XLIV.
Perchance there was a strength in death;
The scene it seem'd to nerve the man
To superhuman strength. He rose,
Held up his head, began to scan
The heavens and to take his breath
Right strong and lustily. He now
Resumed his load, and with his eye
Fixed on a star that filtered through
The farther west, pushed bare his brow,
And kept his course with head held high,
As if he strode his deck and drew
His keel below some lifted light
That watched the rocky reef at night.
How lone he was, how patient she,
It were a sad, unpleasant sight
To follow them through all the night,
Until the time they lifted hand,
And touched at last a watered land.
The turkeys walked the tangled grass,
And scarcely turned to let them pass.
There was no sign of man, or sign
Of savage beast. 'Twas so divine,
It seem'd as if the bended skies
Were rounded for this Paradise.
The large-eyed antelope came down
From off their windy hills, and blew
Their whistles as they wandered through
The open groves of watered wood;
Then came as light as if a-wing,
And reached their noses wet and brown,
And stamped their little feet, and stood
Close up before them wondering.
What if this were the Eden true,
They found in far heart of the new
And unnamed westmost world I sing,
Where date and history had birth,
And man first 'gan his wandering
To go the girdles of the earth!
It lies a little isle mid land,
An island in a sea of sand;
With reedy waters and the balm
Of an eternal summer air.
Some blowy pines toss tall and fair;
And there are grasses long and strong,
And tropic fruits that never fail:
The Manzinetta pulp, the palm,
The prickly pear, with all the song
Of summer birds.
And there the quail
Makes nest, and you may hear her call
All day from out the chaparral.
A land where white man never trod,
And Morgan seems some demi-god,
That haunts the red man's spirit land.
A land where never red man's hand
Is lifted up in strife at all.
He holds it sacred unto those
Who bravely fell before their foes,
And rarely dares its desert wall.
Here breaks nor sound of strife or sign;
Rare times a red man comes this way,
Alone, and battle-scarred and gray,
And then he bends devout before
The maid who keeps the cabin door,
And deems her sacred and divine.
Within the island's heart, 'tis said,
Tall trees are bending down with bread,
And that a fountain pure as truth,
And deep and mossy bound and fair,
Is bubbling from the forest there,—
Perchance the fabled fount of youth!
An isle where never cares betide;
Where solitude comes not, and where
The soul is ever satisfied.
An isle where skies are ever fair,
Where men keep never date nor day,
Where Time has thrown his glass away.
This isle is all their own. No more
The flight by day, the watch by night.
Dark Ina twines about the door
The scarlet blooms, the blossoms white,
And winds red berries in her hair,
And never knows the name of care.
She has a thousand birds; they blow
In rainbow clouds, in clouds of snow;
The birds take berries from her hand;
They come and go at her command.
She has a thousand pretty birds,
That sing her summer songs all day;
Small black-hoofed antelope in herds,
And squirrels bushy-tail'd and gray,
With round and sparkling eyes of pink,
And cunning-faced as you can think.
She has a thousand busy birds;
And is she happy in her isle,
With all her feathered friends and herds?
For when has Morgan seen her smile?
She has a thousand cunning birds,
They would build nestings in her hair;
She has brown antelope in herds;
She never knows the name of care;
Why then is she not happy there?
All patiently she bears her part;
She has a thousand birdlings there,
These birds they would build in her hair;
But not one bird builds in her heart.
She has a thousand birds; yet she
Would give ten thousand cheerfully,
All bright of plume and loud of tongue,
And sweet as ever trilled or sung,
For one small fluttered bird to come
And sit within her heart, though dumb.
She has a thousand birds; yet one
Is lost, and, lo! she is undone.
She sighs sometimes. She looks away,
And yet she does not weep or say.
She has a thousand birds. The skies
Are fashioned for her paradise;
A very queen of fairy land,
With all earth's fruitage at command,
And yet she does not lift her eyes.
She sits upon the water's brink
As mournful soul'd as you can think.
She has a thousand birds; and yet
She will look downward, nor forget
The fluttered white-winged turtle dove,
The changeful-throated birdling, love,
That came, that sang through tropic trees,
Then flew for aye across the seas.
The waters kiss her feet; above
Her head the trees are blossoming,
And fragrant with eternal spring.
Her birds, her antelope are there,
Her birds they would build in her hair;
She only waits her birdling, love.
She turns, she looks along the plain,
Imploring love to come again.
Cambridge: Press of John Wilson & Son.