Songs of the Mexican Seas Part 7

O broken s.h.i.+p! O starless sh.o.r.e!

O black and everlasting night, Where love comes never any more To light man's way with heaven's light.

A G.o.dless man with bags of gold I think a most unholy sight; Ah, who so desolate at night Amid death's sleepers still and cold?

A G.o.dless man on holy ground I think a most unholy sight.

I hear death trailing like a hound Hard after him, and swift to bite.

VI.

The vast moon settles to the west: Two men beside a nameless tomb, And one would sit thereon to rest,-- Ay, rest below, if there were room.

What is this rest of death, sweet friend?

What is the rising up,--and where?

I say, death is a lengthened prayer, A longer night, a larger end.

Hear you the lesson I once learned: I died; I sailed a million miles Through dreamful, flowery, restful isles,-- She was not there, and I returned.

I say the sh.o.r.es of death and sleep Are one; that when we, wearied, come To Lethe's waters, and lie dumb, 'Tis death, not sleep, holds us to keep.

Yea, we lie dead for need of rest And so the soul drifts out and o'er The vast still waters to the sh.o.r.e Beyond, in pleasant, tranquil quest:

It sails straight on, forgetting pain, Past isles of peace, to perfect rest,-- Now were it best abide, or best Return and take up life again?

And that is all of death there is, Believe me. If you find your love In that far land, then like the dove Abide, and turn not back to this.

But if you find your love not there; Or if your feet feel sure, and you Have still allotted work to do,-- Why, then return to toil and care.

Death is no mystery. 'Tis plain If death be mystery, then sleep Is mystery thrice strangely deep,-- For oh this coming back again!

Austerest ferryman of souls!

I see the gleam of solid sh.o.r.es, I hear thy steady stroke of oars Above the wildest wave that rolls.

O Charon, keep thy sombre s.h.i.+ps!

We come, with neither myrrh nor balm, Nor silver piece in open palm, But lone white silence on our lips.

VII.

She prays so long! she prays so late!

What sin in all this flower-land Against her supplicating hand Could have in heaven any weight?

Prays she for her sweet self alone?

Prays she for some one far away, Or some one near and dear to-day, Or some poor, lorn, lost soul unknown?

It seems to me a selfish thing To pray forever for one's self; It seems to me like heaping pelf In heaven by hard reckoning.

Why, I would rather stoop, and bear My load of sin, and bear it well And bravely down to burning h.e.l.l, Than ever pray one selfish prayer!

VIII.

The swift chameleon in the gloom-- This silence it is so profound!-- Forsakes its bough, glides to the ground, Then up, and lies across the tomb.

It erst was green as olive-leaf, It then grew gray as myrtle moss The time it slid the moss across; But now 'tis marble-white with grief.

The little creature's hues are gone; Here in the pale and ghostly light It lies so pale, so panting white,-- White as the tomb it lies upon.

The two men by that nameless tomb, And both so still! You might have said These two men, they are also dead, And only waiting here for room.

How still beneath the orange-bough!

How tall was one, how bowed was one!

The one was as a journey done, The other as beginning now.

And one was young,--young with that youth Eternal that belongs to truth; And one was old,--old with the years That follow fast on doubts and fears.

And yet the habit of command Was his, in every stubborn part; No common knave was he at heart, Nor his the common coward's hand.

He looked the young man in the face, So full of hate, so frank of hate; The other, standing in his place, Stared back as straight and hard as fate.

And now he sudden turned away, And now he paced the path, and now Came back, beneath the orange-bough Pale-browed, with lips as cold as clay.

As mute as shadows on a wall, As silent still, as dark as they, Before that stranger, bent and gray, The youth stood scornful, proud, and tall.

He stood, a tall palmetto-tree With Spanish daggers guarding it; Nor deed, nor word, to him seemed fit While she prayed on so silently.

He slew his rival with his eyes; His eyes were daggers piercing deep,-- So deep that blood began to creep From their deep wounds and drop wordwise:

His eyes so black, so bright that they Might raise the dead, the living slay, If but the dead, the living, bore Such hearts as heroes had of yore:

Two deadly arrows barbed in black, And feathered, too, with raven's wing; Two arrows that could silent sting, And with a death-wound answer back.

How fierce he was! how deadly still In that mesmeric, hateful stare Turned on the pleading stranger there That drew to him, despite his will:

So like a bird down-fluttering, Down, down, beneath a snake's bright eyes, He stood, a fascinated thing, That hopeless, unresisting, dies.

He raised a hard hand as before, Reached out the gold, and offered it With hand that shook as ague-fit,-- The while the youth but scorned the more.

"You will not touch it? In G.o.d's name Who are you, and what are you, then?

Come, take this gold, and be of men,-- A human form with human aim.

"Yea, take this gold,--she must be mine She shall be mine! I do not fear Your scowl, your scorn, your soul austere, The living, dead, or your dark sign.

"I saw her as she entered there; I saw her, and uncovered stood: The perfume of her womanhood Was holy incense on the air.

"She left behind sweet sanct.i.ty, Religion lay the way she went; I cried I would repent, repent!

She pa.s.sed on, all unheeding me.

"Her soul is young, her eyes are bright And gladsome, as mine own are dim; But, oh, I felt my senses swim The time she pa.s.sed me by to-night!--