Gulf songs

Canto First

Yahnita, daughter of the good And courteous Estevan of Spain — A man of purest, bluest blood, Whose knightly service had been vain. To King and country, in great wars, 'Gainst French dragoons and English tars; By reason now of treachery, And sore misfortune, sought repose In our sweet refuge of the free. And found here surcease of his woes, And solace for a broken heart, In the assiduity of art.

If aught could make an exile glad, Or aught the exile's pangs assuage, Yahnita, daughter of his age. As an enchantress sure, he had. Yahnita, only child, for him Life's cup with joy was wont to brim, And in that flowery land, no flower In woodland or in garden bower, Beside the soft and dreamy sea, Was sweeter, lovelier than she.

Poor, poor Yahnita, only child. Grew here, all things upon her smiled, And sweet and beautiful and gay. Was in herself an endless May: Seemed to absorb from sky and earth, The elements of joy and mirth.

She had, too, many lovers, and With bazilisk eye and magic hand, She seemed to lead them here and there, Either to rapture or despair:

She had, too, many charms, and had For every one a lover mad.

Poor, beautiful Yahnita dreamed.

As only lovely women do.

That extra honors were her due.

And for those extra honors schemed;

Then, thought she. Love was what he seemed,

And played coquet with him the while,

And gave him both her frov/n and smile.

"Whene'er he brings me fear and doubt," Quoth she, "I'll turn the rascal out: I'll never, never let him be More than a lodger, or a guest, Within the domain of my breast. Unless he comes with wealth to me." Alas, alas, she never knew.

Some day her lovers might be few, Some day her skies would cease to smile; But she'd keep dreaming all the while: — For dreams, once rooted in the brain. Their hold a long, long time retain; And gilded lovers' flattering smile. But do not linger all the while; And knightly lovers make demands. On conquered hearts, not purchased hands; And even vulgarians, proud with wealth. Full often win their suit by stealth: Such men once scorned are seldom nice, And purchase at the lowest price; And cannot deem the purchase love, The buying article above.

Among her wooers came Ybarre, A negro trader's son, to share The affluence of her smile, and he, 'Twas said had vessels on the sea; And up the country acres wide. And treasure in the banks beside: He had no blue blood in his veins, But he had health and wealth and brains, And spite of prejudice, somehow She learned his wooings to allow, And gave him an attentive ear,

And even loved his vows to hear.

Meanwhile her haughty suitors past,

In sullen scorn, if not aghast,

To see her thus forget herself

And caste, and condescend to pelf. "Ybarre, but yesterday." they said, "Snatched from its sheath a sabre red

With Spanish blood. He boasts the s-ars.

He got in killing Spanish tars;

He ruined Spanish shrines and fires,

And scorns aristocratic sires;

And fat upon their treasure grown,

One of their bluest bloods would own:

And simple little traitor she,

Yahnita, hastens to greet him. See!

She has deserted all her folk,

And every tie that bound her broke;

So mark you she disgraced shall fall."

Thus whispered they in every hall.

Ybarre, the negro trader's son, Nathless the fair Yahnita won. And they were wed as 'twer today. And ere six moons he went away, Upon the stormy ocean's track. To bring her gold and jewels back. Ah, that was, sure, a mournful slip. The saddest yet 'twixt cup and lip. Great storms went raging o'er the sea, And there were wrecks upon the Key; And ships went out and came not back, For bad luck haunted all their track; And so it came to pass that she Wafted her dear lord o'er the sea. With sighs and tears and fervent prayer. But never more beheld Ybarre.

The weeks went by, the months were flown, And nothing of her lord was known.

"Oh winds and storms, so wild and rude, Ye give me mad solicitude!

Oh, have you taken him from me And left me all alone?" cried she.

"I've waited all these weeks for him, And wept until my eyes grew dim;

Ye bear upon your stormy wings The water for the failing springs; And many blessings ye bestow To parching hills and vales below; But winds and storms from o'er the sea, Oh, ye are not so good to me! Ye bring sweet verdure to the slopes And valleys, but ye wreck my hopes; And ye have made me wretched, ye Wild winds, wild storms of the wild sea!"

What wailings do we constant hear At midnight by the splashing pier? While she is watching day and night, To catch, poor thing! poor thing! a sight Of his returning ship, which ne'er To check her heart-break shall appear.

At length she is a common sight. At morn and eve along the bight, To mariner and voyager.

Who wondering, pitying, gaze at her. Thus wandering, weeping by the quay. And vainly wailing by the sea. Wafting to every coming sail. This blended rhythmic song and wail: 'The cows come home at twilight's fall. To the bleating calf and farmer's call; And the tinkling bell and the loud-mouthed low, On the housewife's heart a joy bestow. But alas for me, I listen in vain. When I call and call for a sweeter strain, Than the voice of cows or tinkling bells. For that voice of his, like Israfel's, And alas, the maddening thought to me. That I never more his face may see.

"The plow-boy, from his sunny hill-top. Looks glad upon his fruiting crop: And mounts his mule with a cheerful song, Or homeward jogging whistles along; With a fond expectancy he sees Fruition floating on the breeze, And he dreams of garners taut with grain, And his hopes and faith are not in vain;

But the hope and faith that I have known Have been vanishing visions alone, alone.

"The merchant's look of sore annoy Has been replaced by a look of joy, When the storm is past, and he sees his ship Come bounding safe from its perilous trip; But no white-winged bark, well-freighted brings. On beautiful, rapture-giving wings, That argosy, which I prayed to get From the midnight shores of fate, as yet; And alas, no sail from o'er the sea My, lover will ever bring back to me!

