TTTW S University of California Berkeley Gift of THE HEARST CORPORATION THE DANITES: OTHER CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM THE WRITINGS OF JOAQUIN MILLER, " THE POET OF THE SIERRAS." "JL little bird From "bunch of grass Hew sudden out, And swinging circled sharp about, Then tangled in a spangled tree, And there, as if the whole world heard, Began its morning minstrelsy." THE BARONESS. EDITED BY A. V. D. HONEYMAN. NEW YORK: THE AMERICAN NEWS COMPANY, 1878. Copyright, 1877, by A. V. D. HONEYHAN. HONEYMAN & ROWE, SMITH & McDotTGAL, Steam Printers, Electrotypers, 82 Beekman St., tf. Y. TO ALL WHO ADMIRE, EVEN TO THE HUMBLEST EXTENT, THE WRITINGS OF JOAQUIN MILLER. PREFACE. ELIEVING sincerely that "the gardens of God" and I speak reverently, meaning His gardens in the human soul, where is grown whatever is most lovely in this world in their yield of flowers of song have rarely given such fruitage as the poems of the " wild songster of Oregon," I send forth this volume of choice selections from JOAQUIN MILLER'S prose and verse. They are choice in the sense that they are Mr. MILLER'S best, so far as the editor's judgment could determine, although others equally marked in their beauty or originality have been omit ted. To choose a sufficient number for these pages has been as little a task, indeed, as to pluck a handful of roses among a thousand varieties in the King's Park ! I am aware of the merciless denunciation of this author's verse at the hands of a few American writers of " book notices." But time may prove the first convictions of the best English reviewers to be correct. The London critics are not usually caught napping ! Let the present generation in America die, and the next will admit that the cross of song may be planted upon the Sierras as well as the Alps or the Catskills, and that Genius has no territorial limitations save that of the most ultimate rim of the universe of God. What is true poetry ? In one of Mr. MILLER'S lectures it is defined as a succession of beautiful pictures, whether in prose or verse. If this be correct and is it not? where in all American verse can you find more luxuriance of imagination, VI PREFACE. more wealth of imagery, than in, for instance, The Songs of the Sunlandsf And his prose is nearly as full of suggestive figures, while as simple and peaceful as the talks of the Red Man, who was his earliest friend and teacher. The poet has a great, warm heart, and his songs are invari ably for Peace and Charity. Some of the "Olive Leaves," gathered in The Songs of the Sunlands, will be found to be as echoes of that choir which sang, over Bethlehem's plains, "Peace on earth, good will to men." But let every one be his own judge, whether or not this new singer of the New World is entitled to the fame which would seem to be already secure. This book will give him the opportunity in the most compact space possible. The approval of Mr. MILLER has been secured for this selected work, but he is not personally responsible for its sug gestion, arrangement, nor publication. Neither the selections, nor their titles,* nor the accompanying notes respecting the different books from which extracts are taken, have passed his eye : he has confided to the editor's judgment. Accordingly, it has not been deemed wise, thus apart from his revision, to make even the slightest verbal corrections of some rhetorical faults. The italic excerpts on pages fronting the book-titles are all from the same author, with the exception of the last. That the pure, sweet melody of these Western bird-notes, the fresh, woodland fragrance of these flowers of the Pacific coast, may appeal to other hearts as they have to mine, and affect them as sensibly for good, is my earnest wish. A. V. D. H. SOKEKVTLLE, N. J., Nov. 16, 1877. * In all but rare instances the titles have been supplied by the editor, the selections being from long poems. CONTENTS j>he Mamies, and the 3fir L $t 3fam'Ue$ of the $iei$a$. PAGE Little Billie Piper, ... 1 A Question, ..... 1 King Sandy, ..... 2 Limber Tim, ..... 2 Bunker Hill, ..... 3 The Miners' Wash-Day, . 3 Washee-Washee, . . 4 Washee-Washee Sentenced, 6 A Pure Woman, .... 8 Some Men's Characters, . 8 $on$ of the i A Storm on the River, . 11 In the Tropics, .... 11 The Bleeding Past, ... 12 Drowned, ...... 12 The Warm Sea's Dimpled Face, ....... 12 Loves of the Sun-maids, . 13 Death of a Warrior, . .13 Walker in Nicaragua, . . 13 Prophecy of the West, . 14 After the Battle, .... 14 Walker's Grave, .... 15 The Sierras, ..... 15 The Sun on the Sierras, . 15 The Upturned Face, . . 16 Curambo's Fear of Death, 16 Love in the Cycled Years, 17 PAGE Into the Flame, .... 17 The Morning, 18 The Chieftain's Form, . , 18 Popocatapetl, 18 The Indian Warrior's Ad dress, 19 The Sunset, 20 The Night, 20 Don Carlos' Hyperbole, . 21 Night and Morning in Oregon, 21 To be a Poet 22 Nature in Unrest, ... 22 Longings, 23 The Valley, 23 The Stream, ..... 23 Winnema's Face, ... 24 Loving Winnenia, ... 24 A-Faint, ....... 25 Burning the Dead, ... 25 Lord Byron, 26 To Robert Burns, ... 27 The Moon on Winnema's Hair, 27 The Blame a Prophecy, . 28 The Coffined Past. ... 23 What Should Have Been, 29 A Poet of Nature, ... 29 Woman's Strangeness, . 29 Death 30 Recollection, 30 The Forest Maiden, . . 31 Yin CONTENTS. $ong$ of the $unlancl$. PAGE 49 PAGE The Rocky Mountains, . 35 Adieu, 49 50 Tn flip T)p?prt \VnnH ^nl 50 Charity, 51 The Knight Seeking Love, 36 53 The Song of the Silence, . 36 The Queen of the Amazons, 37 The Love of the Trees, . 37 Forsake the City, ... 37 Mountain Heights, ... 38 The Lost Knight, . . . Musi c in the Forest, . . The Fainting Knight, . . The Storm Shall Pass, . The Origin of Man, . . Gold 53 54 54 54 55 56 Isles of the Amazons, . . 38 The Lake 56 Amazon Beauties, ... 39 57 Alone by Thee, .... 39 Let the Earth Rest, . . 40 Love-lights, ..... 40 On and On 40 Watching the Bathers, The New Land of Song, . Across the Continent, . . The Lake and the West, . 57 58 59 59 Love-sweets, 41 At Night in the Cars, . . 41 The Sweetest, . . . . Down into the Dust, . . 60 60 01 The Snow-Capped Sierras, 41 At Bethlehem, . . . . 61 63 A Bison-King, .... 43 In Yosemite Valley, . . Faith 62 63 A Morn in Oregon, ... 43 Sunshine after the Storm, 44 To the Red Men, Sleeping, 45 The Red Men Still Free, . 45 Westminster Abbey, . . 46 The Indian Summer, . . 46 More than Fair 46 Look Starward, .... 47 Beyond Jordan, . ... The Last Supper, . The Nazarine, .... A Resting Place, . . . .. Remembrance, . . . . 63 64 65 65 66 Hope, 47 . m ^ ' A Wanderer . . 47 Amongst the y$oaoc$ * Before a Poet's Shrine. . 48 The Indian-Summer Even ing, 48 Shasta Unrivalled, . . . Trojan Miners, .... A Beaver Hat, .... 69 69 70 Bury Me Deep, my Beau tiful Girl <48 Opposition to a Coin Cur rency, 71 A Coming Storm, ... 49 An Explosion, .... 73 CONTENTS. PAGE The Faithf ul Heroine, . 73 A California Moon, ... 74 In the Shadow of the Pines, 74 At Peace, 74 Mount Shasta 75 Camp Life in the Wood, . 76 Mount Hood, 76 An Indian Likeness, . . 77 Shasta and Hood, . , . 77 First Glimpse of Shasta, . 77 The Freemasonry of Moun tain Scenery, .... 78 A Glimpse of the Sierras, 78 From Mt. Shasta to the Stars, 78 Be Your Own Disciple, . 79 The Winter Storm Broken, 79 The Real Hero, .... 80 Snow in the Sierras, . . 80 The Bald-headed Man, . 81 Spring Disrobing Win ter, . 81 The Showy Rich Man, . 82 Mouths, 83 The Indian Autumn, . . 83 A Thunder-Storm in the Mountains, 84 Sunrise on Mt. Shasta, . 85 A Funeral in a Mining Camp, 85 The Chain of Fortune, . 86 Paquita, ...... 86 The Night, ..... 87 The Indian Account of the Creation, 87 The Association of the Dead, . . . .... 88 Sunset on Mt. Shasta, . . 88 Climbing the Mountains, . 89 The Death of Paquita, . 89 fphe $% in the PAGE The Old Sea-King, ... 95 On the River, 95 The Sea-King's Bride, . . 95 A Great Soul, 96 Spring, 97 Journeying, 97 " Take Men as You Find Them," 97 The Omaha of the Future, 98 In the Desert, .... 98 The Red Men's Cemetery, 99 Kings in Captivity, ... 99 To-morrow, . . . . .100 The Sun at Noon-day, . . 100 Solemn Silence, .... 101 Dead, 101 The Land of the Future, . 101 Busy Bees, 102 Africa, . . . . . . .102 The Antelope, .... 103 The Dead African, . . .103 Solitude, ...... 104 Misunderstood Souls, . . 104 The Little Isle, .... 105 A Lifted Face, .... 106 To the Missouri, .... 106 Three Babes, 107 Dark-Eyed Ina, .... 107 Unnamed Giants, . . . 108 Dead Azteckee, .... 108 The Boundless Space, . . 110 Famishing, HO The Little Maid, .... 110 The One Lost Birdling, . Ill (phe Baroness of lew otjh. The Baroness In the Wood, H7 CONTENTS. PAGE How the Night Came, . . 118 The Sunset Land, . . .118 Fire in the Forest, . . .119 The Common Code of Men, 120 Doughal and the Priest, . 121 The Bridal Kiss, .... 121 The Magnet, 121 A Majestic Mouth, . . .122 The Forest Aflame, . . .122 Adora in Tears, . . , . 123 To Fifth Avenue, . . .124 To Fifth Avenue Again, . 125 Adora, 125 Lost Love, 126 Your Middle Men, . . .126 Go View Fifth Avenue, . 127 On Rousseau's Isle Ge neva, ....... 127 The Farewell Letter, . . 128 The Morning after the Storm, ..... .129 The White-Girdled Moon, 130 Silentness, .130 The Worth of the Soul, . 130 Woman's Instincts, . . 130 Copyists, 131 The Earth a Level Ball, . 131 The West's World-Build ers, 132 A Sad White Dove, . . .133 Fair as Young Junos, . . 133 The Halo, . . . . . .133 Thank God, He's Dead, . 134 Should I Desert Him?. . 134 Near, Yet Far, . . . .135 gongs of Italij, Rome, 139 A Falling Star, . . . .139 PAGE Why Nights Were Made, 139 Christmas Time in Venice, 140 Morn in Venice, .... 140 The Kiss of Faith, . . .140 To a Waif of the Street, . 141 Sunrise in Venice, . . .142 Lone, ........ 143 A Storm in Venice, . . .143 The Ideal, ...... 144 And the Real, ..... 144 Longing for Home, . . . 145 To the American Flag, . 146 The Eternal City, . . .149 Italy Tired, ..... 149 Lake Como, ..... 149 Poets,. . . ..... 150 Faces Change, .... 150 A Suggestion, ..... 150 A Perfect Face, .... 151 Do Not Drift, . . . . .151 The Little Hand, . . .151 A Picture, ...... 152 More than Beautiful, . . 152 Be Silent and let God Speak, ... . . .152 None Utterly Bad, . . .153 Honor, ....... 153 Love of the Beautiful, . 153 Reputation, ..... 155 Baby-world, ..... 155 General Custer, . . . .156 The Capitol at Washington, 157 True Merit, . . . . , 157 Noses, ..... . . 157 The New Parnassus, . . 158 Tears, ....... 