Read Ebook: The Ship in the Desert by Miller Joaquin

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Ebook has 597 lines and 39874 words, and 12 pages

O sounding, swift Missouri, born Of Rocky Mountains, and begot On bed of snow at birth of morn, Of thunder-storms and elements That reign where puny man comes not, With fountain-head in fields of gold, And wide arms twining wood and wold, And everlasting snowy tents,-- I hail you from the Orients.

Shall I return to you once more? Shall take occasion by the throat And thrill with wild AEolian note? Shall sit and sing by your deep shore? Shall shape a reed and pipe of yore And wake old melodies made new, And thrill thine leaf-land through and through?

Then long the long oars idle lay. The cabin's smoke came forth and curl'd Right lazily from river brake, And Time went by the other way. And who was she, the strong man's pride? This one fair woman of the world. A captive? Bride, or not a bride? Her eyes, men say, grew sad and dim With watching from the river's rim, As waiting for some face denied. And yet she never wept or spake, Or breath'd his name for her love's sake.

Yea, who was she?--none ever knew. The great strong river swept around, The cabins nestled in its bend, But kept its secrets. Wild birds flew In bevies by. The black men found Diversion in the chase: and wide Old Morgan ranged the wood, nor friend, Nor foeman ever at his side Or shared his forests deep and dim, Or cross'd his path or question'd him.

He stood as one who found and named The middle world. What visions flamed Athwart the west! What prophecies Were his, the gray old man, that day Who stood alone and look'd away,-- Awest from out the waving trees, Against the utter sundown seas.

Alone oft-time beside the stream He stood and gazed as in a dream, As if he knew a life unknown To those who knew him thus alone.

And whence came he? and when, and why? Men question'd men, but nought was known Save that he roam'd the woods alone, And lived alone beneath the stir Of leaves, and letting life go by, Did look on her and only her.

And had he fled with bloody hand? Or had he loved some Helen fair, And battling lost both land and town? Say, did he see his walls go down, Then choose from all his treasures there This love, and seek some other land?

And yet the current of his life Mostlike had flow'd like oil; had been A monk's, for aught that all men knew. Mostlike the sad man's only sin, A cruel one, for thought is strife, Had been the curse of thought all through.

Mayhap his splendid soul had spurn'd Insipid, sweet society, That stinks in nostrils of all men High-born and fearless-souled and free;-- That tasting to satiety Her hollow sweets he proudly turn'd, And did rebel and curse her then; And then did stoop and from the sod Pluck this one flower for his breast, Then turn to solitude for rest, And turn from man in search of God.

And as to that, I reckon it But right, but Christian-like and just, And closer after Christ's own plan, To take men as you find your man, To take a soul from God on trust, A fit man, or yourself unfit:

To take man free from the control Of man's opinion: take a soul In its own troubled world, all fair As you behold it then and there, Set naked in your sight, alone, Unnamed, unheralded, unknown:

Yea, take him bravely from the hand That reach'd him forth from nothingness, That took his tired soul to keep All night, then reach'd him out from sleep And sat him equal in the land; Sent out from where the angels are, A soul new-born, without one whit Of bought or borrow'd character.

Ah, bless us! if we only could As ready spin and willing weave Sweet tales of charity and good; Could we as willing clip the wings Of cruel tales as pleasant things, How sweet 'twould then be to believe, How good 'twould then be to be good.

Then frosts came by and touch'd the leaves, Then time hung ices on the eaves, Then cushion snows possess'd the ground, And so the seasons kept their round; Yet still old Morgan went and came From cabin door to forest dim, Through wold of snows, through wood of flame, Through golden Indian-summer days, Hung round in soft September haze, And no man cross'd or question'd him.

Nay, there was that in his stern air That held e'en these rude men aloof: None came to share the broad-built roof That rose so fortress-like beside The angry, rushing, sullen tide, And only black men gather'd there, The old man's slaves, in dull content, Black, silent, and obedient.

