Part 3

Let all these golden days go by, In sunny summer weather. I But think upon my buried brave, And breathe beneath another sky. Let beauty glide in gilded car, And find my sundown seas afar, Forgetful that 'tis but one grave From eastmost to the westmost wave.

Yea, I remember! The still tears That o'er uncoffin'd faces fell! The final, silent, sad farewell! God! these are with me all the years! They shall be with me ever. I Shall not forget. I hold a trust. They are a part of my existence. When Adown the shining iron track You sweep, and fields of corn flash back, And herds of lowing steers move by, And men laugh loud, in mute distrust, I turn to other days, to men Who made a pathway with their dust.

XV.

At last he pass'd all men or sign Of man. Yet still his long black line Was push'd and pointed for the west; The sea, the utmost sea, and rest.

He climbed, descended, climbed again, Until he stood at last as lone, As solitary and unknown, As some lost ship upon the main.

O there was grandeur in his air, An old-time splendor in his eye, When he had climb'd the bleak, the high, The rock-built bastions of the plain, And thrown a-back his blown white hair, And halting turn'd to look again.

And long, from out his lofty place, He look'd far down the fading plain For his pursuers, but in vain. Yea, he was glad. Across his face A careless smile was seen to play, The first for many a stormy day.

He turn'd to Ina, dark and fair As some sad twilight; touch'd her hair, Stoop'd low, and kiss'd her silently, Then silent held her to his breast. Then waved command to his black men, Look'd east, then mounted slow, and then Led leisurely against the west.

And why should he, who dared to die, Who more than once with hissing breath Had set his teeth and pray'd for death, Have fled these men, or wherefore fly Before them now? why not defy?

His midnight men were strong and true, And not unused to strife, and knew The masonry of steel right well, And all its signs that lead to hell.

It might have been his youth had wrought Some wrong his years would now repair That made him fly and still forbear; It might have been he only sought To lead them to some fatal snare And let them die by piece-meal there.

It might have been that his own blood, A brother, son, pursued with curse. It might have been this woman fair Was this man's child, an only thing To love in all the universe, And that the old man's iron will Kept pirate's child from pirate still. These rovers had a world their own, Had laws, lived lives, went ways unknown.

I trow it was not shame or fear Of any man or any thing That death in any shape might bring. It might have been some lofty sense Of his own truth and innocence, And virtues lofty and severe-- Nay, nay! what need of reasons here?

They touch'd a fringe of tossing trees That bound a mountain's brow like bay, And through the fragrant boughs a breeze Blew salt-flood freshness. Far away, From mountain brow to desert base Lay chaos, space, unbounded space, In one vast belt of purple bound. The black men cried, "The sea!" They bow'd Their black heads in their hard black hands. They wept for joy. They laugh'd, and broke The silence of an age, and spoke Of rest at last; and, group'd in bands, They threw their long black arms about Each other's necks, and laugh'd aloud, Then wept again with laugh and shout.

Yet Morgan spake no word, but led His band with oft-averted head Right through the cooling trees, till he Stood out upon the lofty brow And mighty mountain wall. And now The men who shouted, "Lo, the sea!" Rode in the sun; but silently: Stood in the sun, then look'd below. They look'd but once, then look'd away, Then look'd each other in the face. They could not lift their brows, nor say, But held their heads, nor spake, for lo! Nor sea, nor voice of sea, nor breath Of sea, but only sand and death, And one eternity of space Confronted them with fiery face.

'Twas vastness even as a sea, So still it sang in symphonies; But yet without the sense of seas, Save depth, and space, and distances. 'Twas all so shoreless, so profound, It seem'd it were earth's utter bound. 'Twas like the dim edge of death is, 'Twas hades, hell, eternity!

XVI.

Then Morgan hesitating stood, Look'd down the deep and steep descent With wilder'd brow and wonderment, Then gazed against the cooling wood.