158 A Race for Love and Life, 159 THE DANITES, AND THE FIRST FAM'LIES OF THE SIERRAS. THOSE who have read " The First Fam'lies of the Sierras," and have also witnessed the drama of u The Danites," will at once recognize the nearly perfect likeness. They are, indeed, one ; the latter being sim ply the former adapted to the stage. In making the selections which follow under this title, the editor has drawn from both the drama and the book. "The First Families" is a semi-autobiography, like "Unwritten His tory," and " The One Fair Woman," although it may take a keener eye to detect the real amid the ideal. As a specimen of California vernacular, and a delineator of life in the mining camps, it is probably not exceeded by any of the famed works of BRET HABTE, although its publication attracted less attention than The Luck of Roaring Camp,o* The Outcasts of Poker Flat. It was partially written in California, but completed in London in 1874, where it was published by George Rutledge. In this country its publishers are Jansen, McClurg & Co., Chicago, 1876. " The Danites " took its name from those Mormons who were banded together as " Avenging Angels," and pursued after " the lost Nancy Wil liams," the last of the persecuted family of that name, so well known to Mormon history. The death of Brigham Young having revived the story, additional interest is lent to what will doubtless prove one of the most successful dramas lately put upon the stage. Is it worth while tJiat we battle to humble Some poor fellow-soldier down into the dust f God pity us all f Time eftsoon witt tumble All of us together like leaves in a gust, Humbled indeed down into the dust. Little Billy Piper. jHAT is your name, my boy ?" "Billy Piper." The timid brown eyes looked up through the cluster of yellow curls, as the boy stepped aside to let the big man pass'; and the two, without other words, went on their ways. Oddly enough they allowed this boy to keep his name. They called him Little Billy Piper. He was an enigma to the miners. Sometimes he looked to be only fifteen. Then again he was very thoughtful. The fair brow was wrinkled sometimes; there were lines, sabre cuts of time, on the fair delicate face, and then he looked to be double that age. He worked, or at least he went out to work, every day with his pick and pan and shovel; but almost always they saw him standing by the running stream, looking into the water, dreaming, seeing in Nature's mirror the snowy clouds that blew in moving mosaic overhead and through and over the tops of the toss ing firs. He rarely spoke to the men more than in mono syllables. Yet when he did speak to them his lan guage was so refined, so far above their common speech, and his voice was so soft, and his manner so gentle, that they saw in him a superior. A Question. " TELL me," said the boy, laying his hand on the arm of his companion, and looking earnestly and sadly in his face, " Tell me, Tim, why it is that they always have the grave-yard on a hill. Is it because THE DAJsITES. it is a little nearer to heaven ?" His companion did not understand. And yet he did understand, and was silent. King Sandy. THIS Sandy never blustered or asserted himself at all. He was born above most men of his class, and he stood at their head boldly without knowing it. Had he been born an Indian he would have been a chief, would have led in battle, and dictated in coun cil, without question or without opposition from any one. Had he been born in the old time of kings, he would have put out his hand, taken a crown, and worn it as a man wears the most fitting garment, by instinct. Sandy was born king of the Forks. He was king already, without knowing it or caring to rule it. There are people just like that in the world, you know, great, silent, fearless fellows, or at least there are in the Sierra- world, and they are as good as they are great. They are there, throned there, filling up more of the world than any ten thousand of those feeble things that God sent into the world, in mercy to the poor good men who sit all day silent, and cross- legged, and in nine parts, sewing, on a table. They will not go higher, they cannot go lower. They accept the authority as if they had inherited through a thousand sires. Limber Tim. Now there was Limber Tim, one of the first and best men of all the thousand bearded and brawny set of Missourians, a nervous, weakly, sensitive sort of a fellow, who kept always twisting his legs and arms around as he walked, or talked, or tried to sit still ; who never could face anything or any one two minutes THE DANITES. 3 without flopping over, or turning around, or twisting about, or trying to turn himself wrong side out, and of course anybody instinctively knew his name as soon as he saw him. The baptismal name of Limber Tim was Thomas Adolphus Grosvenor. And yet these hairy, half- savage, unread Missourians, who had stopped here in their great pilgrimage of the plains, and had never yet seen a city, or the sea, or a school-house, or a church, knew perfectly well that there was a mistake in this matter the moment they saw him, and that his name was Limber Tim. Bunker Hill. ONE day, Bunker Hill, a humped-back and un happy woman of uncertain ways, passed through the crowd in The Forks. Some of the rough men laughed and made remarks. This boy was there also. Lifting his eyes to one of these men at his side, he said : " God has made some women a little plain, in order that he might have some women that are wholly good." The Miners* Wash-day. BRAWNY-MUSCLED men, nude above the waist, "naked and yet not ashamed," hairy-breasted and bearded, noble, kingly men miners washing their shirts in a mountain-stream of the Sierras. Thought* ful, earnest, splendid men ! Boughs above them, pine- tops toying with the sun that here and there reached through like fingers pointing at them from the far, pure purple of the sky. And a stillness so pro found, perfect, holy as a temple ! Nature knows her Sabbath. I would give more for a painting of this scene that sun, that sky and wood, the water there, the 4 THE DAKITES. brave, strong men, the thinkers and the workers there, nude and natural, silent and sincere, bending to their work than for all the battle-scenes that could be hung upon a palace wall. When the great man comes, the painter of the true and great, these men will be remembered. Washee-Washee. THERE was an expression of ineffable peace and tranquility on the face of Washee-Washee that twi light, as he wended his way from the Widow's cabin to his own. . His day's work was done ; and the little man's face looked the soul of repose. Possibly he was saying with the great, good poet, whose lines you hear at evening time, on the lips of nearly every Eng lish artisan " Something attempted, something done, Has earn'd a night's repose." Washee-Washee looked strangely fat for a China man, as he peacefully toddled down the trail, still wearing, as he neared his cabin, that look of calm delight and perfect innocence, such only as the pure in heart are supposed to wear. His hands were drawn up and folded calmly across his obtruding stomach, as if he feared he might possibly burst open, and wanted to be ready to hold himself together. In the great-little republic there, where all had begun an even and equal race in the battle of life, where all had begun as beggars, this tawny little man from the far- off Flowery Kingdom was alone ; he was the only rep resentative of his innumerable millions in all that camp. And he did seem so fat, so perfectly full of satisfaction. Perhaps he smiled to think how fat he was, and, too, how he had nourished in the little democracy. He was making a short turn in the trail, still hold- THE DANITES. 5 ing his clasped hands over his extended stomach, still smiling peacefully out of his half-shut eyes : "Washee! Washee!" A double bolt of thunder was in his ears. A tre mendous hand reached out from behind a pine, and then the fat little Chinaman squatted down and began to wilt and melt beneath it. " Washee- Washee, come! " Washee- Washee was not at all willing to come ; but that made not the slightest difference in the world to Sandy. The little almond-eyed man was not at all heavy. Old flannel shirts, cotton overalls, stockings, cotton collars and cambric handkerchiefs never are heavy, no matter how well they may be wadded in, and padded away, and tucked up, and twisted under an outer garment ; and so before he had time to say a word he was on his way to the Widow's with Sandy, while Limber Tim, with his mouth half open, came cork-screwing up the trail, and grinding and whetting his screechy gum boots together after them. He reached the door of the Widow's cabin, knocked with the knuckles of his left hand, while his right hand held on to an ankle that hung down over his left shoulder, and calmly waited an answer. The door half way opened. " Beg pardon, mum." He bowed stiffly as he said this, and then shifting Washee- Washee around, quietly took his other heel in his other hand, and proceeded to shake him up and down, and dance him and stand him gently on his head, until the clothes began to burst out from under his blue seamless garment, and to peep through his pockets, and to reach down around his throat and dangle about his face, till the little man was nearly smothered. Then Sandy set him down a moment to rest, and he looked in his face as he sat there, and it had the same peaceful smile, the same calm satisfaction as before. The little man now put his head to one side, shut 6 THE DANITES. his pretty brown eyes a little tighter at the corners, and opened his mouth the least bit in the world, and put out his tongue as if he was about to sing a hymn. Then Sandy took him up again. He smiled sweeter than before. Sandy tilted him sidewise, and shook him again. Then there fell a spoon, then a pepper-box, and then a small brass candlestick ; and at last, as he rolled him over and shook the other side, there came out a machine strangely and wonderfully made of whalebone and brass, and hooks and eyes, that Sandy had never seen before, and did not at all understand, but supposed was either a fish-trap or some new in vention for washing gold. Then Limber Tim, who had screwed his back up against the pailings, and watched all this with his mouth open, came down, and reaching out with his thumb and finger, as if they had been a pair of tongs, took the garments one by one, named them, for he knew them and their owners well, and laid them silently aside. Then he took Washee-Washee from the hands of Sandy and stood him up, or tried to stand him up alone. He looked like a flag-staff, with the banner falling loosely around it in an indolent wind. He held him up by the queue awhile, but he wilted and sank down gently at his feet, all the time smiling sweetly as before ; all the time looking up with a half- closed eye and half-parted lips, as though he was en joying himself perfectly, and would like to laugh, only that he had too much respect for the present company. Washee-Washee Sentenced. THEY marched Washee-Washee to the Howling Wilderness, told the sentence, and called upon the Parson to enforce judgment. He now took a cordial and began. Washee-Washee sat before him on a bench, leaning against the wall. The little man THE DAKITES. 