Then men push'd westward through his wood, His wild beasts fled, and now he stood Confronting men. He had endear'd No man, but still he went and came Apart, and shook his beard and strode His ways alone, and bore his load, If load it were, apart, alone. Then men grew busy with a name That no man loved, that many fear'd, And cowards stoop'd, and cast a stone, As at some statue overthrown.

Some said a pirate blown by night From isles of calm Caribbean land, Who left his comrades; that he fled With many prices on his head, And that he bore in his hot flight The gather'd treasure of his band, In bloody and unholy hand.

Then some did say a privateer, Then others, that he fled from fear, And climb'd the mad Missouri far, To where the friendly forests are; And that his illy-gotten gold Lay sunken in his black boat's hold. Then others, watching his fair bride, Said, "There is something more beside."

Some said, a stolen bride was she, And that his strong arm in the strife Was red with her own brother's life, And that her lover from the sea Lay waiting for his chosen wife, And that a day of reckoning Lay waiting for this grizzled king.

O sweet child-face, that ever gazed From out the wood and down the wave! O eyes, that never once were raised! O mouth, that never murmur gave!

O dark-eyed Ina! All the years Brought her but solitude and tears. Lo! ever looking out she stood Adown the wave, adown the wood, Adown the strong stream to the south, Sad-faced, and sorrowful. Her mouth Push'd out so pitiful. Her eyes Fill'd full of sorrow and surprise.

Men say that looking from her place A love would sometimes light her face, As if sweet recollections stirr'd Her heart and broke its loneliness, Like far sweet songs that come to us, So soft, so sweet, they are not heard, So far, so faint, they fill the air, A fragrance filling anywhere.

And wasting all her summer years That utter'd only through her tears, The seasons went, and still she stood For ever watching down the wood.

Yet in her heart there held a strife With all this wasting of sweet life That none who have not lived and died, Held up the two hands crucified Between the ways on either hand, Can look upon or understand.

The blackest rain-clouds muffle fire: Between a duty and desire There lies no middle way or land: Take thou the right or the left hand, And so pursue, nor hesitate To boldly give your hand to fate.

In helpless indecisions lie The rocks on which we strike and die. 'Twere better far to choose the worst Of all life's ways than to be cursed With indecision. Turn and choose Your way, then all the world refuse.

And what her thought? her life unsaid? Was it of love? of hate? of him, The tall, dark Southerner? Her head Bow'd down. The day fell dim Upon her eyes. She bow'd, she slept. She waken'd then, and waking wept.

She dream'd, perchance, of island home, A land of palms ring'd round with foam, Where summer on her shelly shore Sits down and rests for evermore.

And one who watch'd her wasted youth Did guess, mayhap with much of truth, Her heart was with that band that came Against her isle with sword and flame: And this the tale he told of her And her fierce, silent follower:

A Spaniard and adventurer, A man who saw her, loved, and fell Upon his knees and worshipp'd her; And with that fervor and mad zeal That only sunborn bosoms feel, Did vow to love, to follow her Unto the altar ... or to hell:

That then her gray-hair'd father bore The beauteous maiden hurriedly From out her fair isle of the sea To sombre wold and woody shore And far away, and kept her well, As from a habitant of hell, And vow'd she should not meet him more: That fearing still the buccaneer, He silent kept his forests here. The while men came, and still she stood For ever watching from the wood.

The black-eyed bushy squirrels ran Like shadows shatter'd through the boughs; The gallant robin chirp'd his vows, The far-off pheasant thrumm'd his fan, A thousand blackbirds were a-wing In walnut-top, and it was spring.

Old Morgan left his cabin door, And one sat watching as of yore; But why turned Morgan's face as white As his white beard? A bird aflight, A squirrel peering through the trees, Saw some one silent steal away Like darkness from the face of day, Saw two black eyes look back, and these Saw her hand beckon through the trees.

He knew him, though he had not seen That form or face for a decade, Though time had shorn his locks, had made His form another's, flow'd between Their lives like some uncompass'd sea, Yet still he knew him as before. He pursed his lips, and silently He turn'd and sought his cabin's door.