And she beside him gazed at this, Then turn'd her great, sad eyes to his; He shook his head and look'd away, Then sadly smiled, and still did say, "To-morrow, child, another day."

O thou to-morrow! Mystery! O day that ever runs before! What has thine hidden hand in store For mine, to-morrow, and for me? O thou to-morrow! what hast thou In store to make me bear the now?

O day in which we shall forget The tangled troubles of to-day! O day that laughs at duns, at debt! O day of promises to pay! O shelter from all present storm! O day in which we shall reform!

O day of all days for reform! Convenient day of promises! Hold back the shadow of the storm. O bless'd to-morrow! Chiefest friend, Let not thy mystery be less, But lead us blindfold to the end.

XVII.

Old Morgan eyed his men, look'd back Against the groves of tamarack, Then tapp'd his stirrup-foot, and stray'd His hard left hand along the mane Of his strong steed, and careless play'd His fingers through the silken skein, And seemed a time to touch the rein.

And then he spurr'd him to her side, And reach'd his hand and, leaning wide, He smiling push'd her falling hair Back from her brow, and kiss'd her there.

Yea, touch'd her softly, as if she Had been some priceless, tender flower, Yet touch'd her as one taking leave Of his one love in lofty tower Before descending to the sea Of battle on his battle eve.

XVIII.

A distant shout! quick oaths! alarms! The black men start up suddenly, Stand in the stirrup, clutch their arms, And bare bright arms all instantly.

But he, he slowly turns, and he Looks all his full soul in her face. He does not shout, he does not say, But sits serenely in his place A time, then slowly turns, looks back Between the trim-bough'd tamarack, And up the winding mountain way, To where the long strong grasses lay.

He raised his glass in his two hands, Then in his left hand let it fall, Then seem'd to count his fingers o'er, Then reach'd his glass, waved cold commands, Then tapp'd his stirrup as before, Stood in the stirrup stern and tall, Then ran his hand along the mane Half nervous-like, and that was all.

His head half settled on his breast, His face a-beard like bird a-nest, And then he roused himself, he spoke, He reach'd an arm like arm of oak, He struck a-west his great broad hand, And seem'd to hurl his hot command.

He clutch'd his rein, struck sharp his heel, Look'd at his men, and smiled half sad, Half desperate, then hitch'd his steel, And all his stormy presence had, As if he kept once more his keel On listless seas where breakers reel.

He toss'd again his iron hand Above the deep, steep desert space, Above the burning seas of sand, And look'd his black men in the face.

They spake not, nor look'd back again, They struck the heel, they clutch'd the rein, And down the darkling plunging steep They dropped toward the dried-up deep.

Below! It seem'd a league below, The black men rode, and she rode well, Against the gleaming sheening haze That shone like some vast sea ablaze, That seem'd to gleam, to glint, to glow As if it mark'd the shores of hell.

Then Morgan stood alone, look'd back From off the fierce wall where he stood, And watch'd his dusk approaching foe. He saw him creep along his track, Saw him descending from the wood, And smiled to see how worn and slow.

Then when his foemen hounding came In pistol-shot of where he stood, He wound his hand in his steed's mane, And plunging to the desert plain, Threw back his white beard like a cloud, And looking back did shout aloud Defiance like a stormy flood, And shouted, "Vasques!" called his name, And dared him to the desert flame.

XIX.

A cloud of dust adown the steep, Where scarce a whirling hawk would sweep, The cloud his foes had follow'd fast, And Morgan like a cloud had pass'd, Yet passed like some proud king of old; And now mad Vasques could not hold Control of his one wild desire To meet old Morgan, in his ire.

He cursed aloud, he shook his rein Above the desert darkling deep, And urged his steed toward the steep, But urged his weary steed in vain.

Old Morgan heard his oath and shout, And Morgan turn'd his head once more, And wheel'd his stout steed short about, Then seem'd to count their numbers o'er.

