Part 2

Roar of the multitude, Chafe of the million-crowd, To this you are all subdued In the murmurous, sad night-air! Yet whether you thunder aloud, Or hush your tone to a prayer, You chant amain through the modern maze The only epic of our days.

Still as death are the places of life; The city seems crumbled and gone, Sunk 'mid invisible deeps-- The city so lately rife With the stir of brain and brawn. Haply it only sleeps; But what if indeed it were dead, And another earth should arise To greet the gray of the dawn? Faint then our epic would wail To those who should come in our stead. But what if that earth were ours? What if, with holier eyes, We should meet the new hope, and not fail?

Weary, the night grows pale: With a blush as of opening flowers Dimly the east shines red. Can it be that the morn shall fulfil My dream, and refashion our clay As the poet may fashion his rhyme? Hark to that mingled scream Rising from workshop and mill-- Hailing some marvelous sight; Mighty breath of the hours, Poured through the trumpets of steam; Awful tornado of time, Blowing us whither it will!

God has breathed in the nostrils of night, And behold, it is day!

THE SONG-SPARROW

Glimmers gray the leafless thicket Close beside my garden gate, Where, so light, from post to picket Hops the sparrow, blithe, sedate; Who, with meekly folded wing, Comes to sun himself and sing.

It was there, perhaps, last year, That his little house he built; For he seems to perk and peer, And to twitter, too, and tilt The bare branches in between, With a fond, familiar mien.

Once, I know, there was a nest, Held there by the sideward thrust Of those twigs that touch his breast; Though 'tis gone now. Some rude gust Caught it, over-full of snow,-- Bent the bush,--and stole it so.

Thus our highest holds are lost, In the ruthless winter's wind, When, with swift-dismantling frost, The green woods we dwelt in, thinn'd Of their leafage, grow too cold For frail hopes of summer's mold.

But if we, with spring-days mellow, Wake to woeful wrecks of change, And the sparrow's ritornello Scaling still its old sweet range; Can we do a better thing Than, with him, still build and sing?

Oh, my sparrow, thou dost breed Thought in me beyond all telling; Shootest through me sunlight, seed, And fruitful blessing, with that welling Ripple of ecstatic rest Gurgling ever from thy breast!

And thy breezy carol spurs Vital motion in my blood, Such as in the sap-wood stirs, Swells and shapes the pointed bud Of the lilac; and besets The hollow thick with violets.

Yet I know not any charm That can make the fleeting time Of thy sylvan, faint alarm Suit itself to human rhyme: And my yearning rhythmic word Does thee grievous wrong, blithe bird.

So, however thou hast wrought This wild joy on heart and brain, It is better left untaught. Take thou up the song again: There is nothing sad afloat On the tide that swells thy throat!

I LOVED YOU, ONCE--

And did you think my heart Could keep its love unchanging, Fresh as the buds that start In spring, nor know estranging? Listen! The buds depart: I loved you once, but now-- I love you more than ever.

'T is not the early love; With day and night it alters, And onward still must move Like earth, that never falters For storm or star above. I loved you once; but now-- I love you more than ever.

With gifts in those glad days How eagerly I sought you! Youth, shining hope, and praise: These were the gifts I brought you. In this world little stays: I loved you once, but now-- I love you more than ever.

A child with glorious eyes Here in our arms half sleeping-- So passion wakeful lies; Then grows to manhood, keeping Its wistful, young surprise: I loved you once, but now-- I love you more than ever.

When age's pinching air Strips summer's rich possession, And leaves the branches bare, My secret in confession Still thus with you I'll share: I loved you once, but now-- I love you more than ever.

II

THE BRIDE OF WAR

(ARNOLD'S MARCH TO CANADA, 1775)

I

The trumpet, with a giant sound, Its harsh war-summons wildly sings; And, bursting forth like mountain-springs, Poured from the hillside camping-ground, Each swift battalion shouting flings Its force in line; where you may see The men, broad-shouldered, heavily Sway to the swing of the march; their heads Dark like the stones in river-beds.

