Part 5

And golden coin, and golden cup, And golden cruse, and golden plate, And all that great seas swallow up, Right in their dreadful pathway lay.... The hungry and insatiate Old sea, made hoary white with time, And wrinkled cross with many a crime, With all his treasured thefts was there, His sins, his very soul laid bare, As if it were the Judgment Day.

XXXVII.

And now the tawny night fell soon, And there was neither star nor moon; And yet it seem'd it was not night. There fell a phosphorescent light, There rose from white sands and dead men A soft light, white and fair as when The Spirit of Jehovah moved Upon the water's conscious face, And made it His abiding-place.

O mighty waters unreproved! Thou deep! where the Jehovah moved Ere soul of man was called to be! O seas! that were created not As man, as earth, as light, as aught That is. O sea! thou art to me A terror, death, eternity.

XXXVIII.

I do recall some sad days spent, By borders of the Orient, Days sweet as sad to memory ... 'Twould make a tale. It matters not ... I sought the loneliest seas; I sought The solitude of ruins, and forgot Mine own lone life and littleness Before this fair land's mute distress, That sat within this changeful sea.

Slow sailing through the reedy isles, By unknown banks, through unknown bays, Some sunny, summer yesterdays, Where Nature's beauty still beguiles, I saw the storied yellow sail And lifted prow of steely mail. 'Tis all that's left Torcello now,-- A pirate's yellow sail, a prow.

Below the far, faint peaks of snow, And grass-grown causeways well below, I touched Torcello. Once a-land, I took a sea-shell in my hand, And blew like any trumpeter. I felt the fig-leaves lift and stir On trees that reached from ruined wall Above my head, but that was all. Back from the farther island shore Came echoes trooping; nothing more.

Lo! here stood Adria once, and here Attila came with sword and flame, And set his throne of hollowed stone In her high mart. And it remains Still lord o'er all. Where once the tears Of mute petition fell, the rains Of heaven fall. Lo! all alone There lifts this massive empty throne! The sea has changed his meed, his mood, And made this sedgy solitude.

By cattle paths grass-grown and worn, Through marbled streets all stain'd and torn By time and battle, there I walked. A bent old beggar, white as one For better fruitage blossoming, Came on. And as he came he talked Unto himself; for there are none In all his island, old and dim, To answer back or question him.

I turned, retraced my steps once more. The hot miasma steamed and rose In deadly vapor from the reeds That grew from out the shallow shore, Where peasants say the sea-horse feeds, And Neptune shapes his horn and blows.

I climb'd and sat that throne of stone To contemplate, to dream, to reign; Ay, reign above myself; to call The people of the past again Before me as I sat alone In all my kingdom. There were kine That browsed along the reedy brine, And now and then a tusky boar Would shake the high reeds of the shore, A bird blow by,--but that was all.

I watched the lonesome sea-gull pass. I did remember and forget; The past rolled by; I stood alone. I sat the shapely chiselled stone That stands in tall sweet grasses set; Ay, girdle deep in long strong grass, And green Alfalfa. Very fair The heavens were, and still and blue, For Nature knows no changes there. The Alps of Venice, far away Like some half-risen half moon lay.

How sweet the grasses at my feet! The smell of clover over sweet. I heard the hum of bees. The bloom Of clover-tops and cherry-trees Were being rifled by the bees, And these were building in a tomb.

The fair Alfalfa; such as has Usurped the Occident, and grows With all the sweetness of the rose On Sacramento's sundown hills, Is there, and that mid island fills With fragrance. Yet the smell of death Comes riding in on every breath.

Lo! death that is not death, but rest: To step aside, to watch and wait Beside the wave, outside the gate, With all life's pulses in your breast: To absolutely rest, to pray In some lone mountain while you may.

That sad sweet fragrance. It had sense, And sound, and voice. It was a part Of that which had possessed my heart, And would not of my will go hence. 'Twas Autumn's breath; 'twas dear as kiss Of any worshipped woman is.

Some snails have climb'd the throne and writ Their silver monograms on it In unknown tongues. I sat thereon, I dreamed until the day was gone; I blew again my pearly shell,-- Blew long and strong, and loud and well; I puffed my cheeks, I blew, as when Horn'd satyrs danced the delight of men.

Some mouse-brown cows that fed within Looked up. A cowherd rose hard by, My single subject, clad in skin, Nor yet half clad. I caught his eye, He stared at me, then turned and fled. He frightened fled, and as he ran, Like wild beast from the face of man, Across his shoulder threw his head. He gathered up his skin of goat About his breast and hairy throat. He stopped, and then this subject true, Mine only one in lands like these Made desolate by changeful seas, Came back and asked me for a _sou_.