7 seemed as if he was about to go to sleep ; possibly his conscience had kept him awake the night before, when he found that all his little investments had been a failure in the Forks. The Parson began. Washee-Washee flinched, jerked back, sat bolt upright, and seemed to suffer. Then the Parson shot another oath. This time it came like a cannon-ball, and red-hot, too, for Washee- Washee was almost lifted out 'of his seat. Then the Parson took his breath a bit, rolled the quid of tobacco in his mouth from left to right and from right to left, and as he did so he selected the very broadest, knottiest, and ugliest oaths that he had found in all his fifty years of life at sea and on the border. * Washee-Washee had lost his expression of peace. He had evidently been terribly shaken. The Parson had rested a good spell, however, and the little, slim, brown man before him, who had crawled out over the Great Wall of China, sailed across the sea of seas, climbed the Sierras, and sat down in their midst to begin the old clothes business, without pay or prom ise, was again settling back, as if about to surrender to sleep. Cannon balls! conical shot! chain shot! and shot red-hot ! Never were such oaths heard in the world before ! The Chinaman fell over. " Stop ! " cried the bar-keeper of the Howling Wil derness, who didn't want the expense of the funeral ; " stop ! do you mean to cuss him to death ? " The Chinaman was allowed time to recover, and then they sat him again on the bench. A man fanned him with his broad bamboo hat, lest he should faint before the last half of the punishment was nearly through, and the Judge was called upon to enforce the remainder of their sentence. The Judge came forward slowly, put his two hands back under his coat tails, tilted forward on his toes and began : " Washee-Washee ! In this glorious climate of Californy how could you ? " Washee-Washee nodded, and the Judge broke down 8 THE DAKITES. badly embarrassed. At last lie recovered himself, and began in a deep, earnest and entreating tone : " Washee-Washee, in this glorious climate of Cali- forny, you should remember the seventh command ment, and never, under any circumstances or temp tations that beset you, should you covet your neigh bor's goods, or his boots, or his shirts, or his socks, or his handkerchief, or anything that is his, or " The Judge paused, the men giggled, and then they _^j roared, and laughed, and danced about their little Judge ; for Washee-Washee had folded his little brown hands in his lap, and was sleeping as sweetly as a baby in its cradle. A Pure Woman. SHE is pure a pure, good woman. Do you see the snow that mantles yonder mountain, kissed by the clouds and the morning sun, and speckless as the lily's inmost leaf ? 'Tis not more pure than she. Some Men's Characters. SOME men are with their characters much as they are with their money; the less they have the more careful they have to be.* * A few other selections will be found among the " Mis cellanies " at the close of this volume. SONGS OF THE SIERRAS. rplHE first volume of MILLEB'S poems, with the above title, was pub- -*" lished in May, 1871, by Longmans & Son, London, Eng., and a few months later by Boberts Bros., Boston. It consists of ten poems. The first, " Arizonian," perhaps as poetical as any, was mostly written in London under an odd circumstance. The author was invited by Mr. Spurgeon to hear him preach upon a certain day. MILLER'S wardrobe being scanty, he ordered new clothes and boots for the occasion. Neither fitted him. The latter were especially annoying, and, while vainly trying to put them on, the composition forced itself into audible words, And I have said, and I say it ever, As the years go on and the world goes over, 'Twere better to be content and clever $ ' " and when he gave up the task in despair, instead of hearing Spurgeon he wrote " Arizonian," with these as the opening lines. " Californian " is the oldest poem, written in California, and first called " Joaquin." u lna" was called " Oregonian " in the English edition changed because the book was ill received in Oregon. Its characters are from life, being two well- known authors. " The Tale of the Tall Alcalde " is largely autobiography. It, and " Myrrh," and also " Even So," were mostly written in California. u Burns and Byron " were composed at Nottingham. Upon the appearance of this single work MILLEB ascended to the pinnacle of fame in England. Because the sides were Hue, because The sun in fringes of the sea Was tangled, and delightfully Kept dancing on as in a waltz, And tropic trees bow'd to the seas, And bloom'd and bore, years through and through, And birds in blended gold and blue Were thick and sweet as swarming bees, And sang as if in Paradise, And all that Paradise was Spring Did I too sing with lifted eyes, Because I could not choose but sing. A Storm on the River. LAY in iny hammock ; the air was heavy And hot and threat'ning; the very heaven Was holding its breath ; and bees in a bevy Hid under my thatch ; and birds were driven In clouds to the rocks in a hurried whirr As I peer'd down by the path for her. She stood like a bronze bent over the river, The proud eyes fixed, the passion unspoken When the heavens broke like a great dyke broken. Then, ere I fairly had time to give her A shout of warning, a rushing of wind And the rolling of clouds and a deafening din And a darkness that had been black to the blind Came down, as I shouted, " Come in ! come in ! Come under the roof, come up from the river, As up from a grave come now, or come never !" The tassel'd tops of the pines were as weeds, . The red-woods rock'd like to lake-side reeds, And the world seem'd darken'd and drown'd forever. In the Tropics. BIRDS hung and swung, green-robed and red, Or droop'd in curved lines dreamily, Eainbows reversed, from tree to tree, Or sang low, hanging overhead Sang low, as if they sang and slept ; Sang faint, like some far waterfall, And took no note of us at all, Though nuts that in the way were spread Did crush and crackle as we stept. Wild lilies, tall as maidens are, As sweet of breath, as pearly fair, SONGS OF THE SIERBAS. As fair as faith, as pure as truth, Fell thick before our every tread, As in a sacrifice to ruth, And all the air with perfume fill'd More sweet than ever man distilPd. There came the sweet song of sweet bees, With chorus-tones of cockatoo, That slid his beak along the bough, And walk'd and talk'd and hung and swung, In crown of gold and coat of blue, The wisest fool that ever sung, Or had a crown, or held a tongue. How wild and still with wonder stood The proud mustangs with banner'd mane, And necks that never knew a rein, And nostrils lifted high, and blown, Fierce breathing as a hurricane. The Bleeding Past PASSION-TOSSED and bleeding past ! Part now, part well, part wide apart, As ever ships on ocean slid Down, down the sea, hull, sail and mast Drowned. DEEDS strangle memories of deeds, And blossoms wither, choked with weeds, And floods drown memories of men. The Warm Sea's Dimpled Face. THE warm sea laid his dimpled face, With every white hair smoothed in place, As if asleep against the land. SONGS OF THE SIERRAS. 13 Loves of the Sun-Maids. "No lands where any ices are Approach, or ever dare compare With warm loves born beneath the sun. The one the cold white steady star, The lifted shifting sun the one. I grant you fond, I grant you fair, I grant you honor, trust and truth, And years as beautiful as youth, And many years beyond the sun, And faith as fixed as any star; But all the North-land hath not one So warm of soul as sun-maids are. Death of a Warrior. A BOW, a touch of heart, a pall Of purple smoke, a crash, a thud, A warrior's raiment rent, and blood, A face in dust and that was all. Walker in Nicaragua, A PIERCING eye, a princely air, A presence like a chevalier, Half angel and half Lucifer ; Fair fingers, jewelPd manifold With great gems set in hoops of gold; Sombrero black, with plume of snow That swept his long silk locks below ; A red serape with bars of gold, Heedless falling, fold on fold ; A sash of silk, where flashing swung A sword as swift as serpent's tongue, In sheath of silver chased in gold ; 14: SONGS OF THE SIEEEAS. A face of blended pride and pain, Of mingled pleading and disdain, "With shades of glory and of grief ; And Spanish spurs with bells of steel That dash'd and dangl'd at the heel The famous fillibuster chief Stood by his tent 'mid tall brown trees That top the fierce Cordilleras, With brawn arm arched above his brow;- Stood still he stands, a picture, now Long gazing down the sunset seas. Prophecy of the West. DAEED I but say a prophecy, As sang the holy men of old, Of rock-built cities yet to be Along these shining shores of gold, Crowding athirst into the sea, What wondrous marvels might be told ! Enough, to know that empire here Shall burn her loftiest, brightest star; Here art and eloquence shall reign, As o'er the wolf-rear' d realm of old ; Here learned and famous from afar, To pay their noble court, shall come, And shall not seek, or see in vain, But look on all with wonder dumb. After the Battle. SOME skulls that crumble to the touch, Some joints of thin and chalk-like bone, A tall black chimney, all alone, That leans as if upon a crutch, Alone are left to mark or tell, Instead of cross or cryptic stone, Where fair maids loved, or brave men fell. SOXGS OF THE SIERRAS. 15 Walker's Grave. I LAY this crude wreath on his dust, Inwove with sad, sweet memories Recalled here by these colder seas. I leave the wild bird with his trust, To sing and say him nothing wrong; I wake no rivalry of song. No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, But at his side a cactus green Upheld its lances long and keen ; It stood in hot red sands alone, Flat-palm'd and fierce with lifted spears ; One bloom of crimson crown'd its head, A drop of blood, so bright, so red, Yet redolent as roses' tears. In my left hand I held a shell, All rosy-lipp'd and pearly red ; I laid it by his lowly bed, For he did love so passing well The grand songs of the solemn sea. shell ! sing well, wild, with a will, When storms blow loud and birds be still, The wildest sea-song known to thee ! The Sierras. AFAR the bright Sierras lie A swaying line of snowy white, A fringe of heaven hung in sight Against the blue base of the sky. The Sun on the Sierras. THE day-star dances on the snow That gleams along Sierra's crown In gorgeous, everlasting glow, And frozen glory and renown. 