Later Poems Part 26

This is the story Of Santo Domingo, The first established Permanent city Built in the New World.

Miguel Dias, A Spanish sailor In the fleet of Columbus, Fought with a captain, Wounded him, then in fear Fled from his punishment.

Ranging the wilds, he came On a secluded Indian village Of the peace-loving Comely Caguisas.

There he found shelter, Food, fire, and hiding,-- Welcome unstinted.

Over this tribe ruled-- No cunning chieftain Grown gray in world-craft, But a young soft-eyed Girl, tender-hearted, Loving, and regal Only in beauty, With no suspicion Of the perfidious Merciless gold-l.u.s.t Of the white sea-wolves,-- Roving, rapacious, Conquerors, destroyers.

Strongly the stranger Wooed with his foreign Manners, his Latin Fervor and graces; Beat down her gentle, Unreserved strangeness;

Made himself consort Of a young queen, all Loveliness, ardor, And generous devotion.

Her world she gave him, Nothing denied him, All, all for love's sake Poured out before him,-- Lived but to pleasure And wors.h.i.+p her lover.

Such is the way Of free-hearted women, Radiant beings Who carry G.o.d's secret; All their seraphic Unworldly wisdom Spent without fearing Or calculation For the enrichment Of--whom, what, and wherefore?

Ask why the sun s.h.i.+nes And is not measured, Ask why the rain falls Aeon by aeon, Ask why the wind comes Making the strong trees Blossom in springtime, Forever unwearied!

Whoever earned these gifts, Air, sun, and water?

Whoever earned his share In that unfathomed Full benediction,

Pa.s.sing the old earth's Cunningest knowledge, Greater than all The ambition of ages, Light as a thistle-seed, Strong as a tide-run, Vast and mysterious As the night sky,-- The love of woman?

Not long did Miguel Dias abide content With his good fortune.

Back to his voyaging Turned his desire, Restless once more to rove With boon companions, Filled with the covetous Thirst for adventure,-- The white man's folly.

Then poor Zamcaca, In consternation Lest she lack merit Worthy to tether His wayward fancy, Knowing no way but love, Guileless, and sedulous Only to gladden, Quick and sweet-souled As another madonna, Gave him the secret Of her realm's treasure,-- Raw gold unweighed, Stored wealth unimagined; Decked him with trappings Of that yellow peril; And bade him go Bring his comrades to settle In her dominion.

Not long the Spaniards Stood on that bidding.

Gold was their madness, Their Siren and Pandar.

Trooping they followed Their friend the explorer, Greed-fevered ravagers Of all things goodly, Hot-foot to plunder The land of his love-dream.

They swooped on that country, Founded their city, Made Miguel Dias Its first Alcalde,-- Flattered and fooled him, Loud in false praises For the great wealth he had By his love's bounty.

Then the old story, Older than Adam,-- Treachery, rapine, Ingrat.i.tude, bloodshed, Wrought by the strong man On unsuspecting And gentler brothers.

The rabid Spaniard, Christian and ruthless (Like any modern Magnate of Mammon), Harried that fearless, Light-hearted, trustful folk Under his booted heel.

Tears (ah, a woman's tears,-- The grief of angels,--) Fell from Zamcaca, Sorrowing, hopeless, Alone, for her people.

Sick from injustice, Distraught, and disheartened, Tortured by sight and sound Of wrong and ruin, When the kind, silent, Tropical moonlight, Lay on the city, In the dead hour When the soul trembles Within the portals Of its own province, While far away seem

All deeds of daytime, She rose and wondered; Gazed on the sleeping Face of her loved one, Alien and cruel; Kissed her strange children, Longingly laying a hand In farewell on each, Crept to the door, and fled Back to the forest.

Only the deep heart Of the World-mother, Brooding below the storms Of human madness, Can know what desolate Anguish possessed her.

Only the far mind Of the World-father, Seeing the mystic End and beginning, Knows why the pageant Is so betattered With mortal sorrow.

On the Plaza

One August day I sat beside A cafe window open wide To let the shower-freshened air Blow in across the Plaza, where In golden pomp against the dark Green leafy background of the Park, St. Gaudens' hero, gaunt and grim, Rides on with Victory leading him.

The wet, black asphalt seemed to hold In every hollow pools of gold, And clouds of gold and pink and gray Were piled up at the end of day, Far down the cross street, where one tower Still glistened from the drenching shower.

A weary, white-haired man went by, Cooling his forehead gratefully After the day's great heat. A girl, Her thin white garments in a swirl Blown back against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and knees, Like a Winged Victory in the breeze, Alive and modern and superb, Crossed from the circle of the curb.

We sat there watching people pa.s.s, Clinking the ice against the gla.s.s And talking idly--books or art, Or something equally apart From the essential stress and strife That rudely form and further life, Glad of a respite from the heat, When down the middle of the street, Trundling a hurdy-gurdy, gay In spite of the dull-stifling day, Three street-musicians came. The man, With hair and beard as black as Pan, Strolled on one side with lordly grace, While a young girl tugged at a trace Upon the other. And between The shafts there walked a laughing queen, Bright as a poppy, strong and free.

