Songs of the Mexican Seas Part 1

Songs of the Mexican Seas.

by Joaquin Miller.

TO ABBIE.

NOTE.--The lines in this little book, as in all my others, were written, or at least conceived, in the lands where the scenes are laid; so that whatever may be said of the imperfections of my work, I at least have the correct atmosphere and color. I have now and then sent forth from Mexico, and from remoter sh.o.r.es of the Gulf, fragments of these thoughts as they rounded into form, and some of them have been used at a Dartmouth College Commencement, and elsewhere; but as a whole the book is new.

From the heart of the Sierra, where I once more hear the awful heart-throbs of Nature, I now intrust the first reception of these lessons entirely to my own country. And may I not ask in return, now at the last, when the shadows begin to grow long, something of that consideration which, thus far, has been accorded almost entirely by strangers?

Joaquin Miller.

Mount Shasta, California, A.D. 1887.

SONGS OF THE MEXICAN SEAS.

THE SEA OF FIRE.

In that far land, farther than Yucatan, Hondurian height, or Mahogany steep, Where the great sea, hollowed by the hand of man Hears deep come calling across to deep; Where the great seas follow in the grooves of men Down under the bastions of Darien:

In that land so far that you wonder whether If G.o.d would know it should you fall down dead; In that land so far through the wilds and weather That the lost sun sinks like a warrior sped,-- Where the sea and the sky seem closing together, Seem closing together as a book that is read:

In that nude warm world, where the unnamed rivers Roll restless in cradles of bright buried gold; Where white flas.h.i.+ng mountains flow rivers of silver As a rock of the desert flowed fountains of old; By a dark wooded river that calls to the dawn, And calls all day with his dolorous swan:

In that land of the wonderful sun and weather, With green under foot and with gold over head, Where the spent sun flames, and you wonder whether 'Tis an isle of fire in his foamy bed: Where the oceans of earth shall be welded together By the great French master in his forge flame red,--

Lo! the half-finished world! Yon footfall retreating,-- It might be the Maker disturbed at his task.

But the footfall of G.o.d, or the far pheasant beating, It is one and the same, whatever the mask It may wear unto man. The woods keep repeating The old sacred sermons, whatever you ask.

The brown-muzzled cattle come stealthy to drink, The wild forest cattle, with high horns as trim As the elk at their side: their sleek necks are slim And alert like the deer. They come, then they shrink As afraid of their fellows, of shadow-beasts seen In the deeps of the dark-wooded waters of green.

It is man in his garden, scarce wakened as yet From the sleep that fell on him when woman was made.

The new-finished garden is plastic and wet From the hand that has fas.h.i.+oned its unpeopled shade; And the wonder still looks from the fair woman's eyes As she s.h.i.+nes through the wood like the light from the skies.

And a s.h.i.+p now and then from some far Ophir's sh.o.r.e Draws in from the sea. It lies close to the bank; Then a dull, m.u.f.fled sound of the slow-shuffled plank As they load the black s.h.i.+p; but you hear nothing more, And the dark dewy vines, and the tall sombre wood Like twilight droop over the deep sweeping flood.

The black masts are tangled with branches that cross, The rich, fragrant gums fall from branches to deck, The thin ropes are swinging with streamers of moss That mantle all things like the shreds of a wreck; The long mosses swing, there is never a breath: The river rolls still as the river of death.

I.

In the beginning,--ay, before The six-days' labors were well o'er; Yea, while the world lay incomplete, Ere G.o.d had opened quite the door Of this strange land for strong men's feet,-- There lay against that westmost sea One weird-wild land of mystery.

A far white wall, like fallen moon, Girt out the world. The forest lay So deep you scarcely saw the day, Save in the high-held middle noon: It lay a land of sleep and dreams, And clouds drew through like sh.o.r.eless streams That stretch to where no man may say.

Men reached it only from the sea, By black-built s.h.i.+ps, that seemed to creep Along the sh.o.r.e suspiciously, Like unnamed monsters of the deep.

It was the weirdest land, I ween, That mortal eye has ever seen:

A dim, dark land of bird and beast, Black s.h.a.ggy beasts with cloven claw,-- A land that scarce knew prayer or priest, Or law of man, or Nature's law; Where no fixed line drew sharp dispute 'Twixt savage man and silent brute.

II.

It hath a history most fit For cunning hand to fas.h.i.+on on; No chronicler hath mentioned it; No buccaneer set foot upon.

'Tis of an outlawed Spanish Don,-- A cruel man, with pirate's gold That loaded down his deep s.h.i.+p's hold.

A deep s.h.i.+p's hold of plundered gold!

The golden cruise, the golden cross, From many a church of Mexico, From Panama's mad overthrow, From many a ransomed city's loss, From many a follower stanch and bold, And many a foeman stark and cold.

He found this wild, lost land. He drew His s.h.i.+p to sh.o.r.e. His ruthless crew, Like Romulus, laid lawless hand On meek brown maidens of the land, And in their b.l.o.o.d.y forays bore Red firebrands along the sh.o.r.e.

III.

The red men rose at night. They came, A firm, unflinching wall of flame; They swept, as sweeps some fateful sea O'er land of sand and level sh.o.r.e That howls in far, fierce agony.

The red men swept that deep, dark sh.o.r.e As threshers sweep a thres.h.i.+ng-floor.

And yet beside the slain Don's door They left his daughter, as they fled: They spared her life, because she bore Their Chieftain's blood and name. The red And blood-stained hidden h.o.a.rds of gold They hollowed from the stout s.h.i.+p's hold, And bore in many a slim canoe-- To where? The good priest only knew.

IV.

The course of life is like the sea: Men come and go; tides rise and fall; And that is all of history.

The tide flows in, flows out to-day,-- And that is all that man may say; Man is, man was,--and that is all.

Revenge at last came like a tide,-- 'Twas sweeping, deep, and terrible; The Christian found the land, and came To take possession in Christ's name.

For every white man that had died I think a thousand red men fell,-- A Christian custom; and the land Lay lifeless as some burned-out brand.

V.

Ere while the slain Don's daughter grew A glorious thing, a flower of spring, A lithe slim reed, a sun-loved weed, A something more than mortal knew; A mystery of grace and face,-- A silent mystery that stood An empress in that sea-set wood, Supreme, imperial in her place.

It might have been men's l.u.s.t for gold,-- For all men knew that lawless crew Left h.o.a.rds of gold in that s.h.i.+p's hold, That drew s.h.i.+ps hence, and silent drew Strange Jasons to that steep wood sh.o.r.e, As if to seek that hidden store,-- I never either cared or knew.

I say it might have been this gold That ever drew and strangely drew Strong men of land, strange men of sea, To seek this sh.o.r.e of mystery With all its wondrous tales untold: The gold or her, which of the two?

It matters not; I never knew.

But this I know, that as for me, Between that face and the hard fate That kept me ever from my own, As some wronged monarch from his throne, G.o.d's heaped-up gold of land or sea Had never weighed one feather's weight.