16 SONGS OF THE SIEKRAS. The Upturned Face. AN upturned face so sweetly fair, So sadly, saintly, purely fair, So rich of blessedness and bliss ! I know she is not flesh and blood, But some sweet spirit of this wood ; I know it by her wealth of hair, And step on the unyielding air ; Her seamless robe of shining white, Her soul-deep eyes of darkest night : But over all and more than all That could be said or can befall, That tongue can tell or pen can trace, That wondrous witchery of face. Curambo's Fear of Death. OH ! for the rest for the rest eternal ! Oh ! for the deep and the dreamless sleep! Where never a hope lures to deceive ; Where never a heart beats but to grieve ; Nor thoughts of heaven or hells infernal, Shall ever wake or dare to break The rest of an everlasting sleep ! Is there truth in the life eternal ? Will our memories never die ? Shall we relive in realms supernal Life's resplendent and glorious lie ! Death has not one shape so frightful But defiantly I would brave it ; Earth has nothing so delightful But my soul would scorn to crave it, Could I know for sure, for certain, That the falling of the curtain And the folding of the hands Is the full and the final casting Of accounts for the everlasting! Everlasting and everlasting ! SONGS OF THE SIERRAS. 17 Love in the Cycled Years. AWAY to where the orange tree Is white through all the cycled years, And love lives an eternity ; Where birds are never out of tune And life knows no decline of noon ; Where winds are sweet as woman's breath, And purpled, dreamy, mellow skies Are lovely as a woman's eyes, There we in calm and perfect bliss Of boundless faith and sweet delight Shall realize the world above, Forgetting all the wrongs of this, Forgetting all of blood and death, And all your terrors of to-night, In pure devotion and deep love. Into the Flame. AGAIN she lifts her brown arms bare, Far flashing in their bands of gold And precious stones, rare, rich, and old. Was ever mortal half so fair ? Was ever such a wealth of hair ? Was ever such a plaintive air? Was ever such a sweet despair? Still humbler now her form she bends ; Still higher now the flame ascends : She bares her bosom to the sun. Again her jewell'd fingers run In signs and sacred form and prayer. She bows with awe and holy air In lowly worship to the sun ; Then, rising, calls her lover's name, And leaps into the leaping flame. 18 SONGS OF THE SIEKRAS. I do not hear the faintest moan, Or sound, or syllable, or tone. The red flames stoop a moment down, As if to raise her from the ground ; They whirl, they swirl, they sweep around With lightning feet and fiery crown; Then stand up tall, tip-toed, as one Would hand a soul up to the sun ! The Morning. THE day-king hurls a dart At darkness, and his cold black heart Is pierced ; and now, compelled to flee, Flies bleeding to the farther sea. The Chieftain's Form. His breast was like a gate of brass, His brow was like a gathered storm ; There is no chiselFd stone that has So stately and complete a form, In sinew, arm, and every part, In all the galleries of art. PopocatapetL POPOCATAPETL looms lone like an island Above the white cloud-waves that break up against him ; Around him white buttes in the moonlight are flashing Like silver tents pitch'd in the fields of heaven ; "While standing in line in their snows everlasting, Flash peaks, as my eyes into heaven are lifted, Like milestones that lead to the city eternal. SONGS OF THE SIERRAS. 19 The Indian Warrior's Address. like pines around a mountain Did my braves in council stand ; Now I call you loud like thunder, And you come at my command Faint and few, with feeble hand. Lo ! our daughters have been gathered From among us by the foe, Like the lilies they once gather'd In the spring-time all aglow From the banks of living snow. Through the land where we for ages Laid the bravest, dearest dead, Grinds the savage white man's ploughshare, Grinding sires' bones 'for bread We shall give them blood instead. I saw white skulls in a furrow, And around the cursed share Clung the flesh of my own children And my mother's tangled hair Trail'd along the furrow there. 0, my mother up in cloud-land ! (Long arms lifting like the spray) "Whet the flint-heads in my arrows, Make my heart as hard as they, Nerve me like a bear at bay ! Warriors ! braves ! I cry for vengeance ! And the dim ghosts of the dead Unavenged, do wail and shiver In the storm-cloud overhead, And shoot arrows battle-red. 20 SONGS OF THE SIERRAS. Then he ceased, and sat among them, With his long locks backward strown, They as mute as men of marble, He a king upon a throne, And as still as polish'd stone. The Sunset. A FLUSHED and weary messenger a-west Is standing at the half-closed door of day, As he would say, " Good night; " and now his bright Red cap he tips to me and turns his face. "Were it an unholy thing to say, an angel Beside the door stood with uplifted seal ? Behold the door seal'd with that blood-red seal Now burning, spreading o'er the mighty West. The Night. THE tawny, solemn Night, child of the East, Her mournful robes trails on the distant woods, And comes this way with firm and stately step. Afront, and very high, she wears her shining Breast-plate of silver, and on her dark brow The radiant Venus burns like flashing wifc. Behold ! how in her gorgeous flow of hair Glitter a million mellow-yellow gems, Spilling their molten gold on the dewy grass. Throned on the boundless plain, and gazing down Calmly upon the red-seal'd tomb of day, Eesting her form against the Rocky Mountains, She rules with silent power a peaceful world. 'Tis midnight now. The bent and broken moon, Battered and black, as from a thousand battles, Hangs silent on the purple walls of heaven ; SOXGS OF THE SIEEKAS. The angel warrior, guard of the gates eternal, In battle-harness girt, sleeps on the field ; But when to-morrow comes, when wicked men That fret the patient earth are all astir, He will resume his shield, and, facing earthward, The gates of heaven guard from sins of earth. Don Carlos* Hyperbole. OH ! I would give the green leaves of my life For something grand and real undream'd deeds ! To wear a mantle, broad and richly jewell'd As purple heaven fringed with gold at sunset ; To wear a crown as dazzling as the sun, And, holding up a sceptre, lightning-charged, Stride out among the stars as I have strode A bare-foot boy among the butter-cups. I'd build a pyramid of the whitest skulls, And step therefrom unto the spotted moon, And thence to stars, thence to the central suns ; Then with one grand and mighty leap would land Unhinder'd on the shores of the gods of old, And, sword in hand, unbared and unabash'd, Would stand forth in the presence of the God Of gods ; there, on the jewell'd inner-side The walls of heaven, carve with a Damascus Steel, highest up, a grand and titled name That time nor tide could touch or tarnish ever. Yea, anything on earth, in hell, or heaven, Rather than lie a nameless clod forgot, Letting stern Time in triumph forward tramp Above my tombless and neglected dust. Night and Morning in Oregon. AT night, o'erspread by the rich, purple robe, The deep imperial Tyriau hue that folds 22 SONGS OF THE SIERKAS. The invisible form of the Eternal God, You will see the sentry stars come marching forth And take their posts upon the field above, Around the great white tent where sleeps their chief ; You will hear the kakea singing in a dream The wildest, sweetest song a soul can drink. And when the tent is folded up, and all The golden-fringed red sentries face about To let the pompons day-king pass along, We too will stand upon a sloping hill, Where white-lipped springs come leaping, laughing up With water spouting forth in merry song Like bridled mirth from out a school-girl's throat, And look far down the bending Willamette, And in his thousand graceful curves and strokes And strange meanderings men misunderstand, Bead the unutterable name of God. To be a Poet. IT is to want a friend, to want a home, A country, money ay, to want a meal. It is not wise to be a poet now, For the world has so fine and modest grown, It will not praise a poet to his face, But waits till he is dead some hundred years, Then uprears marbles cold and stupid as itself. Nature in Unrest. WHAT ! Nature quiet, peaceful, uncomplaining ? I've seen her fretted like a lion caged, Chafe like a peevish woman cross'd and churl'd, Tramping and foaming like a whelpless bear ; Have seen her weep, till earth was wet with tears, Then turn all smiles, a jade that won her point ; Have seen her tear the hoary hair of Ocean, SOKGS OF THE SIERRAS. 23 While lie, himself, full half a world, would moan And roll and toss his clumsy hands all day, To earth, like some great helpless babe, that lay Bude-rock'd and cradled by an unseen nurse, Then stain her snowy hem with salt-sea tears. Longings. OH ! for the skies of rolling blue, The balmy hours when lovers woo, When the moon is doubled as in desire, The dreamy call of the cockatoo From the orange snow in his crest of fire, Like vespers calling the soul to bliss ! In the blessed love of the life above, Ere it has taken the stains of this. The Valley. AN unkissed virgin at my feet, Lay my pure, hallow'd, dreamy vale, Where breathed the essence of my tale Lone dimpled in the mountain's face, Lone Eden in a boundless waste It lay so beautiful! so sweet! The Stream. IT was unlike all other streams, Save those seen in sweet summer dreams ; For sleeping in its bed of snow Nor rock nor stone was ever known, But only shining, shifting sands, For ever sifted by unseen hands* 24: SOITGS OF THE SIERKAS. It curved, it bent like Indian bow, And like an arrow darted through, Yet utter'd not a sound nor breath, Nor broke a ripple from the start ; It was as swift, as still as death, Yet was so clear, so pure, so sweet, It wound its way into your heart As through the grasses at your feet. Winnema's Face. A FACE like hers is never seen This side the gates of Paradise, Save in some Indian-Summer scene, And then none ever sees it twice Is seen but once, and seen no more, Seen but to tempt the sceptic soul, And show a sample of the whole That Heaven has in store. Loving Winnema. You might have pluckM beams from the moon, Or torn the shadow from the pine "When on its dial track at noon, But not have parted us an hour, She was so wholly, truly mine. And life was one unbroken dream Of purest bliss, and calm delight, A flow'ry-shored, untroubled stream Of sun and song, of shade and bower, A full-moon'd serenading night. Sweet melodies were in the air, And tame birds caroll'd everywhere. I listen'd to the lisping grove SONGS OF THE SIERRAS. 