Isles of the Amazons

Joaquin Miller

Part I.

rimeval forests! virgin sod!

  That Saxon has not ravish'd yet,

  Lo! peak on peak in stairways set—

In stepping stairs that reach to God!

Here we are free as sea or wind,

  For here are set Time's snowy tents

  In everlasting battlements

Against the march of Saxon mind.

Far up in the hush of the Amazon River,
And mantled and hung in the tropical trees,
There are isles as grand as the isles of seas.
And the waves strike strophes, and keen reeds quiver,
As the sudden canoe shoots past them and over
The strong, still tide to the opposite shore,
Where the blue-eyed men by the sycamore
Sit mending their nets'neath the vine-twined cover;
Sit weaving the threads of long, strong grasses;
They wind and they spin on the clumsy wheel,
Into hammocks red-hued with the cochineal,
To trade with the single black ship that passes,
With foreign old freightage of curious old store,
And still and slow as if half asleep,
A cunning old trader that loves to creep
Cautious and slow in the shade of the
And the blue-eyed men that are mild as the dawns—
Oh, delicate dawns of the grand Andes!
Lift up soft eyes that are deep like seas,
And mild yet wild as the red-white fawns';
And they gaze into yours, then weave, then listen,
Then look in wonder, then again weave on,
Then again look wonder that you are not gone,
While the keen reeds quiver and the bent waves glisten;
But they say no word while they weave and wonder,
Though they sometimes sing, voiced low like the dove,
And as deep and as rich as their tropical love,
A-weaving their net threads through and under.
A pure, true people you may trust are these
That weave their threads where the quick leaves quiver;
And this is their tale of the Isles of the river,
And the why that their eyes are so blue like seas:
The why that the men draw water and bear
The wine or the water in the wild boar skin,
And do hew the wood and weave and spin,
And so bear with the women full burthen and share.
A curious old tale of a curious old time,
That is told you betimes by a quaint old crone,
Who sits on the rim of an island alone,
As ever was told you in story or rhyme.
Her brown, bare feet dip down to the river,
And dabble and plash to her mono tone,
As she holds in her hands a strange green stone,
And talks to the boat where the bent reeds quiver.
And the quaint old crone has a singular way
Of holding her head to the side and askew,
And smoothing the stone in her palms all day
As saying "I've nothing at all for you,"
Until you have anointed her palm, and you
Have touched on the delicate spring of a door
That silver has opened perhaps before;
For woman is woman the wide world through.
The old near truth on the far new shore,
I bought and I paid for it; so did you;
The tale may be false or the tale may be true;
I give as I got it, and who can more?
If I have made journeys to difficult shores,
And woven delusions in innocent verse,
If none be the wiser, why, who is the worse?
The field it was mine, the fruit it is yours.
A sudden told tale. You may read as you run.
A part of it hers, some part is my own,
Crude, and too carelessly woven and sown,
As I sail'd on the Mexican seas in the sun.
'Twas nations ago, when the Amazons were,
That a fair young knight-says the quaint old crone,
With her head sidewise, as she smooths
at the stoneCame over the seas, with his golden hair,
And a great black steed, and glittering spurs,
With a woman's face, with a manly frown,
A heart as tender and as true as hers,
And a sword that had come from crusaders down.
And fairest, and foremost in love as in war
Was the brave young knight of the brave old davs.
Of all the knights, with their knightly ways,
That had journey'd away to this world afar
In the name of Spain; of the splendid few
Who bore her banner in the new-born world,
From the sea rim up to where clouds are curl'd,
And condors beat with black wings the blue.
He was born, says the crone, where the brave are fair,
And blown from the banks of the Guadalqniver,
And yet blue-eyed, with the Celt's soft hair,
With never a drop of the dark deep river
Of Moorish blood that had swept through Spain,
And plash'd the world with its tawny stain.
He sat on his steed, and his sword was bloody
With heathen blood: the battle was done;
His heart rebell'd and rose with pity.
For crown'd with fire, wreathed and ruddy
Fell antique temples built up to the sun.
Below on the plain lay the burning city
At the conqueror's feet; the red street strown
With dead, with gold, and with gods overthrown.
And the heathen pour'd, in a helpless flood,
With never a wail and with never a blow,
At last, to even provoke a foe,
Through gateways, wet with the pagan's blood.
"Ho, forward! smite!" but the minstrel linger'd,
He reach'd his hand and he touch'd the rein,
He humm'd an air, and he toy'd and finger'd
aThe arching neck and the glossy mane.
He rested the heel, he rested the hand,
Though the thing was death to the man to dare
To doubt, to question, to falter there,
Nor heeded at all to the hot command.
He wiped his steel on his black steed's mane,
He sheathed it deep, then look'd at the sun,
Then counted his comrades, one by one,
With booty returning from the plunder'd plain.
He lifted his face to the flashing snow,
He lifted his shield of steel as he sang,
And he flung it away till it clang'd and rang
On the granite rocks in the plain below.
He cross'd his bosom. Made overbold,
He lifted his voice and sang, quite low
At first, then loud in the long ago,
When the loves endured though the days grew old.
They heard his song, the chief on the plain
Stood up in his stirrups, and, sword in hand,
He cursed and he call'd with a loud command
To the blue-eyed boy to return again;
To lift his shield again to the sky,
And come and surrender his sword or die.
He wove his hand in the stormy mane,
He lean'd him forward, he lifted the rein,
He struck the flank, he wheel'd and sprang,
And gaily rode in the face of the sun,
And bared his swore and and he bravely sang,
"Ho! come and take it!" but there came not one.
And so he sang with his face to the south:
"I shall go; I shall search for the Amazon shore,
Where the curses of man they are heard no more,
And kisses alone shall embrace the mouth.
"I shall journey in search of the Incan Isles,
Go far and away to traditional land,
Where love is queen in a crown of smiles,
And battle has never imbrued a hand;
"Where man has never despoil'd or trod;
Where woman's hand with a woman's heart
Has fashion'd an Eden from man apart,
And walks in her garden alone with God.
"I shall find that Eden, and all my years
Shall sit and repose, shall sing in the sun;
And the tides may rest or the tides may run,
And men may water the world with tears;
"And the years may come and the years may go,
And men make war, may slay and be slain,
But I not care, for I never shall know
Of man, or of aught that is man's again.
"The waves may battle, the winds may blow,
The mellow rich moons may ripen and fall,
The seasons of gold they may gather or go,
The mono may chatter, the paroquet call,
And I shall not heed, take note, or know,
If the Fates befriend, or if ill befall,
Of worlds without, or of worlds at all,
Of heaven above, or of hades below."
Twas the song of a dream and the dream of a singer,
Drawn fine as the delicate fibers of gold,
And broken in two by the touch of a finger,
And blown as the winds blow, rent and roll'd
In dust, and spent as a tale that is told.
Alas! for his dreams and the songs he sung;
The beasts beset him; the serpents they hung,
