XXXII.
The sun roll'd on. Lo! hills uprose
As push'd against the arching skies,—
As if to meet the timid sun—
Rose sharp from out the sultry dun,
Set well with wood, and brier, and rose,
And seem'd to hold the free repose
Of lands where rocky summits rise,
Or unfenced fields of Paradise.
The black men look'd up from the sands
Against the dim, uncertain skies,
As men that disbelieved their eyes,
And would have laugh'd; they wept instead,
With shoulders heaved, with bowing head
Hid down between their two black hands.
They stood and gazed. Lo! like the call
Of spring-time promises, the trees
Lean'd from their lifted mountain wall,
And stood clear cut against the skies
As if they grew in pistol-shot.
Yet all the mountains answer'd not,
And yet there came no cooling breeze,
Nor soothing sense of windy trees.
At last old Morgan, looking through
His shaded fingers, let them go,
And let his load fall down as dead.
He groan'd, he clutch'd his beard of snow
As was his wont, then bowing low,
Took up his life, and moaning said,
"Lord Christ! 'tis the mirage, and we
Stand blinded in a burning sea."
O sweet deceit when minds despair!
O mother Nature, thou art fair,
But thou art false as man or maid.
Yea, many lessons, mother Earth,
Have we thy children learn'd of thee
In sweet deceit.... The sudden birth
Of hope that dies mocks destiny.
O mother Earth, thy promises
Are fallen leaves; they lie forgot!
Such lessons! How could we learn less?
We are but children, blame us not.