Ay! they have come, the sun-brown'd men, To beard old Morgan in his den. It matters little who they are, These silent men from isles afar, And truly no one cares or knows What be their merit or demand; It is enough for this rude land-- At least, it is enough for those, The loud of tongue and rude of hand-- To know that they are Morgan's foes.

Proud Morgan! More than tongue can tell He loved that woman watching there, That stood in her dark stream of hair, That stood and dream'd as in a spell, And look'd so fix'd and far away. And who, that loveth woman well, Is wholly bad? be who he may.

Ay! we have seen these Southern men, These sun-brown'd men from island shore, In this same land, and long before. They do not seem so lithe as then, They do not look so tall, and they Seem not so many as of old. But that same resolute and bold Expression of unbridled will, That even Time must half obey, Is with them and is of them still.

They do not counsel the decree Of court or council, where they drew Their breath, nor law nor order knew, Save but the strong hand of the strong; Where each stood up, avenged his wrong, Or sought his death all silently.

They watch along the wave and wood, They heed, but haste not. Their estate, Whate'er it be, can bide and wait, Be it open ill or hidden good.

No law for them! For they have stood With steel, and writ their rights in blood; And now, whatever 'tis they seek, Whatever be their dark demand, Why, they will make it, hand to hand, Take time and patience: Greek to Greek.

Like blown and snowy wintry pine, Old Morgan stoop'd his head and pass'd Within his cabin door. He cast A great arm out to men, made sign, Then turned to Ina; stood beside A time, then turn'd and strode the floor, Stopp'd short, breathed sharp, threw wide the door, Then gazed beyond the murky tide, Toward where the forky peaks divide.

He took his beard in his hard hand, Then slowly shook his grizzled head And trembled, but no word he said. His thought was something more than pain; Upon the seas, upon the land He knew he should not rest again.

He turn'd to her; but then once more Quick turn'd, and through the oaken door He sudden pointed to the west. His eye resumed its old command, The conversation of his hand, It was enough: she knew the rest.

He turn'd, he stoop'd, and smoothed her hair, As if to smooth away the care From his great heart, with his left hand. His right hand hitch'd the pistol round That dangled at his belt ... The sound Of steel to him was melody More sweet than any song of sea.

He touch'd his pistol, press'd his lips, Then tapp'd it with his finger-tips, And toy'd with it as harper's hand Seeks out the chords when he is sad And purposeless. At last he had Resolved. In haste he touch'd her hair, Made sign she should arise--prepare For some long journey, then again He look'd awest toward the plain:

Toward the land of dreams and space, The land of Silences, the land Of shoreless deserts sown with sand, Where desolation's dwelling is: The land where, wondering, you say, What dried-up shoreless sea is this? Where, wandering, from day to day You say, To-morrow sure we come To rest in some cool resting-place, And yet you journey on through space While seasons pass, and are struck dumb With marvel at the distances.

Yea, he would go. Go utterly Away, and from all living kind, Pierce through the distances, and find New lands. He had outlived his race. He stood like some eternal tree That tops remote Yosemite, And cannot fall. He turn'd his face Again and contemplated space.

And then he raised his hand to vex His beard, stood still, and there fell down Great drops from some unfrequent spring, And streak'd his channell'd cheeks sun-brown, And ran uncheck'd, as one who recks Nor joy, nor tears, nor any thing.

And then, his broad breast heaving deep, Like some dark sea in troubled sleep, Blown round with groaning ships and wrecks, He sudden roused himself, and stood With all the strength of his stern mood, Then call'd his men, and bade them go And bring black steeds with banner'd necks, And strong like burly buffalo.

The sassafras took leaf, and men Push'd west in hosts. The black men drew Their black-maned horses silent through The solemn woods. One midnight when The curl'd moon tipp'd her horn, and threw A black oak's shadow slant across A low mound hid in leaves and moss, Old Morgan cautious came and drew From out the ground, as from a grave, A great box, iron-bound and old, And fill'd, men say, with pirates' gold, And then they, silent as a dream, In long black shadows cross'd the stream.

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