Red-tongued and terrible, over his head.
He clove and he thrust with his keen, quick steel,
He coax'd with his hand, he urged with his heel,
Till his steel was broken, and his steed lay dead.
He toil'd to the river, he lean'd intent
To the wave, and away to the islands fair,
From beasts that pursued, and he breathed a prayer;
For soul and body were well-nigh spent.
'Twas the king of rivers, and the Isles were near;
Yet it moved so strange, so still, so strong,
It gave no sound, not even the song
Of a sea-bird screaming defiance or fear.
It was dark and dreadful! Wide like an ocean,
Much like a river but more like a sea,
Save that there was naught of the turbulent motion
Of tides, or of winds blown abaft, or a-lee.
Yea, strangely strong was the wave and slow,
And half-way hid in the dark, deep tide,
Great turtles, they paddled them to and fro,
And away to the Isles and the opposite side.
The nude black boar through abundant grass
Stole down to the water and buried his nose,
And crunch'd white teeth till the bubbles rose
As white and as bright as are globes of glass.
Yea, steadily moved it, mile upon mile,
Above and below and as still as the air;,
The bank made slippery here and there
By the slushing slide of the crocodile.
The great trees bent to the tide like slaves;
They dipp'd their boughs as the stream swept on,
And then drew back, then dipp'd and were gone
Away to the sea with the resolute waves.
The land was the tide's; the shore was undone;
It look'd as the lawless, unsatisfied seas
Had thrust up an arm through the tangle of trees,
And clutch'd at the citrons that grew in the sun;
And clutch'd at the diamonds that hid in the sand,
And laid heavy hand on the gold, and a hand
On the redolent fruits, on the ruby-like wine,
On the stones like the stars when the stars are divine;
Had thrust through the rocks of the ribb'd Andes;
Had wrested and fled; and had left a waste
And a wide way strewn in precipitate haste,
As he bore them away to the buccaneer seas.
O, heavens, the eloquent song of the silenceI
Asleep lay the sun in the vines,on the sod,
And asleep in the sun lay the green girdled islands,
As rock'd to their rest in the cradle of God.
God's poet is silence! His song is unspoken,
And yet so profound, so loud, and so far,
It fills you, it thrills you with measures unbroken,
And as still, and as fair, and as far as a star.
The shallow seas moan. From the first they have mutter'd,
As a child that is fretted, and weeps at its will...
The poems of God are too grand to be utter'd:
The dreadful deep seas they are loudest when still.
"I shall fold my hands, for this is the river
Of death," he said, "and the sea-green isle
Is an Eden set by the Gracious Giver
Wherein to rest." He listen'd the while,
Then lifted his head, then lifted a hand
Arch'd over his brow, and he lean'd and listen'd,
'Twas only a bird on a border of sand, —
The dark stream eddied and gleam'd and glisten'd,
And the martial notes from the isle were
gone, Gone as a dream dies out with the dawn.
'Twas only a bird on a border of sand,
Slow piping, and diving it here and there,
Slim, gray, and shadowy, light as the air,
That dipp'd below from a point of the land.
"Unto God a prayer and to love a tear,
And I die," he said, "in a desert here,
So deep that never a note is heard
But the listless song of that soulless bird.
"The strong trees lean in their love unto trees.
Lock arms in their loves, and are so made strong,
Stronger than armies; aye, stronger than seas
That rush from their caves in a storm of song.
"A miser of old, his last great treasure
Flung far in the sea, and he fell and he died;
And so shall I give, O terrible tide,
To you my song and my last sad measure."
He blew on a reed by the still, strong river,
Blew low at first, like a dream, then long,
Then loud, then loud as the keys that quiver,
And fret and toss with their freight of song.
He sang and he sang with a resolute will,
Till the mono rested above on his haunches,
And held his head to the side and was still,—
Till a bird blown out of the night of branches
Sang sadder than love, so sweeter than sad,
Till the boughs did burthen and the reeds did fill
With beautiful birds, and the boy was glad.
Our loves they are told by the myriad-eyed stars,
And love it is grand in a reasonable way,
And fame it is good in its way for a day,
Borne dusty from books and bloody from wars;
And death, I say, is an absolute need,
And a calm delight, and an ultimate good;
But a song that is blown from a watery reed
By a soundless deep from a boundless wood,
With never a hearer to heed or to prize
But God and the birds and the hairy wild beasts,
Is sweeter than love, than fame, or than feasts,
Or any thing else that is under the skies.
The quick leaves quiver'd, and the sunlight danced;
As the boy sang sweet, and the birds said, " Sweet;"
And the tiger crept close, and lay low at his feet,
And he sheathed his claws'as he listened entranced.
The serpent that hung from the sycamore bough,
And sway'd his head in a crescent above,
Had folded his neck to the white limb now,
And fondled it close like a great black love.
But the hands grew weary, the heart wax'd faint,
The loud notes fell to a far-off plaint,
The sweet birds echo'd no more, "Oh, sweet, "
The tiger arose and unsheathed his claws,
The serpent extended his iron jaws,
And the frail reed shiver'd and fell at his feet.
A sound on the tide! and he turn'd and cried,
"Oh, give God thanks, for they come, they come! "
He look'd out afar on the opaline tide,
Then clasp'd his hands, and his lips were dumb.
A sweeping swift crescent of sudden canoes!
As light as the sun of the south and as soon,
And true and as still as a sweet half-moon
That leans from the heavens, and loves and woos!
The Amazons came in their martial pride,
As full on the stream as a studding of stars,
All girded in armor as girded in wars,
In foamy white furrows dividing the tide.
With a face as brown as the boatmen's are,
Or the brave, brown hand of a harvester;
The Queen on a prow stood splendid and tall,
As the petulant waters did lift and fall;
Stood forth for the song, half lean'd in surprise,
Stood fair to behold, and yet grand to behold,
And austere in her face, and saturnine-soul'd,
And sad and subdued, in her eloquent eyes.
And sad were they all; yet tall and serene
Of presence, but silent, and brow'd severe;
As for some things lost, or for some fair, green,
And beautiful place, to the memory dear.
"0 Mother of God! Thrice merciful saint!
I am saved! " he said, and he wept outright;
Ay, wept as even a woman might,
For the soul was full and the heart was faint.
And sad were they all; yet tall and serene
Of presence, but silent, and brow'd severe;
As for some things lost, or for some fair, green,
And beautiful place, to the memory dear.
"0 Mother of God! Thrice merciful saint!
I am saved! " he said, and he wept outright;
Ay, wept as even a woman might,
For the soul was full and the heart was faint.
"Stay! stay!" cried the Queen, and she leapt to the land,
And she lifted her hand, and she lowered their spears,
"A woman! a woman! ho! help! give a hand!
A woman! a woman! I know by the tears."
Then gently as touch of the truest of woman,
They lifted him up from the earth where he fell,
And into the boat, with a half hidden swell
Of the heart that was holy and tenderly human.
They spoke low-voiced as a vesper prayer;
They pillow'd his head as only the hand
Of woman can pillow, and push'd from the land,
And the Queen she sat threading the gold of his hair.

