I.
A MAN in middle Aridzone
Stood by the desert's edge alone,
And long he look'd, and lean'd. He peer'd,
Above his twirl'd and twisted beard,
Beneath his black and slouchy hat ...
Nay, nay, the tale is not of that.
A skin-clad trapper, toe-a-tip,
Stood on a mountain top, and he
Look'd long and still and eagerly.
"It looks so like some lonesome ship
That sails this ghostly lonely sea,—
This dried-up desert sea," said he,
"These tawny sands of Arazit" ...
Avaunt! the tale is not of it.
A chief from out the desert's rim
Rode swift as twilight swallows swim,
Or eagle blown from eyrie nest.
His trim-limb'd steed was black as night,
His long black hair had blossom'd white,
With feathers from the koko's crest;
His iron face was flush'd and red,
His eyes flash'd fire as he fled,
For he had seen unsightly things;
Had felt the flapping of their wings.
A wild and wiry man was he,
This tawny chief of Shoshonee;
And O his supple steed was fleet!
About his breast flapp'd panther skins,
About his eager flying feet
Flapp'd beaded, braided moccasins:
He rode as rides the hurricane;
He seem'd to swallow up the plain;
He rode as never man did ride,
He rode, for ghosts rode at his side,
And on his right a grizzled grim—
No, no, this tale is not of him.
An Indian warrior lost his way
While prowling on this desert's edge
In fragrant sage and prickly hedge,
When suddenly he saw a sight,
And turn'd his steed in eager flight.
He rode right through the edge of day,
He rode into the rolling night.
He lean'd, he reach'd an eager face,
His black wolf skin flapp'd out and in,
Held seat and saddle to its place;
But that gray ghost that clutch'd thereat ...
Arrête! the tale is not of that.
A chieftain touch'd the desert's rim
One autumn eve: he rode alone
And still as moon-made shadows swim.
He stopp'd, he stood as still as stone,
He lean'd, he look'd, there glisten'd bright
From out the yellow yielding sand
A golden cup with jewell'd rim.
He lean'd him low, he reach'd a hand,
He caught it up, he gallop'd on,
He turn'd his head, he saw a sight ...
His panther skins flew to the wind,
The dark, the desert lay behind;
The tawny Ishmaelite was gone;
But something sombre as death is ...
Tut, tut! the tale is not of this.
A mountaineer, storm-stained and brown,
From farthest desert touched the town,
And, striding through the crowd, held up
Above his head a jewell'd cup.
He put two fingers to his lip,
He whisper'd wild, he stood a-tip,
And lean'd the while with lifted hand,
And said, "A ship lies yonder dead,"
And said, "Doubloons lie sown in sand
In yon far desert dead and brown,
Beyond where wave-wash'd walls look down,
As thick as stars set overhead.
That three shipmasts uplift like trees" ...
Away! the tale is not of these.
An Indian hunter held a plate
Of gold above his lifted head,
Around which kings had sat in state ...
"'Tis from that desert ship," they said,
"That sails with neither sail nor breeze,
Or galleon, that sank below
Of old, in olden dried-up seas,
Ere yet the red men drew the bow."
But wrinkled women wagg'd the head,
And walls of warriors sat that night
In black, nor streak of battle red,
Around against the red camp light,
And told such wondrous tales as these
Of wealth within their dried-up seas.
And one, girt well in tiger's skin,
Who stood, like Saul, above the rest,
With dangling claws about his breast,
A belt without, a blade within,
A warrior with a painted face,
And lines that shadow'd stern and grim,
Stood pointing east from his high place,
And hurling thought like cannon shot,
Stood high with visage flush'd and hot ...
But, stay! this tale is not of him.