Lightly the autumn breezes Play with the shining dust-cloud Rising to the sunset rays From feet of the moving column. Soft, as you listen, comes The echo of iterant drums, Brought by the breezes light From the files that follow the road. A moment their guns have glowed Sun-smitten: then out of sight They suddenly sink, Like men who touch a new grave's brink!

II

So it was the march began, The march of Morgan's riflemen, Who like iron held the van In unhappy Arnold's plan To win Wolfe's daring fame again. With them, by her husband's side, Jemima Warner, nobly free, Moved more fair than when, a bride, One year since, she strove to hide The blush it was a joy to see.

III

O distant, terrible forests of Maine, With huge trees numberless as the rain That falls on your lonely lakes! (It falls and sings through the years, but wakes No answering echo of joy or pain.)

Your tangled wilderness was tracked With struggle and sorrow and vengeful act 'Gainst Puritan, pagan, and priest. Where wolf and panther and serpent ceased, Man added the horrors your dark maze lacked.

The land was scarred with deeds not good, Like the fretting of worms on withered wood. What if its venomous spell Breathed into Arnold a prompting of Hell, With slow empoisoning force indued?

IV

As through that dreary realm he went, Followed a shape of dark portent:-- Pard-like, of furtive eye, with brain To treason narrowing, Aaron Burr, Moved loyal-seeming in the train, Led by the arch-conspirator. And craven Enos closed the rear, Whose honor's flame died out in fear. Not sooner does the dry bough burn And into fruitless ashes turn, Than he with whispered, false command Drew back the hundreds in his hand; Fled like a shade; and all forsook.

Wherever Arnold bent his look, Danger and doubt around him hung; And pale Disaster, shrouded, flung Black omens in his track, as though The fingers of a future woe Already clutched his life, to wring Some expiation for the thing That he was yet to do. A chill Struck helpless many a steadfast will Within the ranks; the very air Rang with a thunder-toned despair: The hills seemed wandering to and fro, Like lost guides blinded by the snow.

V

Yet faithful still 'mid woe and doubt One woman's loyal heart--whose pain Filled it with pure celestial light-- Shone starry-constant like the North, Or that still radiance beaming forth From sacred lights in some lone fane. But he whose ring Jemima wore, By want and weariness all unstrung, Though strong and honest of heart and young, Shrank at the blast that pierced so frore-- Like a huge, invisible bird of prey Furious launched from Labrador And the granite cliffs of Saguenay!

Along the bleak Dead River's banks They forced amain their frozen way; But ever from the thinning ranks Shapes of ice would reel and fall, Human shapes, whose dying prayer Floated, a mute white mist, in air; The crowding snow their pall.

Spectre-like Famine drew near; Her doom-word hummed in his ear: Ah, weak were woman's hands to reach And save him from the hellish charms And wizard motion of those arms! Yet only noble womanhood The wife her dauntless part could teach: She shared with him the last dry food And thronged with hopefulness her speech, As when hard by her home the flood Of rushing Conestoga fills Its depth afresh from springtide rills!

All, all in vain! For far behind the invading rout These two were left alone; And in the waste their wildest shout Seemed but a smothered groan. Like sheeted wanderers from the grave They moved, and yet seemed not to stir, As icy gorge and sere-leaf'd grove Of withered oak and shrouded fir Were passed, and onward still they strove; While the loud wind's artillery clave The air, and furious sleety rain Swung like a sword above the plain!

VI

They crossed the hills; they came to where Through an arid gloom the river Chaudiere Fled like a Maenad with outstreaming hair; And there the soldier sank, and died. Death-dumb he fell; yet ere life sped, Child-like on her knee he laid his head. She strove to pray; but all words fled Save those their love had sanctified.

And then her voice rose waveringly To the notes of a mother's lullaby; But her song was only "Ah, must thou die?" And to her his eyes death-still replied.

VII

Dead leaves and stricken boughs She heaped o'er the fallen form-- Wolf nor hawk nor lawless storm Him from his rest should rouse; But first, with solemn vows, Took rifle, pouch, and horn, And the belt that he had worn. Then, onward pressing fast Through the forest rude and vast, Hunger-wasted, fever-parch'd, Many bitter days she marched With bleeding feet that spurned the flinty pain; One thought always throbbing through her brain: "They shall never say, 'He was afraid,'-- They shall never cry, 'The coward stayed!'"