Part II.

Forsake those People. What are they

That laugh, that live, that love by rule?

Forsake the Saxon. Who are these

T'hat shun the shadows of the trees;

The perfumed forests?... Go thy way,

We are not one. I will not please

You:-fare you well, O wiser fool!

But ye who love me:—Ye who love

The shaggy forests, fierce delights

Of sounding waterfalls, of heights

That hang like broken moons above,

With brows of pine that brush the sun,

Believe and follow. We are one:

The wild man shall to us be tame,

The woods shall yield their mysteries;

The stars shall answer to a name,

And be as birds above the trees.

They swept to their Isles through the furrows of foam;
They alit on the land, as love hastening home,
And below the banana, with leaf like a tent,
They tenderly laid him, they bade him take rest,
They brought him strange fishes and fruits of the best,
And he ate and took rest with a patient content.
They watched so well that he rose up strong,
And stood in their midst, and they said, "How fair!"
And they said, How tall!" And they toy'd with his hair.
And they touched his limbs and they said, "How long
And how strong they are; and how brave she is,
That she made her way through the wiles of man,
That she braved his wrath that she broke the ban
Of his desolate life for the love of this!"
They wrought for him armor and cunning attire,
They brought him a sword and a great shell shield,
And implored him to shiver the lance on the field,
And to follow their beautiful Queen in her ire.
But he took him apart; then the Amazons came
And entreated of him with their eloquent eyes
And their earnest and passionate souls of flame,
And the soft, sweet words that are broken of sighs,
To be one of their own, but he still denied
And bow'd and abash'd he stole further aside.
He stood by the Palms and he lean'd in unrest,
And standing alone, looked out and afar,
For his own fair land where the castles are,
With irresolute arms on a restless breast.
He re-lived his loves, he recall'd his wars,
He gazed and he gazed with a soul distress'd,
Like a far sweet star that is lost in the west,
Till the day was broken to a dust of stars.
They sigh'd, and they left him alone in the care
Of faithfullest matron; they moved to the field
With the lifted sword and the sounding shield
High fretting magnificent storms of hair.
And, true as the moon in her march of stars,
The Queen stood forth in her fierce attire
Worn as they trained or worn in the wars,
As bright and as chaste as a flash of fire.
With girdles of gold and of silver cross'd, leather,
And plaited, and chased, and bound together,
Broader and stronger than belts of leather.
Cunningly fashion'd and blazon'd and boss'd—
With diamonds circling her, stone upon stone,
Above the breast where the borders fail,
Below the breast where the fringes zone,
She moved in a glittering garment of mail.
The form made hardy and the waist made spare
From athlete sports and adventures bold,
The breastplate; fasten'd with clasps of gold,
Was clasp'd, as close as the breasts could bear,
And bound and drawn to a delicate span,
It flash'd in the red front ranks of the field—
Was fashion'd full trim in its intricate plan
And gleam'd as a sign, as well as a shield,
That the virgin Queen was unyielding still,
And pure as the tides that around her ran;
True to her trust, and strong in her will
Of war, and hatred to the touch of man.
The field it was theirs in storm or in shine,
So fairly they stood that the foe came not
To battle again, and the fair forgot
The rage of battle; and they trimm'd the vine,
They tended the fields of the tall green corn,
They crush'd the grape and they drew the wine
In the great round gourds and the bended horn—
And they lived as the gods in the days divine.
They bathed in the wave in the amber morn,
They took repose in the peaceful shade
Of eternal palms, and were never afraid;
Yet oft did they sigh, and look far and forlorn.
Where the rim of the wave was weaving a spell,
And the grass grew soft where it hid from the sun,
Would the Amazons gather them every one
At the call of the Queen or the sound of her shell:
Would come in strides through the kingly trees,
And train and marshal them brave and well
In the golden noon, in the hush of peace
Where the shifting shades of the fan palms fell;
Would train till flush'd and as warm as wine:
Would reach with their limbs, would thrust with the lance,
Attack, retire, retreat and advance,
Then wheel in column, then fall in line;
Stand thigh and thigh with the limbs made hard
And rich and round as the swift limb'd pard,
Or a racer train'd, or a white bull caught
In the lasso's toils, where the tame are not:
Would curve as the waves curve, swerve in line;
Would dash through the trees, would train with the bow,
Then back to the lines, now sudden, then slow,
Then flash their swords in the sun at a sign:
Would settle the foot right firmly afront,
Then sound the shield till the sound was heard
Afar, as the horn in the black boar hunt;
Yet, strangest of all, say never one word.
When shadows fell far from the westward, and when
The sun had kiss'd hands and set forth for the east,
They would kindle campfires and gather them then,
Well-worn and most merry with song, to the feast.
They sang of all things, but the one, sacred one,
That could make them most glad, as they lifted the gourd
And pass'd it around, with its rich purple hoard,
From the island that lay with its face to the sun.
Though lips were most luscious, and eyes as divine
As the eyes of the skies that bend down from above;
Though hearts were made glad and most mellow with love,
As dripping gourds drain'd of their burthens of wine;
Though brimming, and dripping, and bent of their shape
Were the generous gourds from the juice of the grape,
They could sing not of love, they could breathe not a thought
Of the savor of life; of love sought, or unsought.
Their loves they were not; they had banished the name
Of man, and the uttermost mention of love, —
The moonbeams about them, the quick stars above,
The mellow-voiced waves, they were ever the same,
In sign, and in saying, of the old true lies;
But they took no heed; no answering sign,
Save glances averted and half-hush'd sighs,
Went back from the breasts with their loves divine.
They sang of free life with a will, and well,
They had paid for it well when the price was blood;
They beat on the shield, and they blew on the shell,
When their wars were not, for they held it good
To be glad, and to sing till the flush of the day,
In an annual feast, when the broad leaves fell;
Yet some sang not, and some sighed, "Ah, well "
For there's far less left you to sing or to say,
When mettlesome love is banish'd, I ween—
To hint at as hidden, or to half disclose
In the swift sword-cuts of the tongue, made keen
With wine at a feast,—than one would suppose.
So the days wore by, but they brought no rest
To the minstrel knight, the the sun was as gold,
And the Isles were green, and the great Queen blest
In the splendor of arms, and as pure as bold.
He would now resolve to reveal to her all,
His sex and his race in a well-timed song;
And his love of peace, his hatred of wrong,
And his own deceit, though the sun should fall.
Then again he would linger, and knew not how
He could best proceed, and deferr'd him now
Till a favorite day, then the fair diay came,
And still he delay'd, and reproached him the same.
And he still said nought, but, subduing his head,
He wander'd one day in a dubious spell
Of unutterable thought of the truth unsaid,
To the indolent shore, and he gather'd a shell,
And he shaped its point to his passionate mouth,
And he turn'd to a bank and began to blow,
While the Amazons trained in a troop below
Blew soft and sweet as a kiss of the south.
The Amazons lifted with glad surprise,
Stood splendid and glad and look'd far and fair,
Set forward a foot, and shook back their hair,
Like clouds push'd back from the sun-lit skies.
It stirr'd their souls, and they ceased to train
In troop by the shore, as the tremulous strain
Fell down from the hill through the tasselling trees;
And a murmur of song, like the sound of bees
In the clover crown of a queenly spring,
Came back unto him, and he laid the shell
Aside on the bank, and began to sing
Of eloquent love; and the ancient spell
Of passionate song was his, and the Isle,
As waked to delight from its slumber long,
Came back in echoes; yet all this while
He knew not at all the sin of his song.

Part III.

Come, lovers, come, forget your pains!

  I know upon this earth a spot

Where clinking coins, that clank as chains,

  Upon the souls of men, are not;

Nor man is measured for his gains

Of gold that stream with crimson stains.

There snow-topp'd towers crush the clouds

  And break the still abode of stars,

Like sudden ghosts in snowy shrouds,

  New broken through their earthly bars,

And condors whet their crooked beaks

On lofty limits of the peaks.

O men that fret as frets the main!

  You irk me with your eager gaze

  Down in the earth for fat increaseEternal talks of gold and gain,

Eternal talks of gold and gain,

  Your shallow wit, your shallow ways,

And breaks my soul across the shoal

As breakers break on shallow seas.