25 And cooing pink-eyed turtle-doye, And, loving with the holiest love, Believing with a grand belief, That everything beneath the skies Was beautiful and born to love ; That man had but to love, believe, And earth would be a paradise As beautiful as that above, My goddess, Beauty, I adored, Devoutly, fervid, her alone ; My Priestess, Love, unceasing pourM Pure incense on her altar-stone. A-Faint. MY sinking soul fell just as far As could a star loosed by a jar From out the setting in the ring, The purple, semi-circled ring That seenis to circle us at night. Burning the Dead. I LAID my dead upon the pile, And underneath the lisping oak I watched the columns of dark smoke Embrace her red lips, with a smile Of frenzied fierceness. Then there came A gleaming column of red flame, That grew a grander monument Above her nameless, noble mould, Than ever bronze or marble lent To king or conqueror of old. It seized her in its hot embrace, And leapt as if to reach the stars. Then, looking up, I saw a face 26 SONGS OF THE SIEEKAS. So saint!} 7 " and so sweetly fair, So sad, so pitying, and so pure, I nigh forgot the prison bars And for one instant, one alone, I felt I could forgive, endure. I laid a circlet of white stone, And left her ashes there alone. But after many a white moon-wane I sought that sacred ground again, And saw the circle of white stone With tall wild grasses overgrown. I did expect, I know not why, From out her sacred dust to find Wild pinks and daisies blooming fair; And when I did not find them there I almost deemed her God unkind, Less careful of her dust than I. Lord Byron. COLD and cruel Nottingham ! In disappointment and in tears, Sad, lost, and lonely, here I am To question, " Is this Nottingham Of which I dream'd for years and years ? " 1 seek in vain for name or sign Of him, who made this mould a shrine, A Mecca to the fair and fond Beyond the seas, and still beyond. In men whom men condemn as ill I find so much of goodness still, In men whom men pronounce divine I find so much of sin and blot, I hesitate to draw a line Between the two, where God has not. SONGS OF THE SIEKKAS. 27 He stood a solitary light In stormy seas and settled night Then fell, but stirred the seas as far As winds and waves and waters are. To Robert Burns. Burns! where bid ? where bide you now? Where are you in this night's full noon, Great master of the pen and plough ? Might you not on yon slanting beam Of moonlight, kneeling to the Doon, Descend once to this hallow'd stream ? Sure yon stars yield enough of light For heaven to spare your face one night. sad, sweet singer of a Spring ! Yours was a chill uncheerful May, And you knew no full days of June ; You ran too swiftly up the way, And wearied soon, so over-soon ! You sang in weariness and woe ; You falter'd, and God heard you sing, Then touch'd your hand and led you so, You found life's hill-top low, so low, You cross'd its summit long ere noon. Thus, sooner than one would suppose, Some weary feet will find repose. The Moon on Winnema's Hair. AND through the leaves the silver moon Fell sifting down in silver bars And play'd upon her raven hair, And darted through like dimpled stars That dance through all the night's sweet noon To echoes of an unseen choir. 28 SONGS OF THE SIEKBAS. The Blame a Prophecy. I DID not blame you do not blame. The stormy elements of soul That I did scorn to tone or tame, Or bind down unto dull control In full fierce youth, they all are yours, With all their folly and their force. God keep you pure, oh ! very pure. God give you grace to dare and do ! God give you courage to endure The all He may demand of you, Keep time-frosts from your raven hair, And your young heart without a care. I make no murmur nor complain ; Above me are the stars and blue Alluring far to grand refrain ; Before, the beautiful and true, To love or hate, to win or lose ; Lo ! I will now arise and choose. But should you sometime read a sign, A name among the princely few, In isles of song beyond the brine, Then you will think a time, and you Will turn and say, " He once was mine, Was all my own ; his smiles, his tears, Were mine were mine for years and years. 3 The Coffined Past. LIFE knows no dead so beautiful As is the white cold coffin'd past ; This I may love nor be betray'd : The dead are faithful to the last. I am not spouseless I have wed A memory a life that's dead. SOKGS OF THE SIERRAS. 29 What Should Have Been. SHADOWS that shroud the to-morrow Glist from the life that's within, Traces of pain and of sorrow, And maybe a trace of sin, Eeachings for God in the darkness, And for what should have been. A Poet of Nature. IK the shadows a-west of the sunset mountains, Where old-time giants had dwelt and peopled, And built up cities and castled battlements, And rear'd up pillars that pierced the heavens, A poet dwelt, of the book of Nature An ardent lover of the pure and beautiful, Devoutest lover of the true and beautiful, Profoundest lover of the grand and beautiful With a heart all impulse, in tensest passion, Who believed in love as in God Eternal A dream while the waken'd world went over, An Indian summer of the sullen seasons; And he sang wild songs like the winds in cedars, Was tempest-toss'd as the pines, yet ever As fix'd in truth as they in the mountains. Woman's Strangeness. STRANGELY wooing are the worlds above us, Strangely beautiful is the Faith of Islam, Strangely sweet are the songs of Solomon, Strangely tender are the teachings of Jesus, Strangely cold is the sun on the mountains, Strangely mellow is the moon in old ruins, Strangely pleasant are the stolen waters, 30 SONGS OF THE SIEKBAS. Strangely simple and unwooing is virtue. Strangely lighted is the North night-region, Strangely strong are the streams in the ocean, Strangely true are the tales of the Orient, Strangely winning is a dark-eyed widow, Strangely wayward are the ways of lovers, But, stranger than all are the ways of women. Death. DEATH is delightful. Death is dawn, The waking from a weary night Of fevers unto truth and light. Fame is not much, love is not much, Yet what else is there worth the touch Of lifted hands with dagger drawn ? So surely life is little worth : Therefore I say, look up ; therefore I say, One little star has more Bright gold than all the earth of earth. Recollection. SOME things are sooner marred than made. The moon was white, the stars a-chill A frost fell on a soul that night, And lips were whiter, colder still. A soul was black that erst was white. And you forget the place the night ! Forget that aught was done or said Say this has pass'd a long decade Say not a single tear was shed Say you forget these little things ! Is not your recollection loath ? Well, little bees have bitter stings, And I remember for us both. SONGS OF THE SIERKAS. 31 The Forest Maiden. I LOVE A forest maiden ; she is mine ; And on Sierras' slopes of pine, The vines below, the snows above, A solitary lodge is set Within a fringe of watered firs ; And there my wigwam fires burn, Fed by a round, brown, patient hand, That small brown faithful hand of hers That never rests till my return. The yellow smoke is rising yet ; Tiptoe, and see it where you stand Lift like a column from the land. There are no sea-gems in her hair ; No jewels fret her dimpled hands, And half her bronzen limbs are bare : But round brown arms have golden bands, Broad, rich, and by her cunning hands Cut from the yellow virgin ore, And she does not desire more. I wear the beaded wampum belt That she has wove the sable pelt That she has fringed red threads around ; And in the morn, when men are not, I wake the valley with the shot That brings the brown deer to the ground ; And she beside the lodge at noon Sings with the wind, while baby swings In sea-shell cradle by the bough Sings low, so like the clover sings "With swarm of bees ; I hear her now, I see her sad face through the moon . . . Such songs ! would earth had more of such She has not much to say, and she Lifts never voice to question me In aught I do . . . and that is much. 32 SONGS OF THE SIEKRAS. I love her for her patient trust, And my love's forty fold return A value I have not to learn As you at least as many must. She is not over tall or fair ; Her breasts are curtained by her hair, And sometimes, through the silken fringe, I see her bosom's wealth liko wine, Burst through in luscious ruddy tinge And all its wealth and worth are mine. I know not that one drop of blood Of prince or chief is in her veins : I simply say that she is good, And loves me with pure womanhood, When that is said, why, what remains ? SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS. BROUGHT out in 1873 by Longmans & Sons, London, and Roberts Brothers, Boston. Dedicated to the Rossettis. It consists of four long poems, and twenty-three short ones, the latter gathered under the titles "Olive Leaves" and "Fallen Leaves." The "Isles of the Ama zons," the first and longest, was mostly composed in 1871, while drifting about on the Mexican and South Californian Pacific Coast, and appeared in the Overland Monthly. "In the Indian Summer" was composed at Cleveland, Ohio ; " From Sea to Sea " and " Sierras Adios " in New York, the former being published in Scribner 1 s Monthly. " Olive Leaves," which are sacred poems, were written in the Levant some in the Holy Land and others about the Mediterranean, during 1872. Well! wJio shall lay hand on my Jiarp but me, Or shall chide my song from the sounding trees ? The passionate sun and the resolute sea, These were my masters, and only tJiese. I but sing for the love of song and the few Who loved me first and shall love me last ; And the storm shall pass as the storms have pass'd, For never were clouds but the sun came through. The Rocky Mountains, r A MEVAL forests ! virgin sod ! That Saxon hath not ravish'd yet ! Lo ! peak on peak in column set, In stepping stairs that reach to God ! Here we are free as sea or wind, For here are set the snowy tents In everlasting battlements, Against the march of Saxon mind. To the Cyprian Singer. CAKPET-KKTGHT singer! shrewd merchant of song! Get gold and be glad, buy, sell, and be strong ! Sweet Cyprian, I kiss you, I pay you, we part : Go ! you have my gold, but who has my heart ? Go, splendid-made singer, so finished, so fair, Go sing you of heaven, with never a prayer, Of hearts that are aching, with never a heart, Of nature, all girded and bridled by art ; Go sing you of battles, with never a scar, Of sunlight, with never a soul for the noon ; Move cold and alone like a broken, bright moon. And shimmer and shine like a far, cold star. In the Desert Wood. UNTO God a prayer and to love a tear, And I die, he said, in a desert here, So deep that never a note is heard But the listless song of that soulless bird. 36 SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS. The Knight Seeking Love. I shall journey in search of the Incan Isles, Go far and away to traditional land, Where Love is a queen in a crown of smiles, And battle has never imbrued a hand ; "Where man has never despoiled or trod ; Where woman's hand with a woman's heart Has fashion'd an Eden from man apart, And she walks in her garden alone with God. The Amazon Coast. THE land was the tides ; the shore was undone ; It look'd as the lawless, unsatisfied seas Had thrust up an arm through the tangle of trees And clutch'd at the citrons that grew in the sun ; And clutch'd at the diamonds that hid in the sand, And laid heavy hand on the gold, and a hand On the redolent fruits, on the ruby-like wine, And the stones like the stars when the stars are divine. The Song of the Silence. 