Part 2

The squirrels chatter'd in the leaves, The turkeys call'd from pawpaw wood, The deer with lifted nostrils stood, And humming-birds did wind and weave, Swim round about, dart in and out, Through fragrant forest edge made red, Made many-colour'd overhead By climbing blossoms sweet with bee And yellow rose of Cherokee.

Then frosts came by and touch'd the leaves, Then time hung ices on the eaves, Then cushion snows possess'd the ground, And so the seasons kept their round; Yet still old Morgan went and came From cabin door to forest dim, Through wold of snows, through wood of flame, Through golden Indian-summer days, Hung round in soft September haze, And no man cross'd or question'd him.

Nay, there was that in his stern air That held e'en these rude men aloof: None came to share the broad-built roof That rose so fortress-like beside The angry, rushing, sullen tide, And only black men gather'd there, The old man's slaves, in dull content, Black, silent, and obedient.

Then men push'd westward through his wood, His wild beasts fled, and now he stood Confronting men. He had endear'd No man, but still he went and came Apart, and shook his beard and strode His ways alone, and bore his load, If load it were, apart, alone. Then men grew busy with a name That no man loved, that many fear'd, And cowards stoop'd, and cast a stone, As at some statue overthrown.

Some said a pirate blown by night From isles of calm Caribbean land, Who left his comrades; that he fled With many prices on his head, And that he bore in his hot flight The gather'd treasure of his band, In bloody and unholy hand.

Then some did say a privateer, Then others, that he fled from fear, And climb'd the mad Missouri far, To where the friendly forests are; And that his illy-gotten gold Lay sunken in his black boat's hold. Then others, watching his fair bride, Said, "There is something more beside."

Some said, a stolen bride was she, And that his strong arm in the strife Was red with her own brother's life, And that her lover from the sea Lay waiting for his chosen wife, And that a day of reckoning Lay waiting for this grizzled king.

O sweet child-face, that ever gazed From out the wood and down the wave! O eyes, that never once were raised! O mouth, that never murmur gave!

IX.

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 soft, so sweet, they are not heard, 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 To boldly give your hand to fate.

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 About her loose, ungather'd gown.

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 And her fierce, silent follower:

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 Saw her hand beckon through the trees.

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-- To know that they are Morgan's foes.

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 Of court or council, where they drew 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 knew he should not rest again.

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, And toy'd with it as harper's hand 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 With marvel at the distances.

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, Blown round with groaning ships and wrecks, 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, The borders of the middle world; 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, And every man somehow a man.

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! What shocks! what half-shaped armies met! 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. Your epitaphs 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, And now we push the memories 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, Nor 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; The reins were in the reaching hand.

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, They mounted, plunged ahead again, 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, And one leads on, and one looks back.

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.

And they descended and did roam 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, And hid his face in dusky hands.

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 The far North star. And high, and higher.... 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, As if from out the edge of years!

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; Mostlike--but I must tell my tale.

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. And they who died 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, Make needless sign or white mile-stones.

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, Defeated at the thought of it.

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.