They bared their brows to the palms above,
But some look'd level into comrades' eyes,
And they then remember'd that the thought of love
Was the thing forbidden, and they sank in sighs.
They turned from the training, to heed in throng
To the old, old tale; and they trained no more,
As he sang of love; and some on the shore,
And full in the sound of the eloquent song,
With womanly air and an irresolute will
Went listlessly onward as gathering shells;
Then gazed in the waters, as bound by spells;
Then turned to the song and so sigh'd, and were still.
And they said no word. Some tapp'd on the sand
With the sandal'd foot, keeping time to the sound,
In a sort of dream; some timed with the hand,
And one held eyes full of tears to the ground.
She thought of the days when their wars they were not,
As she lean'd and listened to the old, old song,
When they sang of their loves, and she well forgot
Man's hard oppressions and a world of wrong.
Like a pure true woman, with her trust in tears
&nbps;And the things that are true, she re lived them in thought,
Though hush'd and crush'd in the fall of the years;
&nbps;She lived but the fair, and the false she forgot.
As a tale long told, or as things that are dreams
The quivering curve of the lip it confest
The silent regrets, and the soul that teems
With a world of love in a brave true breast.
Then this one, younger, who had known no love,
Nor look'd upon man but in blood on the field,
She bow'd her head, and she leaned on her shield,
And her heart beat quick as the wings of a dove
That is blown from the sea, where the rests are not
In the time of storms; and by instinct taught
Grew pensive, and sigh'd; as she thought and she thought
Of some wonderful things, and—she knew not of what.
Then this one thought of a love forsaken,
She thought of a brown sweet babe, and she thought
Of the bread-fruits gather'd, of the swift fish taken
In intricate nets, like a love well sought.
She thought of the moons of her maiden dawn,
Mellow'd and fair with the forms of man;
So dearer indeed to dwell upon
Than the beautiful waves that around her ran:
So fairer indeed than the fringes of light
That lie at rest on the west of the sea
In furrows of foam on the borders of night,
And dearer indeed than the songs to be
Than calling of dreams from the opposite land,
To the land of life, and of journeys dreary,
When the soul goes over from the form grown weary,
And walks in the cool of the trees on the sand.
But the Queen was enraged and would smite him at first
With the sword unto death, yet it seemed that she durst
Not touch him at all; and she moved as to chide,
And she lifted her face, and she frown'd at his side,
Then she touch'd on his arm; then she looked in his eyes
And right full in his soul, but she saw no fear,
In the pale fair face, and with frown severe
She press'd her lips as suppressing her sighs.
She banish'd her wrath, she unbended her face,
She lifted her hand and put back his hair
From his fair sad brow, with a penitent air,
And forgave him all with unuttered grace.
But she said no word, yet no more was severe;
She stood as subdued by the side of him still,
Then averted her face with a resolute will,
As to hush a regret, or to hide back a tear.
She sighed to herself: "A stranger is this,
And ill and alone, that knows not at all
That a throne shall totter and the strong shall fall,
At the mention of love and its banefullest bliss.
"0 life that is lost in bewildering love—
But a stranger is sacred!" She lifted a hand
And she laid it as soft as the breast of a dove
On the minstrel's mouth. It was more than the wand
Of the tamer of serpents, for she did no more
Than to bid with her eyes and to beck with her hand,
And the song drew away to the waves of the shore;
Took wings, as it were, to the verge of the land.
But her heart was oppress'd. With penitent head
She turned to her troop, and retiring, she said:
"Alas! and alas! shall it come to pass
That the panther shall die from a blade of grass?
That the tiger shall yield at the benthorn's blast?
That we, who have conquer'd a world and all
Of men and of beasts in the world must fall
Ourselves at the mention of love at last?"
The tall Queen turn'd with her troop;
She led minstrel and all to the innermost part
Of the palm-crowned Isle, where great trees group
In armies, to battle when black-storms start,
And made a retreat from the sun by the trees
That are topp'd like tents, where the fire-fl'es
Are a light to the feet, and a fair lake lies,
As cool as the coral-set centers of seas.
The palm-trees lorded the copse like kings,
Their tall tops tossing the indolent clouds
That folded the Isle in the dawn, like shrouds,
Then fled from the sun like to living things.
The cockatoo swung in the vines below,
And muttering hung on a golden thread,
Or moved on the moss'd bough to and fro,
In plumes of gold and array'd in red.
The lake lay hidden away from the light,