0, HEAVENS, the eloquent song of the silence ! Asleep lay the sun in the vines, on the sod, And asleep in the sun lay^ the green -girdled islands, As rock'd to their rest in the cradle of God. God's poet is silence ! His song is unspoken, And yet so profound, so loud, and so far, It fills you, it thrills you with measures unbroken, And as soft, and as fair, and as far as a star. SOKGS OF THE SUNLANDS. 37 The shallow seas moan. From the first they have mutter'd And mourn'd, as a child, and have wept at their will . . . The poems of God are too grand to be utter'd : The dreadful deep seas they are loudest when still. The Queen of the Amazons. WITH a face as brown as the boatmen's are, Or the brave, brown hand of a harvester ; And girdled in gold, and crown' d in hair In a storm of night, all studded with rare Rich stones, that fretted the full of a noon, The Queen on a prow stood splendid and tall, As petulant waters would lift, and fall, And beat, and bubble a watery rune. The Love of the Trees. THE trees that lean'd in their love nnto trees, That lock'd in their loves, and were so made strong, Stronger than armies ; ay, stronger than seas That rush from their caves in a storm of song. Forsake the City. FORSAKE the city. Follow me To where the white caps of a sea Of mountains break and break again, As blown in foam against a star As breaks the fury of a main And there remains, as fix'd, as far. 38 SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS. Forsake the people. What are they That laugh, that live, that love by rule Forsake the Saxon. What are these That shun the shadows of the trees : The Druid-forests ? ... Go thy way, We are not one. I will not please You : fare you well, wiser fool ! But you who love me ; Ye who love The shaggy forests, fierce delights Of sounding waterfalls, of heights That hang like broken moons above, With brows of pine that brush the sun, Believe and follow. We are one ; The wild man shall to us be tame ; The woods shall yield their mysteries ; The stars shall answer to a name, And be as birds above the trees. Mountain Heights. THE snow-topped towers crush the clouds And break the still abode of stars, Like sudden ghosts in snowy shrouds, New broken through their earthly bars. Isles of the Amazon. ISLES of a wave in an ocean of wood ! white waves lost in the wilds I love ! Let the red stars rest on your breast from above, And sing to the sun, for his love it is good. He has made you his heirs, he has given you gold, And wrought for you garments of limitless green. With beautiful bars of the scarlet between, And of silver seams fretting you fold on fold. SOKGS OF THE SUNLANDS. 39 He has kiss'd and caress'd yon, loved you true ; Yea, loved as a God loves, loved as I Shall learn to love when the stars shall lie Like blooms at my feet in a field of blue. Amazon Beauties. every color that the Master Sun Has painted and hung in the halls of God, Blush'd in the boughs or spread on the sod, Pictured and woven and wound as one. A bird in scarlet and gold, made mad With sweet delights, through the branches slid, And kiss'd the lake on a drowsy lid Till the ripples ran and the face was glad. The Tomb of Lovers. THEKE is many a love in the land, my love, But never a love like this is : Then kill me dead with your love, my love, And cover me up with kisses. So kill me dead and cover me deep Where never a soul discovers ; Deep in your heart, to sleep, to sleep In the darlingest tomb of lovers. Alone by Thee. 0, PUKE as a tear and as strong as a sea, Yet tender to me as the touch of a dove, I had rather sit sad and alone by thee, Than to go and be glad, with a legion in love. 40 SOKGS OF THE SUNLANDS. Let the Earth Rest. IT seems to me that Mother Earth Is weary from eternal toil And bringing forth by fretted soil In all the agonies of birth. Sit down ! sit down ! Lo, it were best That we should rest, that she should rest. I think we then shall all be glad, At least I know we are not now ; ISTot one. And even Earth somehow Seems growing old and over sad. Then fold your hands, for it were best That we should rest, that she should rest. Love-lights. I TELL you that love is the bitterest sweet That ever laid hold on the heart of a man ; A chain to the soul, and to cheer as a ban, And a bane to the brain, and a snare to the feet. Ay ! who shall ascend on the hollow white wings Of love but to fall ; to fall and to learn, Like a moth, and a man, that the lights lure to burn, That the roses have thorns, and the honey-bee stings ? On and On. ON, on o'er the summit ; and onward again, And down like the sea-dove the billow enshrouds, And down like the swallow that dips to the sea, "We dart and we dash and we quiver, and we Are blowing to heaven white billows of clouds. SOJSTGS OF THE SUNLANDS. 41 Love-sweets. She is sweet as the breath of the Castile rose, She is warm to the heart as a world of wine, And as rich to behold as the rose that grows With its red heart bent to the tide of the Rhine. At Night in the Cars. Lo ! darkness bends down like a mother of grief On the limitless plain, and the fall of her hair It has mantled a world. The stars are in sheaf, Yet onward we plunge like a beast in despair Through the thick of the night; and the thundering cars ! They have crush'd and have broken the beautiful day ; Have crumbled it, scattered it far away, And blown it above to a dust of stars. The Pacific Reached. WE are hush'd with wonder and all apart We stand in silence, till the heaving heart Fills full of heaven, and then the knees Go down in worship on the golden sands. With faces seaward, and with folded hands We gaze on the beautiful Balboa seas. The Snow-Capped Sierras. THEY stand white stairs of heaven, stand a line Of lifting, endless, and eternal white. They look upon the far and flashing brine, Upon the boundless plains, the broken height 42 SONGS OF THE SUNLAKDS. Of Kamiakin's battlements. The flight Of time is underneath their untopp'd towers. They seem to push aside the moon at night, To jostle and to loose the stars. The flowers Of heaven fall about their brows in shining showers. They stand a line of lifted snowy isles High held above a toss'd and tumbled sea A sea of wood in wild unmeasured miles : White pyramids of Faith where man is free ; White monuments of Hope, that yet shall be The mounts of matchless and immortal song . . . I look far down the hollow days : I see The bearded prophets, simple-soul'd and strong, That strike the sounding harp and thrill the heeding throng. Serene and satisfied ! supreme ! as lone As God, they loom like God's archangels churl'd : They look as cold as kings upon a throne : The mantling wings of night are crush'd and curl'd As feathers curl. The elements are hurl'd From off their bosoms and are bidden go, Like evil spirits, to an under-world. They stretch from Cariboo to Mexico, A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow. On the Columbia. AN Indian summer-time it was, long past, We lay on this Columbia, far below The stormy water-falls, and God had cast Us heaven's stillness. Dreamily and slow We drifted as the light bark chose to go. An Indian girl with ornaments of shell Began to sing . . . The stars may hold such flow Of hair, such eyes, but rarely earth. There fell A sweet enchantment that possess'd me as a spell. SONGS OF THE SUXLAKDS. 43 A Bison-King. OSTCE, morn by morn, when snowy mountains flam'd With sudden shafts of light, that shot a flood Into the vale like fiery arrows aim'd At night from mighty battlements, there stood Upon a cliff, high-limn'd against Mount Hood, A matchless bull fresh forth from sable wold, And standing so seem'd grander 'gainst the wood Than winged bull, that stood with tips of gold Beside the brazen gates of Nineveh of old. A time he toss'd the dewy turf, and then Stretched forth his wrinkled neck, and long and loud He call'd above the far abodes of men Until his breath became a curling cloud And wreathed about his neck a misty shroud. A Morn in Oregon. A MOKN" in Oregon ! The kindled camp Upon the mountain brow that broke below In steep and grassy stairway to the damp And dewy valley, snapped and flamed aglow "With knots of pine. Above, the peaks of snow, With under-belts of sable forests, rose And flash'd in sudden sunlight. To and fro And far below, in lines and winding rows, The herders drove their bands and broke the deep repose. I heard their shouts like sounding hunter's horn, The lowing herds made echoes far away ; When lo ! the clouds came driving in with morn Toward the sea, as fleeing from the day. The valleys fill'd with curly clouds. They lay Below, a levell'd sea that reach'd and roll'd 44 SCWGS OF THE SUtf LANDS. And broke like breakers of a stormy bay Against the grassy shingle fold on fold, So like a splendid ocean, snowy white and cold. Here lifts the land of clouds ! The mantled forms, Made white with everlasting snow, look down Through mists of many canons, and the storms That stretch from Autumn time until they drown The yellow hem of Spring. The cedars frown, Dark-brow'd through banner'd clouds that stretch and stream Above the sea from snowy mountain crown. The heavens roll, and all things drift or seem To drift about and drive like some majestic dream. Sunshine after the Storm. In waning Autumn time, when purpled skies Begin to haze in indolence below The snowy peaks, you see black forms arise In rolling thunder banks above, and throw Quick barricades about the gleaming snow. The strife begins ! The battling seasons stand Broad breast to breast. A flash ! Contentions grow Terrific. Thunders crash, and lightnings brand The battlements. The clouds possess the stormy land. Then clouds blow by, the swans take loftier flight, The yellow blooms burst out upon the hill, The purple cam as comes as in a night, Tall spiked and dripping of the dews that fill The misty valley . . . Sunbeams break and spill Their glory till the vale is full of noon. The roses belt the streams ; no bird is still. . . . The stars, as large as lilies, meet the moon And sing of summer, born thus sudden full and soon. SOKGS OF THE SUSTLANDS. 