XXXIX.

And yet again through the watery miles Of reeds I rowed till the desolate isles Of the black bead-makers of Venice are not. I touched where a single sharp tower is shot To heaven, and torn by thunder and rent As if it had been Time's battlement. A city lies dead, and this great gravestone Stands at its head like a ghost alone.

Some cherry-trees grow here, and here An old church, simple and severe In ancient aspect, stands alone Amid the ruin and decay, all grown In moss and grasses. Old and quaint, With antique cuts of martyr'd saint, The gray church stands with stooping knees, Defying the decay of seas.

Her pictured Hell, with flames blown high, In bright mosaics wrought and set When man first knew the Nubian art, Her bearded saints, as black as jet; Her quaint Madonna, dim with rain And touch of pious lips of pain, So touched my lonesome soul, that I Gazed long, then came and gazed again, And loved, and took her to my heart.

Nor monk in black, nor Capuchin, Nor priest of any creed was seen. A sun-browned woman, old and tall, And still as any shadow is, Stole forth from out the mossy wall With massive keys to show me this: Came slowly forth, and following, Three birds--and all with drooping wing.

Three mute brown babes of hers; and they-- O, they were beautiful as sleep, Or death, below the troubled deep. And on the pouting lips of these Red corals of the silent seas, Sweet birds, the everlasting seal Of silence that the God has set On this dead island, sits for aye.

I would forget, yet not forget Their helpless eloquence. They creep Somehow into my heart, and keep One bleak, cold corner, jewel set. They steal my better self away To them, as little birds that day Stole fruits from out the cherry-trees.

So helpless and so wholly still, So sad, so wrapt in mute surprise, That I did love, despite my will. One little maid of ten,--such eyes, So large and lonely, so divine,-- Such pouting lips, such peachy cheek,-- Did lift her perfect eyes to mine, Until our souls did touch and speak; Stood by me all that perfect day, Yet not one sweet word could she say.

She turned her melancholy eyes So constant to my own, that I Forgot the going clouds, the sky, Found fellowship, took bread and wine, And so her little soul and mine Stood very near together there. And O, I found her very fair. Yet not one soft word could she say: What did she think of all that day?

The sometime song of gondolier Is heard afar. The fishermen Betimes draw net by ruined shore, In full spring time when east winds fall; Then traders row with muffled oar, Tedesca or the turban'd Turk, The pirate, at some midnight work By watery wall,--but that is all.

XL.

Remote, around the lonesome ship, Old Morgan moved, but knew it not, For neither star nor moon fell down ... I trow that was a lonesome spot He found, where boat and ship did dip In sands like some half-sunken town, And all things rose bat-winged and brown.

At last before the leader lay A form that in the night did seem A slain Goliath. As in a dream, He drew aside in his slow pace, And look'd. He saw a sable face, A friend that fell that very day, Thrown straight across his wearied way.

He falter'd now. His iron heart, That never yet refused its part, Began to fail him; and his strength Shook at his knees, as shakes the wind A shatter'd ship. His scatter'd mind Ranged up and down the land. At length He turn'd, as ships turn, tempest toss'd, For now he knew that he was lost, And sought in vain the moon, the stars, In vain the battle-star of Mars.

Again he moved. And now again He paused, he peer'd along the plain, Another form before him lay. He stood, and statue-white he stood, He trembled like a stormy wood,-- It was a foeman brown and gray.

He lifted up his head again, Again he search'd the great profound For moon, for star, but sought in vain. He kept his circle round and round; The great ship lifting from the sand And pointing heavenward like a hand.

XLI.

And still he crept along the plain, Yet where his foeman dead again Lay in his way he moved around, And soft as if on sacred ground, And did not touch him anywhere. It might have been he had a dread, In his half-crazed and fever'd brain, His mortal foe might wake again If he should dare to touch him there.

He circled round the lonesome ship Like some wild beast within a wall, That keeps his paces round and round. The very stillness had a sound; He saw strange somethings rise and dip; He felt the weirdness like a pall Come down and cover him.

It seem'd To take a form, take many forms, To talk to him, to reach out arms; Yet on he kept, and silent kept, And as he led he lean'd and slept, And as he slept he talk'd and dream'd.

Then shadows follow'd, stopp'd, and stood Bewildered, wandered back again, Came on and then fell to the sand And sinking died. Then other men Did wag their woolly heads and laugh, Then bend their necks and seem to quaff Of cooling waves that careless flow Where woods and long strong grasses grow.

Yet on wound Morgan, leaning low, With head upon his breast, and slow As hand upon a dial plate. He did not turn his course or quail, He did not falter, did not fail, Turn right or left or hesitate.

