not know and see at last? One would explore the stars; and one Would search the moon and one the sun And tell us of their past.

And one would seek out Hell; and, wise In tortures of the damned, return To tell us if they freeze or burn, And where God's red Hell lies: And one would look on Heaven; and, mute With memories of harp and lute, Sit silent as the skies.

But I--on condor wings would sweep To some new world, and, soaring, sit 'Mid firmaments volcano-lit, And see creation heap Its awful Andes, vague and vast, About its Inca-peopled past, While deep roared out to deep.

III

Out of it all but this remains:-- I dreamed that I had crossed wide chains Of Cordilleras, whose huge peaks Lock in the wilds of Yucatan, Chiapas and Honduras. Weeks-- And then a city that no man Had even seen; so dim and old No chronicle has ever told The history of men who piled Its temples and huge teocallis Among mimosa-blooming valleys; Or how its altars were defiled With human blood; whose idols there With eyes of stone still stand and stare.

So old, the moon can only know How old, since ancient forests grow On mighty wall and pyramid. Huge ceïbas, whose trunks were scarred With ages, and dense yuccas, hid Fanes 'mid great cacti, scarlet-starred. I looked upon its paven ways And saw it in its kingliest days; When, from its lordliest palace, one A victim, walked with prince and priest, Who turned brown faces toward the east In worship of the rising sun: At night a thousand temple spires, Of gold, burnt everlasting fires.

Uxmal? Palenque? or Copan? I know not. Only how no man Had ever seen; and still my soul Believes it vaster than the three. Volcanic rock walled in the whole, Lost in the woods as in some sea. _I only_ read its hieroglyphs, Perused its monster monoliths Of death, gigantic heads; and read The pictured codex of its fate, The perished Toltec; while in hate Mad monkeys cursed me, as if dead Priests of its past had taken form To guard their ruined fanes from harm.

IV

And then it was as if I talked Of gods and beauty, like a god; 'Mid Montezuma's priests who walked Obedient to my nod.

From Mexic levels breezes blew O'er green magueys; cacaö fields; I stood among caciques, a crew With plumes and golden shields.

In raiment made of humming-birds Brown slave-girls danced. All Anahuac Stood, grim with strange obsidian swords, Around the idol's rock.

And up the temple's winding stair Of pyramid we wound and went: The bloomed vanilla drenched the air With all its tropic scent.

Volcanoes walled us in: and I Walked, crowned with flaming cactus-flowers, Beneath the golden, Aztec sky, Lord of the living hours.

When, lo! five priests, who led me to A jasper stone of sacrifice!-- Then deep within my soul I knew That prideful moment's price.

A sixth priest, robed in cochineal, Received me at the altar's stone: I saw the flint-blade, sharp as steel, That in his high hand shone.

O God! to dream that they would bind-- With pomp and pageant of their love-- Me to the rock, and never blind Mine eyes to that above!

I felt the flint hack through my breast, And in my agony did raise Wild eyes, a little while to rest Upon their idol's face.

Just God! the priest tore out my heart, And held it, beating, to the sun-- Chanting--and from one burning part Great drops dripped, one by one.

Torn out, I felt my heart still beat, I felt it beat with pain divine; For, bleeding at the idol's feet, My heart was pressed to thine.

V

You were a maiden like a dream Who led me where volcanic dust Rained in a scoriac mountain stream, Where, from Andean snows, was thrust One crater belching stones and steam.

You were an Inca princess when I was a cavalier of Spain, Who frowned among Pizarro's men, And saw the New World rent with pain.-- No grace of God could save me then.

And it was you who led me far To gaze on caves of Inca gold: But when we came, lo! warrior On warrior, an army rolled Around us panoplied for war.

Fierce faces chiseled out of stone Are not more stern.--Down, underneath, I heard the sullen earthquake groan; Above me, red eruptions seeth. And clenched my teeth and stood alone.

And then you pled and was denied.-- They laid me where the lava crawled, Red-rivered, down the mountain side. I felt the slow, slow hell-heat scald: And as it closed, you leapt and died.

VI