45 To the Red Men, Sleeping. MY brave and unremember'd heroes, rest ; You fell in silence, silent lie and sleep. Sleep on unsung, for this, I say, were best ; The world to-day has hardly time to weep ; The world to-day will hardly care to keep In heart her plain and unpretending brave. The desert winds, they whistle by and sweep About you ; brown'd and russet grasses wave Along a thousand leagues that lie one common grave. The proud and careless pass in palace car Along the line you blazon'd white with bones ; Pass swift to people, and possess and mar Your lands with monuments and lettered stones Unfco themselves. Thank God ! this waste disowns Their touch. His everlasting hand has drawn A shining line around you. Wealth bemoans The waste your splendid grave employs. Sleep on, No hand shall touch your dust this side of God and dawn. The Red Men Still Free. I HAYE not been, shall not be understood ; I have not wit nor will to well explain, But that which men call good I find not good. The lands the savage held, shall hold again, The gold the savage spurned in proud disdain For centuries ; go, take them all ; build high Your gilded temples ; strive and strike and strain And crowd and controvert and curse and lie In church and state, in town and citadel, and die. And who shall grow the nobler from it all ? The mute and unsung savage loved as true, He felt, as grateful felt, God's blessings fall 46 SOKGS OF THE SUKLANDS. About his lodge and tawny babes as you In temples, Moslem, Christian monk, or Jew. The sea, the great white, braided, bounding sea, Is laughing in your face ; the arching blue Remains to God ; the mountains still are free, A refuge for the few remaining tribes and me. Westminster Abbey. THE Abbey broods beside the turbid Thames; Her mother heart is filPd with memories ; Her every niche is stored with storied names ; They move before me like a mist of seas. I am confused, am made abash'd by these Most kingly souls, grand, silent, and severe. I am not equal, I should sore displease The living . . . dead. I dare not enter ; drear And stain'd in storms of grander days all things appear. The Indian Summer. THE sunlight lay in gathered sheaves Along the ground, the golden leaves Possessed the land and lay in bars Above the lifted lawn of green Beneath the feet, or fell, as stars Fall, slant-wise, shimmering and still Upon the plain, upon the hill, And heaving hill and plain between. More than Fair. . . . SHE was more than fair And more than good, and matchless wise, With all the lovelight in her eyes, And all the midnight in her hair. SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS. 47 Look Starward. LOOK starward; stand far and unearthly, Free-soul'd as a banner unfurl'd. Be worthy, brother, be worthy : For a God was the price of the world. Hope. WHAT song is well sung not of sorrow ? "What triumph well won without pain ? What virtue shall be and not borrow Bright lustre from many a stain ? A Wanderer. A WANDERER of many lands Was I, a weary Ishmaelite, That knew the sign of lifted hands ; Had seen the Crescent-mosques, had seen The Druid oaks of Aberdeen ; Then crossed the hilly seas, and saw The sable pines of Mackinaw, And lakes that lifted cold and white. I saw the sweet Miami, saw The swift Ohio bent and rolled Between his gleaming walls of gold, The Wabash banks of gray papaw, The Mississippi's ash ; at morn Of autumn, when the oak is red, Saw slanting pyramids of corn, The level fields of spotted swine, The crooked lanes of lowing kine, And in the burning bushes saw The face of God, with bended head. 48 SONGS OF THE SUNLAKDS. Before a Poet's Shrine. MASTER, here I bow before a shrine ; Before the lordliest dust that ever yet Moved animate in human form divine. Lo ! dust indeed to dust. The mould is set Above thee and the ancient walls are wet, And drip all day in dank and silent gloom, As if the cold gray stones could not forget Thy great estate shrunk to this sombre room, But learn to weep perpetual tears above thy tomb. The Indian-Summer Evening. THE sun caught up his gathered sheaves ; A squirrel caught a nut, and ran ; A rabbit rustled in the leaves; A whirling bat, black-winged and tan, Blew swift between us ; sullen night Fell down upon us ; mottled kine, "With lifted heads, went lowing down The rocky ridge toward the town, And all the woods grew dark as wine. Bury Me Deep, my Beautiful Girl. IF earth is an oyster, love is the pearl, As pure as pure caresses ; Then loosen the gold of your hair, my girl, And hide my pearl in your tresses. So, coral to coral and pearl to pearl, And a cloud of curls above me, bury me deep, my beautiful girl, And then confess you love me. SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS. 49 A Coming Storm, A SINKING sun, a sky of red, In bars and banners overhead, And blown apart like curtains drawn; Afar a-sea a blowing sail That shall go down before the dawn ; And they are passion-toss'd and pale The two that stand and look alone And silent, as two shafts of stone Set head and foot above the dead. My Song Sung. WITH buckler and sword into battle I moved, I was matchless and strong; I stood in the rush and the rattle Of shot, and the spirit of song Was upon me ; and youthful and splendid My armor flashed far in the sun As I sang of my land. It is ended, And all has been done, and undone. Adieu. WELL, we have threaded through and through The gloaming forests. Fairy Isles, Afloat in sun and summer smiles, As fallen stars in fields of blue. Some futile wars with subtile love That mortal never vanquished yet, Some symphonies by angels set In wave below, in bough above, Were yours and mine ; but here adieu. 3 50 SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS. My Graves. I DESCEND with my dead in the trenches, To-night I bend down on the plain In the dark, and a memory wrenches The soul ; I turn up to the rain The cold and beautiful faces, Ay, faces forbidden for years, Turn'd up to my face with the traces Of blood to the white rain of tears. Count backward the years on your fingers, While forward rides yonder white moon, Till the soul turns aside, and it lingers By a grave that was born of a June; By a grave of a soul, where the grasses Are tangled as witch-woven hair ; Where foot-prints are not, and where passes Not anything known anywhere. By a grave without tombstone or token, At a tomb where not fern leaf or fir, Eoot or branch, was once bended or broken, To bestow there the body of her ; For it lives, and the soul perish'd only, And alone in that land, with these hands, Did I lay the dead soul, and all lonely Does it lie to this day in the sands. Patience. IT is well, may be so, to bear losses, And to bend and bow down to the rod ; If the scarlet red bars and the crosses Be but rounds up the ladder to God. SONGS OE THE SUKLAKDS. 51 Charity. HEE hands were clasped downward and doubled, Her head was held down and depressed ; Her bosom, like white billows troubled, Fell fitful and rose in unrest ; Her robes were all dust, and disordered Her glory of hair, and her brow, Her face, that had lifted and lorded, Fell pallid and passionless now. She heard not accusers that brought her In mockery hurried to Him, Nor heeded, nor said, nor besought her AVith eyes lifted doubtful and dim. All'crush'd and stone-cast in behavior, She stood as a marble would stand ; Then the Saviour bent down, and the Saviour In silence wrote on in the sand. "What wrote He ? How fondly one lingers And questions, what holy command Fell down from the beautiful fingers Of Jesus, like gems in the sand. better the Scian uncherishM Had died ere a note or device Of battle was f ashion'd, than perish'd This only line written by Christ. He arose and he IpokM on the daughter Of Eve, like a delicate flower, And he heard the revilers that brought her Men stormy, and strong as a tower ; And he said, "She has sinn'd; let the blameless Come forward and cast the first stone ! " 52 SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS. But they, they fled shamed and yet shameless; And she, she stood white and alone. "Who now shall accuse and arraign us ? What man shall condemn and disown ? Since Christ has said only the stainless Shall cast at his fellows a stone. For what man can bare us his bosom, And touch with his forefinger there, And say, 'Tis as snow, as a blossom ? Beware of the stainless, beware ! woman, born first to believe us ; Yea, also born first to forget; Born first to betray and deceive us, Yet first to repent and regret I first then in all that is human, Lo ! first where the Nazarene trod, O woman ! beautiful woman ! Be then first in the kingdom of God I The Amazon. IT was dark and dreadful ! Wide like an ocean, Much like a river but more like a sea, Save that there was naught of the turbulent motion Of tides, or of winds blown back, or a-lee. Yea, strangely strong? was the wave and slow, And half-way hid in the dark deep tide, Great turtles they paddled them to and fro, And away to the Isles and the opposite side. The nude black boar through abundant grass Stole down to the water and buried his nose, And crush'd white teeth till the bubbles rose As white and as bright as the globes of glass. SO^GS OF THE SUXLANDS. 