XIII.
And one was glad at morn, but one,
The tall old sea-king, grim and gray,
Look'd back to where his cabins lay
And seem'd to hesitate.
He rose
At last, as from his dream's repose,
From rest that counterfeited rest,
And set his blown beard to the west,
And drove against the setting sun,
Along the levels vast and dun.
His steeds were steady, strong, and fleet,
The best in all the wide west land,
Their manes were in the air, their feet
Seem'd scarce to touch the flying sand;
The reins were in the reaching hand.
They rode like men gone mad, they fled,
All day and many days they ran,
And in the rear a gray old man
Kept watch, and ever turn'd his head,
Half eager and half angry, back
Along their dusty desert track.
And one look'd back, but no man spoke,
They rode, they swallow'd up the plain;
The sun sank low, he look'd again,
With lifted hand and shaded eyes.
Then far arear he saw uprise,
As if from giant's stride or stroke,
Dun dust-like puffs of battle-smoke.
He turn'd, his left hand clutch'd the rein,
He struck awest his high right hand,
His arms were like the limbs of oak,
They knew too well the man's command,
They mounted, plunged ahead again,
And one look'd back, but no man spoke,
Of all that sullen iron band,
That reached along that barren land.
O weary days of weary blue,
Without one changing breath, without
One single cloud-ship sailing through
The blue seas bending round about
In one unbroken blotless hue.
Yet on they fled, and one look'd back
For ever down their distant track.
The tent is pitch'd, the blanket spread,
The earth receives the weary head,
The night rolls west, the east is gray,
The tent is struck, they mount, away;
They ride for life the livelong day,
They sweep the long grass in their track,
And one leads on, and one looks back.
What scenes they pass'd, what camps at morn,
What weary columns kept the road;
What herds of troubled cattle low'd,
And trumpeted like lifted horn;
And everywhere, or road or rest,
All things were pointing to the west;
A weary, long, and lonesome track,
And all led on, but one look'd back.
They climb'd the rock-built breasts of earth,
The Titan-fronted, blowy steeps
That cradled Time.... Where Freedom keeps
Her flag of white blown stars unfurl'd,
They turn'd about, they saw the birth
Of sudden dawn upon the world;
Again they gazed; they saw the face
Of God, and named it boundless space.
And they descended and did roam
Through levell'd distances set round
By room. They saw the Silences
Move by and beckon: saw the forms,
The very beards, of burly storms,
And heard them talk like sounding seas.
On unnamed heights bleak-blown and brown,
And torn like battlements of Mars,
They saw the darknesses come down,
Like curtains loosen'd from the dome
Of God's cathedral, built of stars.
They pitch'd the tent, where rivers run
As if to drown the falling sun.
They saw the snowy mountains roll'd,
And heaved along the nameless lands
Like mighty billows; saw the gold
Of awful sunsets; saw the blush
Of sudden dawn, and felt the hush
Of heaven when the day sat down,
And hid his face in dusky hands.
The long and lonesome nights! the tent
That nestled soft in sweep of grass,
The hills against the firmament
Where scarce the moving moon could pass;
The cautious camp, the smother'd light,
The silent sentinel at night!
The wild beasts howling from the hill;
The troubled cattle bellowing;
The savage prowling by the spring,
Then sudden passing swift and still,
And bended as a bow is bent.
The arrow sent; the arrow spent
And buried in its bloody place,
The dead man lying on his face!
The clouds of dust, their cloud by day;
Their pillar of unfailing fire
The far North star. And high, and higher....
They climb'd so high it seem'd eftsoon
That they must face the falling moon,
That like some flame-lit ruin lay
Thrown down before their weary way.
They learn'd to read the sign of storms,
The moon's wide circles, sunset bars,
And storm-provoking blood and flame;
And, like the Chaldean shepherds, came
At night to name the moving stars.
In heaven's face they pictured forms
Of beasts, of fishes of the sea.
They mark'd the Great Bear wearily
Rise up and drag his clinking chain
Of stars around the starry main.
What lines of yoked and patient steers!
What weary thousands pushing west!
What restless pilgrims seeking rest,
As if from out the edge of years!
What great yoked brutes with briskets low,
With wrinkled necks like buffalo,
With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes,
That turn'd so slow and sad to you,
That shone like love's eyes soft with tears,
That seem'd to plead, and make replies
The while they bow'd their necks and drew
The creaking load; and look'd at you.
Their sable briskets swept the ground,
Their cloven feet kept solemn sound.
Two sullen bullocks led the line,
Their great eyes shining bright like wine;
Two sullen captive kings were they,
That had in time held herds at bay,
And even now they crush'd the sod
With stolid sense of majesty,
And stately stepp'd and stately trod,
As if 'twas something still to be
Kings even in captivity.