Songs of the Mexican Seas Part 5

With star-tipped torch that reached and rolled Through cloud-built corridors of gold: His bride, austere and stern and grand,-- Bartholdi's G.o.ddess by the sea, Far lifting, lighting Liberty From prison seas to Freedom's land.

XLI.

The flame! the envious flame, it leapt Enraged to see such majesty, Such scorn of death; such kingly scorn.

Then like some lightning-riven tree They sank down in that flame--and slept And all was hushed above that steep So still, that they might sleep and sleep; As still as when a day is born.

At last! from out the embers leapt Two shafts of light above the night,-- Two wings of flame that lifting swept In steady, calm, and upward flight; Two wings of flame against the white Far-lifting, tranquil, snowy cone; Two wings of love, two wings of light, Far, far above that troubled night, As mounting, mounting to G.o.d's throne.

XLII.

And all night long that upward light Lit up the sea-cow's bed below: The far sea-cows still calling so It seemed as they must call all night.

All night! there was no night. Nay, nay, There was no night. The night that lay Between that awful eve and day,-- That nameless night was burned away.

THE RHYME OF THE GREAT RIVER.

PART I.

Rhyme on, rhyme on in reedy flow, O river, rhymer ever sweet!

The story of thy land is meet, The stars stand listening to know.

Rhyme on, O river of the earth!

Gray father of the dreadful seas, Rhyme on! the world upon its knees Shall yet invoke thy wealth and worth.

Rhyme on, the reed is at thy mouth, O kingly minstrel, mighty stream!

Thy Crescent City, like a dream, Hangs in the heaven of my South.

Rhyme on, rhyme on! these broken strings Sing sweetest in this warm south wind; I sit thy willow banks and bind A broken harp that fitful sings.

I.

And where is my city, sweet blossom-sown town?

And what is her glory, and what has she done?

By the Mexican seas in the path of the sun Sit you down: in the crescent of seas sit you down.

Ay, glory enough by my Mexican seas!

Ay, story enough in that battle-torn town, Hidden down in the crescent of seas, hidden down 'Mid mantle and sheen of magnolia-strown trees.

But mine is the story of souls; of a soul That bartered G.o.d's limitless kingdom for gold,-- Sold stars and all s.p.a.ce for a thing he could hold In his palm for a day, ere he hid with the mole.

O father of waters! O river so vast!

So deep, so strong, and so wondrous wild,-- He embraces the land as he rushes past, Like a savage father embracing his child.

His sea-land is true and so valiantly true, His leaf-land is fair and so marvellous fair, His palm-land is filled with a perfumed air Of magnolia blooms to its dome of blue.

His rose-land has arbors of moss-swept oak,-- Gray, Druid old oaks; and the moss that sways And swings in the wind is the battle-smoke Of duellists, dead in her storied days.

His love-land has churches and bells and chimes; His love-land has altars and orange flowers; And that is the reason for all these rhymes,-- These bells, they are ringing through all the hours!

His sun-land has churches, and priests at prayer, White nuns, as white as the far north snow; They go where danger may bid them go,-- They dare when the angel of death is there.

His love-land has ladies so fair, so fair, In the Creole quarter, with great black eyes,-- So fair that the Mayor must keep them there Lest troubles, like troubles of Troy, arise.

His love-land has ladies, with eyes held down,-- Held down, because if they lifted them, Why, you would be lost in that old French town, Though you held even to G.o.d's garment hem.

His love-land has ladies so fair, so fair, That they bend their eyes to the holy book Lest you should forget yourself, your prayer, And never more cease to look and to look.

And these are the ladies that no men see, And this is the reason men see them not.

Better their modest sweet mystery,-- Better by far than the battle-shot.

And so, in this curious old town of tiles, The proud French quarter of days long gone, In castles of Spain and tumble-down piles These wonderful ladies live on and on.

I sit in the church where they come and go; I dream of glory that has long since gone, Of the low raised high, of the high brought low, As in battle-torn days of Napoleon.

These piteous places, so rich, so poor!

One quaint old church at the edge of the town Has white tombs laid to the very church door,-- White leaves in the story of life turned down.

White leaves in the story of life are these, The low white slabs in the long strong gra.s.s, Where Glory has emptied her hour-gla.s.s And dreams with the dreamers beneath the trees.

I dream with the dreamers beneath the sod, Where souls pa.s.s by to the great white throne; I count each tomb as a mute milestone For weary, sweet souls on their way to G.o.d.

I sit all day by the vast, strong stream, 'Mid low white slabs in the long strong gra.s.s Where Time has forgotten for aye to pa.s.s, To dream, and ever to dream and to dream.

This quaint old church with its dead to the door, By the cypress swamp at the edge of the town, So restful seems that you want to sit down And rest you, and rest you for evermore.

And one white tomb is a lowliest tomb, That has crept up close to the crumbling door,-- Some penitent soul, as imploring room Close under the cross that is leaning o'er.

'Tis a low white slab, and 'tis nameless, too-- Her untold story, why, who should know?

Yet G.o.d, I reckon, can read right through That nameless stone to the bosom below.

And the roses know, and they pity her, too; They bend their heads in the sun or rain, And they read, and they read, and then read again, As children reading strange pictures through.

Why, surely her sleep it should be profound; For oh the apples of gold above!

And oh the blossoms of bridal love!

And oh the roses that gather around!

The sleep of a night, or a thousand morns?

Why what is the difference here, to-day?

Sleeping and sleeping the years away With all earth's roses, and none of its thorns.

Magnolias white and the roses red-- The palm-tree here and the cypress there: Sit down by the palm at the feet of the dead, And hear a penitent's midnight prayer.