VIII

Now the wilderness is passed; Now the first hut reached, at last.

Ho, dwellers by the frontier trail, Come forth and greet the bride of war! From cabin and rough settlement They come to speed her on her way-- Maidens, whose ruddy cheeks grow pale With pity never felt before; Children that cluster at the door; Mothers, whose toil-worn hands are lent To help, or bid her longer stay. But through them all she passes on, Strangely martial, fair and wan; Nor waits to listen to their cheers That sound so faintly in her ears. For now all scenes around her shift, Like those before a racer's eyes When, foremost sped and madly swift, Quick stretching toward the goal he flies, Yet feels his strength wane with his breath, And purpose fail 'mid fears of death,--

Till, like the flashing of a lamp, Starts forth the sight of Arnold's camp,-- The bivouac flame, and sinuous gleam Of steel,--where, crouched, the army waits, Ere long, beyond the midnight stream, To storm Quebec's ice-mounded gates.

IX

Then to the leader she was brought, And spoke her simply loyal thought. If, 'mid the shame of after-days, The man who wronged his country's trust (Yet now in worth outweighed all praise) Remembered what this woman wrought, It should have bowed him to the dust! "Humbly my soldier-husband tried To do his part. He served,--and died. But honor did not die. His name And honor--bringing both, I came; And this his rifle, here, to show, While far away the tired heart sleeps, To-day his faith with you he keeps!"

Proudly the war bride, ending so, Sank breathless in the dumb white snow.

A RUNE OF THE RAIN

O many-toned rain! O myriad sweet voices of the rain! How welcome is its delicate overture At evening, when the moist and glowing west Seals all things with cool promise of night's rest.

At first it would allure The earth to kinder mood, With dainty flattering Of soft, sweet pattering: Faintly now you hear the tramp Of the fine drops, falling damp On the dry, sun-seasoned ground And the thirsty leaves, resound. But anon, imbued With a sudden, bounding access Of passion, it relaxes All timider persuasion. And, with nor pretext nor occasion, Its wooing redoubles; And pounds the ground, and bubbles In sputtering spray, Flinging itself in a fury Of flashing white away; Till the dusty road, Dank-perfumed, is o'erflowed; And the grass, and the wide-hung trees, The vines, the flowers in their beds,-- The virid corn that to the breeze Rustles along the garden-rows,-- Visibly lift their heads, And, as the quick shower wilder grows, Upleap with answering kisses to the rain.

Then, the slow and pleasant murmur Of its subsiding, As the pulse of the storm beats firmer, And the steady rain Drops into a cadenced chiding! Deep-breathing rain, The sad and ghostly noise Wherewith thou dost complain--- Thy plaintive, spiritual voice, Heard thus at close of day Through vaults of twilight gray-- Vexes me with sweet pain; And still my soul is fain To know the secret of that yearning Which in thine utterance I hear returning. Hush, oh hush! Break not the dreamy rush Of the rain: Touch not the marring doubt Words bring to the certainty Of its soft refrain; But let the flying fringes flout Their drops against the pane, And the gurgling throat of the water-spout Groan in the eaves amain.

The earth is wedded to the shower; Darkness and awe gird round the bridal hour!

II

O many-toned rain! It hath caught the strain Of a wilder tune, Ere the same night's noon, When dreams and sleep forsake me, And sudden dread doth wake me, To hear the booming drums of heaven beat The long roll to battle; when the knotted cloud, With an echoing loud, Bursts asunder At the sudden resurrection of the thunder; And the fountains of the air, Unsealed again, sweep, ruining, everywhere, To wrap the world in a watery winding-sheet.

III

O myriad sweet voices of the rain! When the airy war doth wane, And the storm to the east hath flown, Cloaked close in the whirling wind, There's a voice still left behind In each heavy-hearted tree, Charged with tearful memory Of the vanished rain: From their leafy lashes wet Drip the dews of fresh regret For the lover that's gone! All else is still; Yet the stars are listening, And low o'er the wooded hill Hangs, upon listless wing Outspread, a shape of damp, blue cloud, Watching, like a bird of evil That knows nor mercy nor reprieval, The slow and silent death of the pallid moon.