And then his right hand touch'd his steel, And then he tapp'd his iron heel And seem'd to fight with thought. At last, As if the final die was cast, And cast as carelessly as one Would toss a white coin in the sun, He touch'd his rein once more, and then His pistol laid with idle heed Prone down the toss'd mane of his steed, And he rode down the rugged way Tow'rd where the wide, white desert lay, By broken gorge and cavern'd den, And join'd his band of midnight men.

Some say the gray old man had crazed From mountain fruits that he had pluck'd While winding through the wooded ways Above the steep. But others say That he had turn'd aside and suck'd Sweet poison from the honey dews That lie like manna all the day On dewy leaves so crystal fair And temptingly that none refuse; That thus made mad the man did dare Confront the desert and despair.

Then other mountain men explain, That when one looks upon this sea Of glowing sand, he looks again, Again, through gossamers that run In scintillations of the sun Along this white eternity, And looks until the brain is dazed, Bewilder'd, and the man is crazed.

Then one, a grizzled mountaineer, A thin and sinewy old man, With face all wrinkle-wrought, and tan, And presence silent and austere, Does tell a tale, with reaching face And bated breath, of this weird place, Of many a stalwart mountaineer And Piute tall who perish'd here.

He tells a tale with whisper'd breath Of skin-clad men who track'd this shore, Once populous with sea-set town, And saw a woman wondrous fair, And, wooing, follow'd her far down Through burning sands to certain death; And then he catches short his breath.

He tells: Nay, this is all too long; Enough. The old man shakes his hair When he is done, and shuts his eyes, So satisfied and so self-wise, As if to say, "'Tis nothing rare, This following the luring fair To death, and bound in thorny thong; 'Twas ever thus; the old, old song."

XX.

Go ye and look upon that land, That far vast land that few behold, And none beholding understand,-- That old, old land which men call new, That land as old as time is old;-- Go journey with the seasons through Its wastes, and learn how limitless, How shoreless lie the distances, Before you come to question this Or dare to dream what grandeur is.

The solemn silence of that plain, Where unmanned tempests ride and reign, It awes and it possesses you. 'Tis, oh! so eloquent. The blue And bended skies seem built for it, With rounded roof all fashioned fit, And frescoed clouds, quaint-wrought and true; While all else seems so far, so vain, An idle tale but illy told, Before this land so lone and old.

Its story is of God alone, For man has lived and gone away, And left but little heaps of stone, And all seems some long yesterday.

Lo! here you learn how more than fit And dignified is silence, when You hear the petty jeers of men Who point, and show their pointless wit.

The vastness of that voiceless plain, Its awful solitudes remain Thenceforth for aye a part of you, And you are of the favored few, For you have learn'd your littleness, And heed not names that name you less.

Some silent red men cross your track; Some sun-tann'd trappers come and go; Some rolling seas of buffalo Break thunder-like and far away Against the foot-hills, breaking back Like breakers of some troubled bay; But not a voice the long, lone day.

Some white-tail'd antelope blow by So airy-like; some foxes shy And shadow-like shoot to and fro Like weavers' shuttles, as you pass; And now and then from out the grass You hear some lone bird cluck, and call A sharp keen call for her lost brood, That only makes the solitude, That mantles like some sombre pall, Seem deeper still, and that is all.

A wide domain of mysteries And signs that men misunderstand! A land of space and dreams; a land Of sea-salt lakes and dried-up seas!

A land of caves and caravans, And lonely wells and pools; A land That hath its purposes and plans, That seems so like dead Palestine, Save that its wastes have no confine Till push'd against the levell'd skies; A land from out whose depths shall rise The new-time prophets. Yea, the land From out whose awful depths shall come, All clad in skins, with dusty feet, A man fresh from his Maker's hand, A singer singing oversweet, A charmer charming very wise; And then all men shall not be dumb.

