Poetry

IN CLASSIC SHADES.

Joaquin Miller


  • Alone and sad I sat me down
  • To rest on Rousseau's narrow isle
  • Below Geneva. Mile on mile,
  • And set with many a shining town,
  • Tow'rd Dent du Midi danced the wave
  • Beneath the moon. Winds went and came
  • And fanned the stars into a flame.
  • I heard the far lake, dark and deep,
  • Rise up and talk as in its sleep;
  • I heard the laughing waters lave
  • And lap against the further shore,
  • An idle oar, and nothing more
  • Save that the isle had voice, and save
  • That 'round about its base of stone
  • There plashed and flashed the foamy Rhone.

  • A stately man, as black as tan.
  • Kept up a stern and broken round
  • Among the strangers on the ground.
  • I named that awful African
  • A second Hannibal.

  • I gat
  • My elbows on the table; sat
  • With chin in upturned palm to scan
  • His face, and contemplate the scene.
  • The moon rode by a crowned queen.
  • I was alone. Lo! not a man
  • To speak my mother tongue. Ah me!
  • How more than all alone can be
  • A man in crowds! Across the isle
  • My Hannibal strode on. The while
  • Diminished Rousseau sat his throne
  • Of books, unoticed and unknown.

  • This strange, strong man, with face austere.
  • At last drew near. He bowed; he spake
  • In unknown tongues. I could but shake
  • My head. Then half achill with fear,
  • Arose, and sought another place.
  • Again I mused. The kings of thought
  • Came by, and on that storied spot
  • I lifted up a tearful face.
  • The star-set Alps they sang a tune
  • Unheard by any soul save mine.
  • Mont Blanc, as lone and as divine
  • And white, seemed mated to the moon.
  • The past was mine; strong-voiced and vast—
  • Stern Calvin, strange Voltaire, and Tell,
  • And two whose names are known too well
  • To name, in grand procession passed.

  • And yet again came Hannibal;
  • King-like he came, and drawing near,
  • I saw his brow was now severe
  • Aud resolute.

  • In tongue unknown
  • Again he spake. I was alone,
  • Was all unarmed, was worn and sad;
  • But now, at last, my spirit had
  • Its old assertion.

  • I arose,
  • As startled from a dull repose;
  • With gathered strength I raised a hand
  • And cried, "I do not understand."

  • His black face brightened as I spake;
  • He bowed; he wagged his woolly head;
  • He showed his shining teeth, and said,
  • "Sah, if you please, dose tables heah
  • Am consecrate to lager beer;
  • And, sah, what will you have to take?"

  • Not that I loved that colored cuss—
  • Nay! he had awed me all too much—
  • But I sprang forth, and with a clutch
  • I grasped his hand, and holding thus,
  • Cried, "Bring my country's drink for two!"
  • For oh! that speech of Saxon sound
  • To me was as a fountain found
  • In wastes, and thrilled me through and through.

  • * * * * * *

  • On Rousseau's isle, in Rousseau's shade.
  • Two pink and spicy drinks were made,
  • In classic shades, on classic ground,
  • We stirred two cocktails round and round.