IV

But soon, returning duly, Dawn whitens the wet hilltops bluely. To her vision pure and cold The night's wild tale is told On the glistening leaf, in the mid-road pool, The garden mold turned dark and cool, And the meadows' trampled acres. But hark, how fresh the song of the winged music-makers! For now the moanings bitter, Left by the rain, make harmony With the swallow's matin-twitter, And the robin's note, like the wind's in a tree. The infant morning breathes sweet breath, And with it is blent The wistful, wild, moist scent Of the grass in the marsh which the sea nourisheth: And behold! The last reluctant drop of the storm, Wrung from the roof, is smitten warm And turned to gold; For in its veins doth run The very blood of the bold, unsullied sun!

BREAKERS

Far out at sea there has been a storm, And still, as they roll their liquid acres, High-heaped the billows lower and glisten. The air is laden, moist, and warm With the dying tempest's breath; And, as I walk the lonely strand With sea-weed strewn, my forehead fanned By wet salt-winds, I watch the breakers, Furious sporting, tossed and tumbling, Shatter here with a dreadful rumbling-- Watch, and muse, and vainly listen To the inarticulate mumbling Of the hoary-headed deep; For who may tell me what it saith, Muttering, moaning as in sleep?

Slowly and heavily Comes in the sea, With memories of storm o'erfreighted, With heaving heart and breath abated, Pregnant with some mysterious, endless sorrow, And seamed with many a gaping, sighing furrow.

Slowly and heavily Grows the green water-mound; But drawing ever nigher, Towering ever higher, Swollen with an inward rage Naught but ruin can assuage, Swift, now, without sound, Creeps stealthily Up to the shore-- Creeps, creeps and undulates; As one dissimulates Till, swayed by hateful frenzy, Through passion grown immense, he Bursts forth hostilely; And rising, a smooth billow-- Its swelling, sunlit dome Thinned to a tumid ledge With keen, curved edge Like the scornful curl Of lips that snarl-- O'ertops itself and breaks Into a raving foam; So springs upon the shore With a hungry roar; Its first fierce anger slakes On the stony shallow; And runs up on the land, Licking the smooth, hard sand, Relentless, cold, yet wroth; And dies in savage froth.

Then with its backward swirl The sands and the stones, how they whirl! O, fiercely doth it draw Them to its chasm'd maw, And against it in vain They linger and strain; And as they slip away Into the seething gray Fill all the thunderous air With the horror of their despair, And their wild terror wreak In one hoarse, wailing shriek.

But scarce is this done, When another one Falls like the bolt from a bellowing gun, And sucks away the shore As that did before: And another shall smother it o'er.

Then there's a lull--a half-hush; And forward the little waves rush, Toppling and hurrying, Each other worrying, And in their haste Run to waste.

Yet again is heard the trample Of the surges high and ample: Their dreadful meeting-- The wild and sudden breaking-- The dinting, and battering, and beating, And swift forsaking.

And ever they burst and boom, A numberless host; Like heralds of doom To the trembling coast; And ever the tangled spray Is tossed from the fierce affray, And, as with spectral arms That taunt and beckon and mock, And scatter vague alarms, Clasps and unclasps the rock; Listlessly over it wanders; Moodily, madly maunders, And hissingly falls From the glistening walls.

So all day along the shore Shout the breakers, green and hoar, Weaving out their weird tune; Till at night the full moon Weds the dark with that ring Of gold that you see her fling On the misty air. Then homeward slow returning To slumbers deep I fare, Filled with an infinite yearning, With thoughts that rise and fall To the sound of the sea's hollow call, Breathed now from white-lit waves that reach Cold fingers o'er the damp, dark beach, To scatter a spray on my dreams; Till the slow and measured rote Brings a drowsy ease To my spirit, and seems To set it soothingly afloat On broad and buoyant seas Of endless rest, lulled by the dirge Of the melancholy surge.