What likelier land than Italy Breeds such abandon? Confident And rapturous in mere living spent Each moment to the utmost, there With broad, deep chest and kerchiefed hair, With head thrown back, bare throat, and waist Supple, heroic and free-laced, Between her two companions walked This splendid woman, chaffed and talked, Did half the work, made all the cheer Of that small company.

No fear Of failure in a soul like hers That every moment throbs and stirs With merry ardor, virile hope, Brave effort, nor in all its scope Has room for thought or discontent, Each day its own sufficient vent And source of happiness.

Without A trace of bitterness or doubt Of life's true worth, she strode at ease Before those empty palaces, A simple heiress of the earth And all its joys by happy birth, Beneficent as breeze or dew, And fresh as though the world were new And toil and grief were not. How rare A personality was there!

A Painter's Holiday

We painters sometimes strangely keep These holidays. When life runs deep And broad and strong, it comes to make Its own bright-colored almanack.

Impulse and incident divine Must find their way through tone and line; The throb of color and the dream Of beauty, giving art its theme From dear life's daily miracle, Illume the artist's life as well.

A bird-note, or a turning leaf, The first white fall of snow, a brief Wild song from the Anthology, A smile, or a girl's kindling eye,-- And there is worth enough for him To make the page of history dim.

Who knows upon what day may come The touch of that delirium Which lifts plain life to the divine, And teaches hand the magic line No cunning rule could ever reach, Where Soul's necessities find speech?

None knows how rapture may arrive To be our helper, and survive Through our essay to help in turn All starving eager souls who yearn Lightward discouraged and distraught.

Ah, once art's gleam of glory caught And treasured in the heart, how then We walk enchanted among men, And with the elder G.o.ds confer!

So art is hope's interpreter, And with devotion must conspire To fan the eternal altar fire.

Wherefore you find me here to-day, Not idling the good hours away, But picturing a magic hour With its replenishment of power.

Conceive a bleak December day, The streets all mire, the sky all gray, And a poor painter trudging home Disconsolate, when what should come Across his vision, but a line On a bold-lettered play-house sign, _A Persian Sun Dance_.

In he turns.

A step, and there the desert burns Purple and splendid; molten gold The streamers of the dawn unfold, Amber and amethyst uphurled Above the far rim of the world; The long-held sound of temple bells Over the hot sand steals and swells; A lazy tom-tom throbs and dones In barbarous maddening monotones; While sandal incense blue and keen Hangs in the air. And then the scene Wakes, and out steps, by rhythm released, The sorcery of all the East, In rose and saffron gossamer,-- A young light-hearted wors.h.i.+pper Who dances up the sun. She moves Like waking woodland flower that loves To greet the day. Her lithe, brown curve Is like a sapling's sway and swerve Before the spring wind. Her dark hair Framing a face vivid and rare, Curled to her throat and then flew wild, Like shadows round a radiant child.

The sunlight from her cymbals played About her dancing knees, and made A world of rose-lit ecstasy, Prophetic of the day to be.

Such mystic beauty might have shone In Sardis or in Babylon, To bring a Satrap to his doom Or touch some lad with glory's bloom.

And now it wrought for me, with sheer Enchantment of the dying year, Its irresistible reprieve From joylessness on New Year's Eve.

Mirage

Here hangs at last, you see, my row Of sketches,--all I have to show Of one enchanted summer spent In sweet laborious content, At little 'Sconset by the moors, With the sea thundering by its doors, Its gra.s.sy streets, and gardens gay With hollyhocks and salvia.

And here upon the easel yet, With the last brush of paint still wet, (Showing how inspiration toils), Is one where the white surf-line boils Along the sand, and the whole sea Lifts to the skyline, just to be The wondrous background from whose verge Of blue on blue there should emerge This miracle.

One day of days I strolled the silent path that strays Between the moorlands and the beach From Siasconset, till you reach Tom Nevers Head, the lone last land That fronts the ocean, lone and grand As when the Lord first bade it be For a surprise and mystery.

A sailless sea, a cloudless sky, The level lonely moors, and I The only soul in all that vast Of color made intense to last!

The small white sea-birds piping near; The great soft moor-winds; and the dear Bright sun that pales each crest to jade, Where gulls glint fis.h.i.+ng unafraid.

Here man, the G.o.dlike, might have gone With his deep thought, on that wild dawn When the first sun came from the sea, Glowing and kindling the world to be, While time began and joy had birth,-- No wilder sweeter spot on earth!

As I sat there and mused (the way We painters waste our time, you say!) On the sheer loneliness and strength Whence life must spring, there came at length Conviction of the helplessness Of earth alone to ban or bless.

I saw the huge unhuman sea; I heard the drear monotony Of the waves beating on the sh.o.r.e With heedless, futile strife and roar, Without a meaning or an aim.