As asleep in the Isle from the tropical noon,
And narrow and bent like a new-born moon,
And fair as a moon in the noon of the night.
'Twas shadow'd by forests, and fringed by ferns,
And fretted anon by red fishes that leapt
At indolent flies tha t slep t or kept
Their drowsy tones on the tide by turns.
And here in the dawn when the Day was strong
And newly aroused from leafy repose,
With dews on his feet and tints of the rose
In his great flush'd face was a sense of song
That the tame old world has nor known nor heard.
The soul was filled with the soft perfumes,
The eloquent wings of the humming bird
Beguiled the heart, they purpled the air
And allured the eye, as so everywhere
On the rim of the wave or across it in swings,
They swept or they sank in a sea of blooms,
And wove and wound in a song of wings.
A bird in scarlet and gold, made mad
With sweet delights, through the branches slid
And kiss'd the lake on a drowsy lid
Till the ripples ran and the face was glad;
Was glad and lovely as lights that sweep
The face of heaven when the stars are forth
In autumn time through the sapphire north,
Or the face of a child when it smiles in sleep.
And here came the Queen, in the tropical noon,
When the wars and the world and all were asleep,
And nothing look'd forth to betray or to peep
Through the glories of jungle in garments of June,
To bathe with her court in the waters that bent
In the beautiful lake through tasseling trees,
And the tangle of blooms in a burden of bees,
As bold and as sharp as a bow unspent.
And strangely still, and more strangely sweet,
Was the lake that lay in its cradle of fern,
As still as a moon with her horns that turn
In the night, like lamps to white delicate feet.
They came and they stood by the brink of the tide,
They hung their shields on the boughs of the trees,
They lean'd their lances against the side,
Unloosed their sandals, and busy as bees
Ungather'd their robes in the rustle of leaves
That wound them as close as the wine-vine weaves.
The minstrel then falter'd, and further aside
Than ever before he averted his head;
He pick'd up a pebble and fretted the tide
Afar, with a countenance flushed and red.
He feign'd him ill, he wander'd away,
He sat him down by the waters alone,
And pray'd for pardon, as a knight should pray,
And rued an error not all his own.
The Amazons press'd to the girdle of reeds,
Two and by two they advanced to the tide,
They challenged each other, they laughed in their pride,
And banter'd, and vaunted of valorous deeds.
They push'd and they parted the curtains of green,
All timid at first; then looked in the wave
And laugh'd; retreated, then came up brave
To the brink of the water, led on by their Queen.
Again they retreated, again advanced,
Then parted the boughs in a proud disdain,
Then bent their heads to the waters, and glanced
Below, then bluLsh'd, and then laughed again.
A bird awaken'd; then all dismayed
With a womanly sense of a beautiful shame
That strife and changes had left the same,
They shrank to the leaves and the somber shade.
At last, press'd forward a beautiful pair
And leapt to the wave, and laughing they blushed
As rich as their wines; when the waters rush'd
To the dimpled limbs, and laugh'd in their hair.
The fair troop follow'd with shouts and cheers,
They cleft the wave, and the friendly ferns
Came down in curtains and curves by turns,
And a brave palm lifted a thousand spears.
From under the ferns and away from the land,
And out in the wave until lost below,
There lay, as white as a bank of snow,
A long and beautiful border of sand.
Here clothed alone in their clouds of hair
And curtain'd about by thepalm and fern,
And made as their maker had made them, fair,
And splendid of natural curve and turn;
Untrammel'd byart and untroubled by man
They tested their strength, or tried their speed:
And here they wrestled, and there they ran,
As supple and lithe as the watery reed.
The great trees shadow'd the bow-tipp'd tide,
And nodded their plumes from the opposite side,
As if to whisper, Take care! take care!
But the meddlesome sunshine here and there
Kept pointing a finger right under the trees,—
Kept shifting the branches and wagging a hand
At the round brown limbs on the border of sand,
And seem'd to whisper, Fie! what are these?
The gold-barr'd butterflies to and fro
And over the waterside wander'd and wove
As heedless and idle as clouds that rove
And drift by the peaks of perpetual snow.
A monkey swung out from a bough in the skies,
White-whisker'd and ancient, and wisest of all
Of his populous race, when he heard them call
And he watch'd them long, with his head sidewise.
He wondered much and he watched them all
From under his brows of amber and brown,
All patient and silent, and never once stirr'd
Till he saw two wrestle, and wrestling fall;
Then he arched his brows and he hasten'd him down
To his army below and said never a word.