Some far-off sounds had lost their way, And seem'd to call to him and pray For help, as if they were affright. It was not day, it seem'd not night, But that dim land that lies between The mournful, faithful face of night And loud and gold-bedazzled day; A night that was not felt but seen.

There seem'd not then the ghost of sound. He stepp'd as soft as step the dead; Yet on he led in solemn tread, Bewilder'd, blinded, round and round, About the great black ship that rose Tall-masted as that ship that blows Her ghost below lost Panama,-- The tallest mast man ever saw.

Two leaning shadows follow'd him, Their eyes were red, their teeth shone white, Their limbs did lift as shadows swim. Then one went left and one went right, And in the night pass'd out of night; Pass'd through the portals black, unknown, And Morgan totter'd on alone.

XLII.

And why he still survived the rest, Why still he had the strength to stir, Why still he stood like gnarléd oak That buffets storm and tempest stroke, One cannot say, save but for her, That helpless being on his breast; At rest; that would not let him rest.

She did not speak, she did not stir; In rippled currents over her Her black, abundant hair pour'd down Like mantle or some sable gown.

That sad, sweet dreamer; she who knew Not any thing of earth at all, Nor cared to know its bane or bliss; That dove that did not touch the land, That knew, yet did not understand. And this may be because she drew Her all of life right from the hand Of God, and did not choose to learn The things that make up earth's concern.

Ah! there be souls none understand; Like clouds, they cannot touch the land, Drive as they may by field or town. Then we look wise at this and frown, And we cry, "Fool," and cry, "Take hold Of earth, and fashion gods of gold."

... Unanchor'd ships, they blow and blow, Sail to and fro, and then go down In unknown seas that none shall know, Without one ripple of renown. Poor drifting dreamers sailing by, They seem to only live to die.

Call these not fools; the test of worth Is not the hold you have of earth. Lo! there be gentlest souls sea-blown That know not any harbor known. Now it may be the reason is They touch on fairer shores than this.

XLIII.

And dark-eyed Ina? Nestled there, Half-hidden in her glorious hair, The while its midnight folds fell down From out his great arms nude and brown, She lay against his hairy breast, All motionless as death, below His great white beard like shroud, or snow, As if in everlasting rest.

He totter'd side to side to keep Erect and keep his steady tread; He lean'd, he bent to her his head ... "She sleeps uncommon sound," he said, "As if in that eternal sleep, Where cool and watered willows sweep."

At last he touch'd a fallen group, Dead fellows tumbled in the sands, Dead foemen, gather'd to the dead. And eager now the man did stoop, Lay down his load and reach his hands, And stretch his form and look steadfast And frightful, and as one aghast And ghostly from his hollow eyes. He lean'd and then he raised his head, And look'd for Vasques, but in vain; He laid his two great arms crosswise, Took breath a time with trembling main, Then peered again along the plain.

Lo! from the sands another face, The last that follow'd through the deep, Comes on from out the lonesome place. And Vasques, too, survives! But where? His last bold follower lies there, Thrown straight across old Morgan's track, As if to check him, bid him back. He stands, he does not dare to stir, He watches by his child asleep, He fears, for her: but only her. The man who ever mock'd at death, He hardly dares to draw his breath.

Beyond, and still as black despair, A man rose up, stood dark and tall, Stretch'd out his neck, reach'd forth, let fall Dark oaths, and Death stood waiting there.

He drew his blade, came straight as death Right up before the follower, The last of Morgan's sable men, While Morgan watched aside by her, And saw his foeman wag his beard And fiercest visage ever seen. The while that dead man lay between. I think no man there drew a breath, I know that no man quail'd or fear'd.

The tawny dead man stretch'd between, And Vasques set his foot thereon. The stars were seal'd, the moon was gone, The very darkness cast a shade. The scene was rather heard than seen, The rattle of a single blade....

A right foot rested on the dead, A black hand reach'd and clutch'd a beard, Then neither prayed, nor dreamed of hope ... A fierce face reach'd, a fierce face peer'd ... No bat went whirling overhead, No star fell out of Ethiope....

The dead man lay between them there, The two men glared as tigers glare, The black man held him by the beard. He wound his hand, he held him fast, And tighter held, as if he fear'd The man might 'scape him at the last. Whiles Morgan did not speak or stir, But stood in silent watch by her.

Not long.... A light blade lifted, thrust, A blade that leapt and swept about, So wizard-like, like wand in spell, So like a serpent's tongue thrust out ... Thrust twice, thrust thrice, thrust as he fell, Thrust through until it touch'd the dust.

Yet ever as he thrust and smote, The black hand like an iron band Did tighten to the gasping throat. He fell, but did not loose his hand; The two fell dead upon the sand.