Nay, not be dumb, for he shall say, "Take heed, for I prepare the way For weary feet." Lo! from this land Of Jordan streams and sea-wash'd sand, The Christ shall come when next the race Of man shall look upon his face.

XXI.

Pursuer and pursued! who knows The why he left the breezy pine, The fragrant tamarack and vine, Red rose and precious yellow rose!

Nay, Vasques held the vantage ground Above him by the wooded steep, And right nor left no passage lay, And there was left him but that way,-- The way through blood, or to the deep And lonesome deserts far profound, That know not sight of man, or sound.

Hot Vasques stood upon the rim, High, bold, and fierce with crag and spire. He saw a far gray eagle swim, He saw a black hawk wheel, retire, And shun that desert wide a-wing, But saw no other living thing.

High in the full sun's gold and flame He halting and half waiting came And stood below the belt of wood, Then moved along the broken hill And looked below. And long he stood With lips set firm and brow a-frown, And warring with his iron will. He mark'd the black line winding down As if into the doors of death. And as he gazed a breath arose As from his far-retreating foes, So hot it almost took his breath.

His black eye flashed an angry fire, He stood upon the mountain brow, With lifted arm like oaken bough; The hot pursuer halting stood Irresolute, in nettled ire; Then look'd against the cooling wood, Then strode he sullen to and fro, Then turned and long he gazed below.

The sands flash'd back like fields of snow, Like far blown seas that flood and flow. The while the rounded sky rose higher, And cleaving through the upper space, The flush'd sun settled to his place, Like some far hemisphere of fire.

And yet again he gazed. And now, Far off and faint, he saw or guess'd He saw, beyond the sands a-west, A dim and distant lifting beach That daring men might dare and reach: Dim shapes of toppled peaks with pine, And water'd foot-hills dark like wine, And fruits on many a bended bough.

The leader turn'd and shook his head. "And shall we turn aside," he said, "Or dare this hell?" The men stood still As leaning on his sterner will.

And then he stopp'd and turn'd again, And held his broad hand to his brow, And looked intent and eagerly. The far white levels of the plain Flash'd back like billows. Even now He saw rise up remote, 'mid sea, 'Mid space, 'mid wastes, 'mid nothingness, A ship becalm'd as in distress.

The dim sign pass'd as suddenly, A gossamer of golden tress, Thrown over some still middle sea, And then his eager eyes grew dazed,-- He brought his two hands to his face. Again he raised his head, and gazed With flashing eyes and visage fierce Far out, and resolute to pierce The far, far, faint receding reach Of space and touch its farther beach. He saw but space, unbounded space; Eternal space and nothingness.

Then all wax'd anger'd as they gazed Far out upon the shoreless land, And clench'd their doubled hands and raised Their long bare arms, but utter'd not. At last one started from the band, His bosom heaved as billows heave, Great heaving bosom, broad and brown: He raised his arm, push'd up his sleeve, Push'd bare his arm, strode up and down, With hat pushed back, and flushed and hot, And shot sharp oaths like cannon shot.

Again the man stood still, again He strode the height like hoary storm, Then shook his fists, and then his form Did writhe as if it writhed with pain.

And yet again his face was raised, And yet again he gazed and gazed, Above his fading, failing foe, With gather'd brow and visage fierce, As if his soul would part or pierce The awful depths that lay below.

He had as well look'd on that sea That keeps Samoa's coral isles Amid ten thousand watery miles, Bound round by one eternity; Bound round by realms of nothingness, In love with their own loneliness. He saw but space, unbounded space, And brought his brown hands to his face.

There roll'd away to left, to right, Unbroken walls as black as night, And back of these there distant rose Steep cones of everlasting snows.

At last he was resolved, his form Seem'd like a pine blown rampt with storm. He mounted, clutch'd his reins, and then Turn'd sharp and savage to his men; And silent then led down the way To night that knows not night nor day.

XXII.

Like some great serpent black and still, Old Morgan's men stole down the hill. Far down the steep they wound and wound Until the black line touched that land Of gleaming white and silver sand That knows not human sight or sound.