Part IV.

There is many a love in the land, my love,

  But never a love like this is;

Then kill me dead with your love, my love,

  And cover me up with kisses.

Yea, kill me dead and cover me deep

  Where never a soul discovers;

Deep in your heart to sleep, to sleep,

  In the darlingest tomb of lovers.

The wanderer took him apart from the place;
Look'd up in the boughs at the gold birds there,
He envied the humming-birds fretting the air,
And frowned at the butterflies fanning his face.
He sat him down in a crook of the wave
And away from the Amazons, under the skies
Where great trees curved to a leaf-lined cave,
And he lifted his hands and he shaded his eyes:
And he held his head to the north when they came
To run on the reaches of sand from the south,
And he pull'd at his chin, and he pursed his mouth,
And he shut his eyes, with a sense of shame.
He reach'd and he shaped a bamboo reed
From the brink below, and began to blow
As if to himself; as the sea sometimes
Does soothe and soothe in a low, sweet song,
When his rage is spent, and the beach swells strong
With sweet repetitions of alliterate rhymes.
The echoes blew back from the indolent land;
Silent and still sat the tropical bird,
And only the sound of the reed was heard,
As the Amazons ceased from their sports on the sand.
They rose from the wave, and inclining the head,
They listened intent, with the delicate tip
Of the finger touch'd to the pouting lip,
Till the brown Queen turn'd in the tide, and led
Through the opaline lake, and under the shade,
To the shore where the chivalrous singer played.
He bended his head and he shaded his eyes
As well as he might with his lifted fingers,
And ceased to sing. But in mute surprise
He saw them linger as a child that lingers
Allured by a song that has ceased in the street,
And looks bewilder'd about from its play,
For the last loved notes that fell at its feet.
How the singer was vexed; he averted his head;
He lifted his eyes, looked far and wide
For a brief, little time; but they bathed at his side
In spite of his will, or of prayers well said.
He press'd four fingers against each lid,
Till the light was gone; yet for all that he did
It seem'd that the lithe forms lay and beat
Afloat in his face and full under his feet.
He seem'd to behold the billowy breasts,
And the rounded limbs in the rest or unrests—
To see them swim as the mermaid swims,
With the drifting, dimpled delicate limbs,
Folded or hidden or reach'd or caress'd.
It seems to me there is more that sees
Than the eyes in man; you may close your eyes,
You may turn your back, and may still be wise
In sacred and marvelous mysteries.
He saw as one sees the sun of a noon
In the sun-kiss'd south, when the eyes are closed—
He saw as one sees the bars of a moon
That fall through the boughs of the tropical trees,
When he lies at length, and is all composed,
And asleep in his hammock by the sundown seas.
He heard the waters beat, bubble and fret;
He lifted his eyes, yet forever they lay
Afloat in the tide; and he turn'd him away
And resolved to fly and for aye to forget.
He rose up strong, and he cross'd him twice,
He nerved his heart and he lifted his head,
He cruish'd the treacherous reed in a trice,
With an angry foot, and he turn'd and fled.
Yet flying, he hurriedly turn'd his head
With an eager glance, with meddlesome eyes,
As a woman will turn; and he saw arise
The beautiful Queen from the silvery bed.
She toss'd back her hair, and she turn'ed her eyes
With all of their splendor to his as he fled;
Ay, all their glory, and a strange surprise,
And a sad reproach, and a world unsaid.
Then she struck their shields, they rose in array,
As roused from a trance, and hurriedly came
From out of the wave. He wander'd away,
Still fretting his sensitive soul with blame.
Alone he sat in the shadows at noon,
Alone he sat by the waters at night;
Alone he sang, as a woman might,
With pale. kind face to the pale, cold moon.
He would here advance, and would there retreat,
As a petulant child that has lost its way
In the redolent watlks of a sultry day,
And wanders around with irresolute feet.
He made him a harp of mahogany wood,
He strung it well with the sounding strings
Of a strong bird's thews, and from ostrich wings,
And play'd and sang in a sad, sweet rune.
He hang'd his harp in the vines, and stood
By the tide at night, in the palms at noon,
And lone as a ghost in the shadowy wood.
Then two grew sad, and alone sat she
By the great, strong stream, and she bow'd her head,
Then lifted her face to the tide, and said,
"O, pure as a tear and as strong as a sea,
Yet tender to me as the touch of a dove,
I had rather sit sad and alone by thee,
Than to go and be glad, with a legion in love. "
She sat one time at the wanderer's side
As the kingly water went wandering by;
And the two once look'd, and they knew not why,
Full sad in each other's eyes, and they sigh'd.
She courted the solitude under the rim
Of the trees that reach'd to the resolute stream,
And gazed in the waters as one in a dream,
Till her soul grew heavy and her eyes grew dim.
She bow'd her head with a beautiful grief
That grew from her pity; she forgot her arms,
And she made neglect of the battle alarms
That threaten'd the land; the banana's leaf
Made shelter; he lifted his harp again,
She sat, she listen'd intent and long,
Forgetting her care and forgetting her pain—
Made sad for the singer, made glad for his song.
And the women waxed cold; the white moons waned,
And the brown Queen marshall'd them never once more,
With sword and with shield, in the palms by the shore;
But they sat them down to repose, or remain'd
Apart and scatter'd in the tropic-leaf'd trees,
As sadden'd by song, or for loves delay'd;
Or away in the Isle in couples they stray'd,
Not at all content in their Isles of peace.