Lo! up and from the fallen forms Two ghosts came forth like cloud of storms. Two tall ghosts stood, and looking back, With hands all bloody, and hands clutch'd, Strode on together, till they touch'd, Along the lonesome, chartless track, Where dim Plutonian darkness fell, Then touch'd the outer rim of hell, And looking back their great despair Sat sadly down as resting there.

XLIV.

Perchance there was a strength in death; The scene it seem'd to nerve the man To superhuman strength. He rose, Held up his head, began to scan The heavens and to take his breath Right strong and lustily. He now Resumed his load, and with his eye Fixed on a star that filtered through The farther west, pushed bare his brow, And kept his course with head held high, As if he strode his deck and drew His keel below some lifted light That watched the rocky reef at night.

How lone he was, how patient she, Upon that lonesome sandy sea! It were a sad, unpleasant sight To follow them through all the night, Until the time they lifted hand, And touched at last a watered land.

The turkeys walked the tangled grass, And scarcely turned to let them pass. There was no sign of man, or sign Of savage beast. 'Twas so divine, It seem'd as if the bended skies Were rounded for this Paradise.

The large-eyed antelope came down From off their windy hills, and blew Their whistles as they wandered through The open groves of watered wood; Then came as light as if a-wing, And reached their noses wet and brown, And stamped their little feet, and stood Close up before them wondering.

What if this were the Eden true, They found in far heart of the new And unnamed westmost world I sing, Where date and history had birth, And man first 'gan his wandering To go the girdles of the earth!

It lies a little isle mid land, An island in a sea of sand; With reedy waters and the balm Of an eternal summer air. Some blowy pines toss tall and fair; And there are grasses long and strong, And tropic fruits that never fail: The Manzinetta pulp, the palm, The prickly pear, with all the song Of summer birds. And there the quail Makes nest, and you may hear her call All day from out the chaparral.

A land where white man never trod, And Morgan seems some demi-god, That haunts the red man's spirit land. A land where never red man's hand Is lifted up in strife at all. He holds it sacred unto those Who bravely fell before their foes, And rarely dares its desert wall.

Here breaks nor sound of strife or sign; Rare times a red man comes this way, Alone, and battle-scarred and gray, And then he bends devout before The maid who keeps the cabin door, And deems her sacred and divine.

Within the island's heart, 'tis said, Tall trees are bending down with bread, And that a fountain pure as truth, And deep and mossy bound and fair, Is bubbling from the forest there,-- Perchance the fabled fount of youth!

An isle where never cares betide; Where solitude comes not, and where The soul is ever satisfied. An isle where skies are ever fair, Where men keep never date nor day, Where Time has thrown his glass away.

This isle is all their own. No more The flight by day, the watch by night. Dark Ina twines about the door The scarlet blooms, the blossoms white, And winds red berries in her hair, And never knows the name of care.

She has a thousand birds; they blow In rainbow clouds, in clouds of snow; The birds take berries from her hand; They come and go at her command.

She has a thousand pretty birds, That sing her summer songs all day; Small black-hoofed antelope in herds, And squirrels bushy-tail'd and gray, With round and sparkling eyes of pink, And cunning-faced as you can think.

She has a thousand busy birds; And is she happy in her isle, With all her feathered friends and herds? For when has Morgan seen her smile?

She has a thousand cunning birds, They would build nestings in her hair; She has brown antelope in herds; She never knows the name of care; Why then is she not happy there?

All patiently she bears her part; She has a thousand birdlings there, These birds they would build in her hair; But not one bird builds in her heart.

She has a thousand birds; yet she Would give ten thousand cheerfully, All bright of plume and loud of tongue, And sweet as ever trilled or sung, For one small fluttered bird to come And sit within her heart, though dumb.

She has a thousand birds; yet one Is lost, and, lo! she is undone. She sighs sometimes. She looks away, And yet she does not weep or say.

She has a thousand birds. The skies Are fashioned for her paradise; A very queen of fairy land, With all earth's fruitage at command, And yet she does not lift her eyes. She sits upon the water's brink As mournful soul'd as you can think.

She has a thousand birds; and yet She will look downward, nor forget The fluttered white-winged turtle dove, The changeful-throated birdling, love, That came, that sang through tropic trees, Then flew for aye across the seas.

The waters kiss her feet; above Her head the trees are blossoming, And fragrant with eternal spring. Her birds, her antelope are there, Her birds they would build in her hair; She only waits her birdling, love. She turns, she looks along the plain, Imploring love to come again.

Cambridge: Press of John Wilson & Son.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Ship in the Desert, by Joaquin Miller