Poetry

COMANCHE.

Joaquin Miller


  • A blazing home, a blood-soaked hearth;
  • Fair woman's hair with blood upon!
  • That Ishmaelite of all the earth
  • Has like a cyclone, come and gone
  • His feet are as the blighting dearth;
  • His hands are daggers drawn.

  • "To horse! to horse!" the rangers shout,
  • And red revenge is on his track!
  • The black-haired Bedouin en route
  • Looks like a long, bent line of black.
  • He does not halt nor turn about;
  • He scorns to once look back.

  • But on! right on that line of black,
  • Across the snow-white, sand-sown pass;
  • The bearded rangers on their track
  • Bear thirsty sabers bright as glass.
  • Yet not one red man there looks back;
  • His nerves are braided brass.
  • * * * * * *
  • At last, at last, their mountain came
  • To clasp its children in their flight!
  • Up, up from out the sands of flame
  • They clambered, bleeding to their height;
  • This savage summit, now so tame,
  • Their lone star, that dread night!

  • "Huzzah! Dismount!" the captain cried.
  • "Huzzah! the rovers cease to roam!
  • The river keeps yon farther side,
  • A roaring cataract of foam.
  • They die, they die for those who died
  • Last night by hearth and home! "

  • His men stood still beneath the steep;
  • The high, still moon stood like a nun.
  • The horses stood as willows weep;
  • Their weary heads drooped every one.
  • But no man there had thought of sleep;
  • Each waited for the sun.

  • Vast nun-white moon! Her silver rill
  • Of snow-white peace she ceaseless poured;
  • The rock-built battlement grew still,
  • The deep-down river roared and roared.
  • But each man there with iron will
  • Leaned silent on his sword.

  • Hark! See what light starts from the steep!
  • And hear, ah, hear that piercing sound.
  • It is their lorn death-song they keep
  • In solemn and majestic round.
  • The red fox of these deserts deep
  • At last is run to ground.
  • * * * * * *

  • Oh, it was weird,—that wild, pent horde!
  • Their death-lights, their death-wails each one.
  • The river in sad chorus roared
  • And boomed like some great funeral gun.
  • The while each ranger nursed his sword
  • And waited for the sun.

  • Then sudden star-tipped mountains topt
  • With flame beyond! And watch-fires ran
  • To where white peaks high heaven propt;
  • And stars and lights left scarce a span.
  • Why none could say where death-lights stopt
  • Or where red stars began!

  • And then such far, wild wails that came
  • In tremulous and pitying flight
  • From star-lit peak and peak of flame!
  • Wails that had lost their way that night
  • And knocked at each heart's door to claim
  • Protection in their flight.

  • 0, chu-lu-le! 0, chu-lu-lo!
  • A thousand red hands reached in air,
  • 0, chu-lu-le! O, chu-lu-lo!
  • While midnight housed in midnight hair
  • 0, chu-lu-lel 0, chu-lu-lo!
  • Their one last wailing prayer.

  • And all night long, nude Rachels poured
  • Melodious pity one by one
  • From mountain tops The river roared
  • Sad requiem for his braves undone.
  • The while each ranger nursed his sword
  • And waited for the sun.