They wander'd away to the lakes once more,
Or walk'd in the moon, or they sigh'd, or slept,
Or they sat in pairs by the shadowy shore,
And silent song with the waters kept.
There was one who stood by the waters one eve,
With the stars on her hair, and the bars of the moon
Broken up at her feet by the bountiful boon
Of extending old trees, who did questioning grieve;
"The birds they go over us two and by two;
The mono is mated; his bride in the boughs
Sits nursing his babe, and his passionate vows
Of love, you may hear them the whole day through.
"The lizard, the cayman, the white tooth'd boar,
The serpents that glide in the sword leaf'd grass,
The beasts that abide or the birds that pass,
They are glad in their loves as the green leaf'd shore.
There is nothing that is that can yield one bliss
Like an innocent love; the leaves have tongue
And the tides talk low in the reeds, and the young
And the quick buds open their lips but for this.
"In the steep and the starry silences,
On the stormy levels of the limitless seas,
Or here in the deeps of the dark-brow'd trees,
There is nothing so much as a brave man's kiss.
"There is nothing so strong, in the stream, on the land,
In the valley of palms, on the pinnacled snow,
In the clouds of the gods, on the grasses below,
As the silk-soft touch of a baby's brown hand.
"It were better to sit and to spin on a stone
The whole year through with a babe at the knee,
With its brown hands reaching caressingly,
Than to sit in a girdle of gold and alone.
It were better indeed to be mothers of men,
And to murmur not much; there are clouds in the sun.
Can a woman undo what the gods have done?
Nay, the things must be as the things have been."
They wander'd well forth, some here and some there,
Unsatisfied some and irresolute all.
The sun was the same, the moonlight did fall
Rich-barr'd and refulgent; the stars were as fair
As ever were stars; the fruitful clouds cross'd
And the harvest fail'd not; yet the fair Isles grew
As a prison to all, and they search'd on through
The magnificent shades as for things that were lost.
The minstrel, more pensive, went deep in the wood,
And oft-time delay'd him the whole day through,
As charm'd bytds the deeps, or the sad heart drew
Some solaces sweet from the solitude.
The singer forsook them at last, and the Queen
Came seldom then forth from the fierce deep wood,
And her warriors, dark-brow'd and bewildering stood
In bands by the wave in the complicate screen
Of overbent boughs. They would lean on their spears
And would sometimes talk, low-voiced and by twos,
As allured by longings they could not refuse,
And would sidewise look, as beset by their fears.
Once, wearied and sad, by the shadowy trees
In the flush of the sun they sank to their rests,
The dark hair veiling the beautiful breasts
That arose in billows, as mists veil seas.
Then away to the dream-world one by one;
The great red sun in his purple was roll'd,
And red-wing'd birds and the birds of gold
Were above in the trees like the beams of the sun.
Then the sun came down, on his ladders of gold
Built up of his beams, and the souls arose
And ascended on these, and the fair repose
Of the negligent forms was a feast to behold.
The round brown limbs they were reach'd or drawn,
The grass made dark with the fervour of hair;
And here were the rose-red lips and there
A flush'd breast rose like a sun at a dawn.
Then black-wing'd birds flew over in pair,
Listless and slow, as they call'd of the seas
And sounds came down through the tangle of trees
As lost, and nestled, and hid in their hair.
They started disturb'd, they sprang as at war
To lance and to shield; but the dolorous sound
Was gone from the wood; they gazed around
And saw but the birds, black-wing'd and afar.
They gazed at each other, then turn'd them unheard,
Slow trailing their lances, in long single line;
They moved through the forest, all dark as the sign
Of death that fell down from the ominous bird.
Then the great sun died, and a rose-red bloom
Grew over his grave in a border of gold,
And a cloud with a silver-white rim was roll'd
Like a cold gray stone at the door of his tomb.
Strange voices were heard, sad visions were seen,
By sentries, betimes, on the opposite shore,
Where broad boughs bended their curtains of green
Far over the wave with their tropical store.
A sentry bent low on her palms and she peer'd
Suspiciously through; and, heavens! a man,
Low-brow'd and wicked, looked backward, and jeer'd
And taunted right full in her face as he ran:
A low crooked man, with eyes like a bird,—
As round and as cunning,—who came from the land
Of lakes, where the clouds lie low and at hand,
And the songs of the bent black swans are heard;
Where men are most cunning and cruel withal,
And are famous as spies, and are supple and fleet,
And are webb'd like the water-fowl under the feet,
And they swim like the swans, and like pelican's call.
And again, on a night when the moon she was not,
A sentry saw stealing, as still as a dream,
A sudden canoe down the mid of the stream,
Like the dark boat of death, and as still as a thought.
And lo! as it pass'd, from the prow there arose
A dreadful and gibbering, hairy old man,
Loud laughing as only a maniac can,
And shaking a lance at the land of his foes;
Then sudden it vanish'd, as still as it came,
Far down through the walls of the shadowy wood,
And the great moon rose like a forest aflame,
All threat'ning, sullen, and red like blood.

Part V.

Well, we have threaded through and through

The gloaming forests, Fairy Isles,

Afloat in sun and summer smiles,

As fallen stars in fields of blue;

Some futile wars with subtile love

That mortal never vanquish'd yet,

Some symphonies by angels set

In wave below, in bough above,

Were yours and mine; but here adieu.