How broken plunged the steep descent; How barren! Desolate, and rent By earthquake's shock, the land lay dead, With dust and ashes on its head.

'Twas as some old world overthrown, Where Theseus fought and Sappho dreamed In eons ere they touched this land, And found their proud souls foot and hand Bound to the flesh and stung with pain. An ugly skeleton it seem'd Of its own self. The fiery rain Of red volcanoes here had sown The death of cities of the plain.

The very devastation gleamed. All burnt and black, and rent and seam'd, Ay, vanquished quite and overthrown, And torn with thunder-stroke, and strown With cinders, lo! the dead earth lay As waiting for the judgment day.

Why, tamer men had turn'd and said, On seeing this, with start and dread, And whisper'd each with gather'd breath, "We come on the confines of death."

They wound below a savage bluff That lifted, from its sea-mark'd base, Great walls with characters cut rough And deep by some long-perish'd race; And lo! strange beasts unnamed, unknown, Stood hewn and limn'd upon the stone.

The iron hoofs sank here and there, Plough'd deep in ashes, broke anew Old broken idols, and laid bare Old bits of vessels that had grown, As countless ages cycled through, Imbedded with the common stone.

A mournful land as land can be Beneath their feet in ashes lay, Beside that dread and dried-up sea; A city older than that gray And grass-grown tower builded when Confusion cursed the tongues of men.

Beneath, before, a city lay That in her majesty had shamed The wolf-nursed conqueror of old; Below, before, and far away There reach'd the white arm of a bay, A broad bay shrunk to sand and stone, Where ships had rode and breakers roll'd When Babylon was yet unnamed, And Nimrod's hunting-fields unknown.

Some serpents slid from out the grass That grew in tufts by shatter'd stone, Then hid beneath some broken mass That Time had eaten as a bone Is eaten by some savage beast; An everlasting palace feast.

A dull-eyed rattlesnake that lay All loathsome, yellow-skinn'd, and slept, Coil'd tight as pine-knot, in the sun, With flat head through the centre run, Struck blindly back, then rattling crept Flat-bellied down the dusty way ... 'Twas all the dead land had to say.

Two pink-eyed hawks, wide-wing'd and gray, Scream'd savagely, and, circling high, And screaming still in mad dismay, Grew dim and died against the sky ... 'Twas all the heavens had to say.

The grasses fail'd, and then a mass Of brown, burnt cactus ruled the land, And topt the hillocks of hot sand, Where scarce the hornèd toad could pass. Then stunted sage on either hand, All loud with odors, spread the land.

The sun rose right above, and fell As falling molten as they pass'd. Some low-built junipers at last, The last that o'er the desert look'd, Thick-bough'd, and black as shapes of hell Where dumb owls sat with bent bills hook'd Beneath their wings awaiting night, Rose up, then faded from the sight: Then not another living thing Crept on the sand or kept the wing.

White Azteckee! Dead Azteckee! Vast sepulchre of buried sea! What dim ghosts hover on thy rim, What stately-manner'd shadows swim Along thy gleaming waste of sands And shoreless limits of dead lands?

Dread Azteckee! Dead Azteckee! White place of ghosts, give up thy dead: Give back to Time thy buried hosts! The new world's tawny Ishmaelite, The roving tent-born Shoshonee, Who shuns thy shores as death, at night, Because thou art so white, so dread, Because thou art so ghostly white, Because thou hast thy buried hosts, Has named thy shores "the place of ghosts."

Thy white uncertain sands are white With bones of thy unburied dead That will not perish from the sight. They drown but perish not,--ah me! What dread unsightly sights are spread Along this lonesome dried-up sea.

White Azteckee, give up to me Of all thy prison'd dead but one, That now lies bleaching in the sun, To tell what strange allurements lie Within this dried-up oldest sea, To tempt men to its heart and die.