BLACKMOUTH, OF COLORADO

"Who is Blackmouth?" Well, that's hard to say. Mebbe he might ha' told you, 't other day, If you'd been here. Now,--he's gone away. Come to think on, 't wouldn't ha' been no use If you'd called here earlier. His excuse Always was, whenever folks would ask him Where he hailed from, an' _would_ tease an' task him;-- What d' you s'pose? He just said, "I don' know."

That was truth. He came here long ago; But, before that, he'd been born somewhere: The conundrum started first, right there. Little shaver--afore he knew his name Or the place from whereabouts he came-- On a wagon-train the Apaches caught him. Killed the old folks! But this cus'--they brought him Safe away from fire an' knife an' arrows. So'thin' 'bout him must have touched their marrows: They was merciful;--treated him real good; Brought him up to man's age well's they could. Now, d' you b'lieve me, that there likely lad, For all they used him so, went to the bad: Leastways left the red men, that he knew, 'N' come to look for folks like me an' you;-- Goldarned white folks that he never saw. Queerest thing was--though he loved a squaw, 'T was on her account he planned escape; Shook the Apaches, an' took up red tape With the U. S. gov'ment arter a while; Tho' they do say gov'ment may be vile, Mean an' treacherous an' deceivin'. Well, _I_ ain't sayin' our gov'ment is a sell.

Bocanegra--Spanish term--I've heard Stands for "Blackmouth." Now this curious bird, Known as Bocanegra, gave his life Most for others. First, he saved his wife; Her I spoke of;--nothin' but a squaw. You might wonder by what sort of law He, a white man born, should come to love her. But 't was somehow so: he _did_ discover Beauty in her, of the holding kind. Some men love the light, an' some the shade. Round that little Indian girl there played Soft an' shadowy tremblings, like the dark Under trees; yet now an' then a spark, Quick 's a firefly, flashing from her eyes, Made you think of summer-midnight skies. She was faithful, too, like midnight stars. As for Blackmouth, if you'd seen the scars Made by wounds he suffered for her sake, You'd have called _him_ true, and no mistake.

Growin' up a man, he scarcely met Other white folks; an' his heart was set On this red girl. Yet he said: "We'll wait. You must never be my wedded mate Till we reach the white man's country. There, Everything that's done is fair and square." Patiently they stayed, thro' trust or doubt, Till tow'rds Colorado he could scout Some safe track. He told her: "You go first. All my joy goes with you:--that's the worst! But _I_ wait, to guard or hide the trail."

Indians caught him; an' they gave him--hail; Cut an' tortured him, till he was bleeding; Yet they found that still they weren't succeeding. "Where's that squaw?" they asked. "We'll have her blood! Either that, or grind you into mud; Pick your eyes out, too, if you can't see Where she's gone to. Which, now, shall it be? Tell us where she's hid."

"I'll show the way," Blackmouth says; an' leads toward dawn of day, Till they come straight out beside the brink Of a precipice that seems to sink Into everlasting gulfs below. "Loose me!" Blackmouth tells 'em. "But go slow." Then they loosed him; and, with one swift leap, Blackmouth swooped right down into the deep;-- Jumped out into space beyond the edge, While the Apaches cowered along the ledge. Seven hundred feet, they say. That's guff! Seventy foot, I tell you, 's 'bout enough. Indians called him a dead antelope; But they couldn't touch the bramble-slope Where he, bruised and stabbed, crawled under brush. _Their_ hand was beat hollow: _he_ held a flush.

Day and night he limped or crawled along: Winds blew hot, yet sang to him a song (So he told me, once) that gave him hope. Every time he saw a shadow grope Down the hillsides, from a flying cloud, Something touched his heart that made him proud: Seemed to him he saw her dusky face Watching over him, from place to place. Every time the dry leaves rustled near, Seemed to him she whispered, "Have no fear!"

So at last he found her:--they were married. But, from those days on, he always carried Marks of madness; actually--yes!-- Trusted the good faith of these U. S.

Indian hate an' deviltry he braved; 'N' scores an' scores of white men's lives he saved. Just for that, his name should be engraved. But it won't be! U. S. gov'ment dreads Men who're taller 'n politicians' heads.