And if it come to pass some days

That you grow weary, sad, and you

Lift up deep eyes from dusty ways

Of, mart and moneys to the blue

And pure cold waters, isle and vine,

And bathe you there, and then arise

Refresh'd by one fresh thought of mine,

I rest content: I kiss your eyes,

I kiss your hair, in my delight:

I kiss my hand, and say, "Good-night."

I tell you that love is the bitterest sweet
That ever laid hold on the heart of a man;
A chain to the soul, and to cheer as a ban,
And a bane to the brain and a snare to the feet.
Aye! who shall ascend on the hollow white wings
Of love but to fall; to fall and to learn,
Like a moth, or a man, that the lights lure to burn,
That the roses have thorns and the honey bee stings?
I say to you surely that grief shall befall;
I lift you my finger, I caution you true,
And yet you go for ward, laugh gaily, and you
Must learn for yourself, then lament for us all.
You had better be drown'd than to love and to dream.
It were better to sit on a moss-grown stone,
And away from the sun, forever alone,
Slow pitching white pebbles at trout in a stream.
Alas for a heart that must live forlorn!
If you live you must love; if you love, regret—
It were better, perhaps, had you never been born,
Or better, at least, you could well forget.
The clouds are above us and snowy and cold,
And what is beyond but the steel gray sky,
And the still far stars that twinkle and lie
Like the eyes of a love or delusions of gold!
Ah! who would ascend? The clouds are above.
Aye! all things perish; to rise is to fall.
And alack for lovers, and alas for love,
And alas that we ever were born at all.
* * * * * *
The minstrel now stood by the border of wood,
But now not alone; with a resolute heart
He reach'd his hand, like to one made strong,
Forgot his silence and resumed his song,
And aroused his soul, and assumed his part
With a passionate will,in the palms where he stood.
"She is sweet as the breath of the Castile rose,
She is warm to the heart as a world of wine,
And as rich to behold as the rose that grows
With its red heart bent to the tide of the Rhine.
"I shall sip her lips as the brown bees sup
From the great gold heart of the buttercup!
I shall live and love! I shall have my day,
And die in my time, and who shall gainsay?
"What boots me the battles that I have have fought
With self for honor? My brave resolves?
And who takes note? The soul dissolves
In a sea of love, and the wars are forgot.
"The march of men, and the drift of ships,
The dreams of fame, and desires for gold,
Shall go for aye as a tale that is told,
Nor divide for a day my lips from her lips.
"And a knight shall rest, and none shall say nay,
In a green Isle wash'd by an arm of the seas,
And walled from the world by the white Andes:
The years are of age and can go their way."
A sentinel stood on the farthermost land,
And struck her shield, and her sword in hand,
She cried, "He comes with his silver spears,
With flint-tipp'd arrows and bended bows,
To take our blood though we give him tears,
And to flood our Isle in a world of woes!
"He comes, 0 Queen of the sun-kiss'd Isle,
He comes as a wind comes, blown from the seas,
In a cloud of canoes, on the curling breeze,
With his shields of tortoise and of crocodile!"
* * * * * *
Sweeter than swans' are a maiden's graces!
Sweeter than fruits are the kisses of morn!
Sweeter than babies' is a love new-born,
But sweeter than all are a love's embraces.
The Queen was at peace. Her terms of surrender
To love, who knows? and who can defend her?
She slept at peace, and the sentry's warning
Could scarce awaken the love-conquer'd Queen;
She slept at peace in the opaline
Hush and blush of that tropical morning;
And bound about by the twining glory,
Vine and trellis in the vernal morn,
As still and sweet as a babe new-born,
The brown Queen dream'd of the old new story.
But hark! her sentry's passionate words,
The sound of shields, and the clash of swords!
And slow she came, her head on her breast,
And her two hands held as to plead for rest.
Where, 0 where, were the Juno graces?
Where, O where was the glance of Jove,
As the Queen came forth from the sacred places,
Hidden away in the heart of the grove?
They rallied around as of old,—they besought her,
With swords to the sun and the sounding shield,
To lead them again to the glorious field,
So sacred to Freedom; and, breathless, they brought her
Her buckler and sword, and her armor all bright
With a thousand gems enjewell'd in gold.
She lifted her head with the look of old
An instant only; with all of her might
She sought to be strong and majestic again:
She bared them her arms and her ample brown breast;
They lifted her armor, they strove to invest
Her form in armor, but they strove in vain.
It could close no more, but it clang'd on the ground,
Like the fall of a knight, with an ominous sound,
And she shook her hair and she cried " Alas!
That love should come and liberty pass;"
And she cried, "Alas! to be cursed.... and bless'd
For the nights of love and noons of rest."
Her warriors wonder'd; they wander'd apart,
And trail'd their swords, and subdued their eyes
To earth in sorrow and in hush'd surprise,
And forgot themselves in their pity of heart.
"O Isles of the sun," sang the blue-eyed youth,
"O Edens new-made and let down from above!
Be sacred to peace and to passionate love,
Made happy in peace and made holy with truth."
The fair Isle fill'd with the fierce invader;
They form'd on the strand, they lifted their spears,
Where never was man for years and for years,
And moved on the Queen. She lifted and laid her
Finger-tip to her lips. For O sweet
Was the song of love as the love newborn,
That the minstrel blew in the virgin morn,
Away where the trees and the soft sands meet.
The strong men lean'd and their shields let fall,
And slowly they came with their traililng spears,
And heads bow'd down as if bent with years,
And an air of gentleness over them all.
The men grew glad as the song ascended,
They lean'd their lances against the palms,
They reach'd their arms as to reach for alms,
And the Amazons came—and their reign was ended.
* * * * * *
The tawny old crone here lays her stone
On the leaning grass and reaches a hand;
The day like a beautiful dream has flown,
The curtains of night come down on the land,
And I dip to the oars; but ere I go,
I tip her an extra bright pesos or so,
And I smile my thanks, for I think them due:
But, reader, fair reader, now what think you?

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