53 Yea, steadily moved it, mile upon mile, Above and below and as still as the air ; The bank made slippery here and there By the slushing slide of the crocodile. The Lost Knight. " I SHALL die," he said, " by the solemn deep river, By the king of the rivers, and the mother of seas, So far, and so far from my Guadalquiver, Near, and so near to the dreaded Andes. " Let me sing one song by the grand old river, And die ; " and he reach'd and he brake him a reed From the rim of the river, where they lift and quiver, And he trimm'd it and notch'd it with all his speed. With his treacherous blade, in the sweep of the trees, As he stood with his head bent low on his breast, And the vines in his hair and the wave to his knees, And bow'd like to one who would die to rest. " I shall fold my hands, for this is the river Of death," he said, " and the sea-green Isle Is an Eden set by the gracious Giver Wherein to rest." He listened the while, Then lifted his head, then lifted a hand Arch'd over his brow, and he lean'd and listened 'Twas only a bird on a border of sand, The dark stream eddy'd and gleam'd and glistenM Stately and still as the march of a moon, And the martial notes from the Isle were gone, Gone as a dream dies out with the dawn, And gone as far as the night from the noon. 54 SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS. Music in the Forest. THE quick leaves quiver'd, and the sunlight danced ; As the boy sang sweet, and the birds said, " Sweet ; " And the tiger crept close, and lay low at his feet, And he sheath'd his claws in the sun, entranced. The serpent that hung from the sycamore bough, And sway'd his head in a crescent above, Had folded his neck to the white limb now, And fondled it close like a great black love. The Fainting Knight. gently as touch of the truest of woman, They lifted him up from the earth as he fell, And into the boat, with a half-hidden swell Of the heart that was holy and tenderly human. They spoke. low- voiced as a vesper prayer; They pillowed his head as only the hand Of woman can pillow, and push'd from the land, And the Queen she sat threading the gold of his hair. Then away with the wave, and away to the Isles, In a song of the oars of the crescented fleet, That timed together in musical wiles In bubbles of melodies swift and sweet. The Storm Shall Pass. . 'Mid white Sierras, that slope to the sea, Lie turbulent lands. Go dwell in the skies, And the thundering tongues of Yosemite Shall persuade you to silence, and you shall be wise. SONGS OF THE SUNLA^DS. 55 Yea, men may deride, and the thing it is well ; Turn well and aside from the one wild note To the song of the bird with the tame, sweet throat ; But the sea sings on in his cave and shell. Let the white moons ride, let the red stars fall, great, sweet sea ! fearful and sweet ! Thy songs they repeat, and repeat, and repeat : And these, I say, shall survive us all. I but sing for the love of song and the few Who loved me first and shall love me last; And the storm shall pass as the storms have pass'd, For never were clouds but the sun came through. The Origin of Man. IK the days when my mother, the Earth, was young, And you all were not, nor the likeness of you, She walk'd in her maidenly prime among The moonlit stars in the boundless blue. Then the great sun lifted his shining shield, And he flash'd his sword as the soldiers do, And he moved like a king full over the field, And he look'd, and he loved her brave and true. And looking afar from the ultimate rim As he lay at rest in a reach of light, He beheld her walking alone at night, Where the buttercup stars in their beauty swim. So he rose up flush'd in his love, and he ran, And he reach'd his arms, and around her waist He wound them strong like a love-struck man, And he kiss'd and embraced her, brave and chaste. 56 SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS. So lie nursed his love like a babe at its birth, And he warm'd in his love as the long years ran, Then embraced her again, and sweet mother Earth Was a mother indeed, and her child was man. The sun is the sire, the mother is earth ! What more do you know ? what more do I need? The one he begot, and the one gave birth, And I love them both, and let laugh at your creed. Gold. upon this earth a spot Where clinking coins, that clink as chains Upon the souls of men, are not ; Nor man is measured for his gains Of gold that stream with crimson stains. The rivers run unmaster'd yet, Unmeasured sweep their sable bredes : The pampas unpossess'd is set With stormy banners of her steeds, That rival man in martial deeds. men that fret as frets the main ! You irk one with your eager gaze Down in the earth for fat increase Eternal talks of gold and gain, Your shallow wit, your shallow ways . . And breaks my soul across the shoal As breakers break on shallow seas. The Lake. AND strangely still, and more strangely sweet, Was the lake that lay in its cradle of fern, As still as a moon Avith her horns that turn In the night, like lamps to some delicate feet. SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS. 57 On the Isles. AND here the carpets of Nature were spread, Made pink with blossoms and fragrant bloom; Her soft couch, canopied overhead, Allured to sleep with the deep perfume. The sarsaparilla had woven its thread So through and through, like the threads of gold; 'Twas stronger than thongs in its thousandfold, And on every hand and up overhead Ean thick as threads on the rim of a reel, Through red leaf and dead leaf, bough and Tine, The green and the gray leaf, coarse and fine, And the cactus tinted with cochineal. Watching the Bathers. THE great trees shadow'd the bow-tipp'd tide, And nodded their plumes from the opposite side, As if to whisper, Take care ! take care ! But the meddlesome sunshine here and there, Kept pointing a finger right under the trees, Kept shifting the branches and wagging a hand At the round brown limbs on the border of sand, And seem'd to whisper, Ho ! what are these ? The gold-barr'd butterflies to and fro And over the waterside wanderM and wove As heedless and idle as clouds that rove And drift by the peaks of perpetual snow. A monkey swung out from a bough in the skies, White whiskered and ancient, and wisest of all Of his populous race, and he heard them call And he watch'd them long, with his head sidewise, 58 SONGS OF THE SUKLAKDS. From under his brows of amber and brown, All patient and silent and never once stirr'd ; Then he shook his head and he hasten'd him down To his army below and said never a word. The New Land of Song. WHEST spires shall shine on the Amazon's shore, From temples of God, and time shall have roll'd Like a scroll from the border the limitless wold; When the tiger is tamed, and the mono no more Swings over the waters to chatter and call To the crocodile sleeping in rushes and fern ; When cities shall gleam, and their battlements burn In the sunsets of gold, where the cocoa-nuts fall ; 'Twill be something to lean from the stars and to know That the engine, red-mouthing with turbulent tongue, The white ships that come, and the cargoes that go, We invoked them of old when the nations were young : 'Twill be something to know that we named them of old, That we said to the nations, Lo ! here is the fleece That allures to the rest, and the perfectest peace, With its foldings of sunlight shed mellow like gold : That we were the Carson s in kingdoms untrod, And follow'd the trail through the rustle of leaves, And stood by the wave where solitude weaves Her garments of mosses, and lonely as God : That we did make venture when singers were young, Inviting from Europe, from long-trodden lands That are easy of journeys, and holy from hands Laid upon by the Masters when giants had tongue : SONGS OF THE SUNLANDS. 59 The prophet should lead us, and lifting a hand To the world on the way, like a white guiding star, Point out and allure to the fair and unknown, And the far, and the hidden delights of a land. Behold my Sierras ! there singers shall throng ; The Andes shall break through the wings of the night As the fierce condor breaks through the clouds in his flight ; And I here plant the Cross and possess them with song. Across the Continent. WE glide through golden seas of grain; We shoot, a shining comet, through The mountain range against the blue And then below the walls of snow, We blow the desert dust amain ; We brush the gay madrona tree, We greet the orange groves below, We rest beneath the oaks ; and we Have cleft a continent in twain. The Lakes and the West. SEAS in a land ! lakes of mine ! By the love I bear and the songs I bring Be glad with me ! lift your waves and sing A song in the reeds that surround your isles ! A song of joy for this sun that smiles, For this land I love and this age and sign ; For the peace that is and the perils pass'd ; For the hope that is and the rest at last ! heart of the world's heart ! West ! my West ! Look up ! look out ! There are fields of kine, 60 SOKGS OF THE SUNLANDS. There are clover-fields that are red as wine ; And a world of kine in the fields take rest, And ruminate in the shade of trees That are white with blossoms or brown with bees. There are emerald seas of corn and cane ; There are cotton-fields like a foamy main, To the far-off South where the sun was born, Where the fair have birth and the loves knew morn, There are isles of oak and a harvest plain, Where brown men bend to the bending grain ; There are temples of God and towns new-born, And beautiful homes of beautiful brides ; And the hearts of oak and the hands of horn Have fashion'd them all and a world besides. The Sweetest. SWEETER than swans are a maiden's graces ! Sweeter than fruits are the kisses of morn I Sweeter than babes is a love new-born, But sweeter than all are a love's embraces. Down into the Dust. Is it worth while that we jostle a brother Bearing his load on the rough road of life ? Is it worth while that we jeer at each other In blackness of heart ? that we war to the knife ? God pity us all in our pitiful strife. God pity us all as we jostle each other ; God pardon us all for the triumphs we feel When a fellow goes down 'neath his load on the heather, Pierced to the heart : words are keener than steel, And mightier far for woe or for weal. SOKGS OF THE SUHLANDS. 61 Is it worth, while that we battle to humble Some poor fellow-soldier down into the dust? God pity us all ! Time eftsoon will tumble All of us together like leaves in a gust, Humbled indeed down into the dust. Palm Leaves. THATCH of palm and a patch of clover, Breath of balm in a field of brown, The clouds blew up and the birds flew over, And I look'd upward ; but who look'd down ? Who was true in the test that tried us ? Who was it mock'd ? Who now may mourn The loss of a love that a cross denied us, With folded hands and a heart forlorn ? God forgive when the fair forget us. The worth of a smile, the weight of a tear, Why, who can measure ? The fates beset us. We laugh a moment; we mourn a year. At Bethlehem. WITH incense and myrrh and sweet spices, Frankincense and sacredest oil In ivory, chased with devices Cut quaint and in serpentine coil , Heads bared, and held down to the bosom ; Brows massive with wisdom and bronzed ; Beards white as the white May in blossom, And borne to the breast and bey