"To outer objects I am waxing blind. Yet my sighs go forth on each passing wind; And, I fancy, if he should sigh o'er the sea, On the breeze I might hear it coming to me; And thus, at least, our spirits might meet — Unseen on the unseen breezes greet: Such a wild love-passage would that be. Defying the rage of the stormy sea. While the breath of kisses from each one's lips. Would exchange on these aerial ships.

"If the winds blew strong, and the storm raged high, And trade-ships sank when the harbor was nigh; If the corn were ready for the mill, But the wild flood swept it down the rill: Though sore were the loss, and heart and brain Were put to bitterest stress and strain; Yet the merchant may float another hull, And the plow-boy's barn may again be full; But my love-harvest is lost fore'er. And will come no more from year to year; And my love-vessel is lost to me No more to rise from the depths of the sea.

"How sweet the buzzing of the bees, As they sip the sweets of the bloomy trees. And bear the stolen nectar home To a half-replenished honey comb! But, alas for me, I cannot sip Love's sweetest dew from my lover's lip; Nor take the sweets to my lone heart's hive,

And with it keep my soul alive;

For my bower and my flower is gone, is gone,

And naught of me but my flesh lives on.

'"My eyes are blind, not because a film Of darkning stuff has made them dim; But because the soul, which gave them light. Is covered o'er with a mantling night. Of the flood of tears which have overflowed The realms where once it brilliant glowed; Ah, that is the reason I cannot see, Save through the eyes of Memory, And not through the eyes of my soul, as I could. Ere the light of my soul went down in the flood.

"And not only are the eyes of the mind And soul, because of tears so blind, But the portals, too, of once glad words. Which once were merry as heaven-taught birds. Is dammed and dammed by obstruction so That the words have lost their wonted flov/, And over their dam they murmuring pour. With a broken confusion at their door, And utter clear, but the wail and moan, tor my true love gone, forever gone.

"So I gaze and gaze, in vain, in vain, For his coming back across the main; Yet the time will come, methinks, mehopes, When he'll lead me along the Eden slopes And I'll cease to cry, and I'll cease to wail, But I'll fling wild sighs to the sighing gale; And I'll give my tears to the mournful sea. Which has torn my only lover from me: And by stormless shores I shall walk with him, And my eyes no longer will be dim.

"And I'll mourn no more by the mournful main; And he'll clasp me close and kiss me again, And the words which were taken away on his ship Will return once more to my stammering lip, And the joy and the light of the joy-lit skies Will come again to my tear-smit eyes."

But care, like rapture, has its day, And after while it steals away: And though remembrance never dies, It wakes not wails, but only sighs; And in the place of sobs and tears Gives sweetest words in after years.

Ere long Estivan was no more, Yahnita ceased to haunt the shore: Ere long the dear home by the bay From poor Yahnita passed away; But she was not all desolate, A blessing still she claimed of fate. And in her cloud there was a rift — A cherub boy had come to lift The darkening mantle from her life: She was the mother and the wife: Now was there ever at her side A little toddler radiant-eyed.

John Golfan, from the hills, ere long, Who one time chanced to hear her song, And one time chanced to see her boy. And heard about her bitter fate. Began to fondly speculate.

While pitying her, on future joy. And nuptial blisses, likewise — for He was a lonely bachelor.

So did it come to pass ere long The mother found both love and rest, The son a father, in his breast — Within, without, sincere and strong; And she was comforted, and he Was happy as a man can be.

Yahn Golfan was Yahnita's son —

A lovely lad who early won

John Golfan's generous soul, nor knew

Him other than as father true.

As child he toddled 'round the hall,

Delighted at the pleasant call

Of his dear foster-father, so

But peace and pleasure did he know.

Ybarre went sailing with the wind, And tho' he left his love behind. As merry a man as one may find. And full of hope and love he sang, As o'er the sea his vessel sprang; Oh, as one sails the summer seas, Song is suggested by the breeze, By waters and by stars, by day And night, for all inspire the lay.

'My love, my love is like the tree That stands deep-rooted by the sea; The billows of our stormy hearts Before her roll and beat.

And from their depths a murmur starts, Low, plaintive, tender, sweet.

'My beauteous love, my haughty love. Looks down upon them from above; Her head arrayed in affluent bloom. And from her breast, as 'twere. Flow sighs all freighted with perfume, As soft replies from her.

'The waves must break upon the beach,

The trees must echo sighs for speech.

And stormy passions thus must break

Around my lady's feet;

And only get, for pity's sake.

Her sigh as they retreat."

Another — Garcia — by his side.

His ditty heard with silent frown;

Knew not Yahnita was his bride,

But felt he dashed the gauntlet down

At him, one of the hapless hearts.

Which knew the blasting of her darts,

And bled and writhed with maddening pain.

Because of love and hopes in vain:

He, when Ybarre laid his shell aside,

With him in love's light ditty vied.

"My lady at a dozen smiled, Nor said which one was dearest; With arts resistless all beguiled, Nor any chose as nearest.

"Ah, what a marvelous witch was she! Ah, would the world had fewer! She drives them from her ruthlessly, Yet makes them still pursue her.

"If once her followers lag behind. How soon their sigh she misses, And pausing, seeming doubly kind, Revives them with her kisses.

"Though all have clasped her round the waist. While amorous waiting on her. Her scutcheon ne'er has been defaced Until a muggins won her.

"Ah, day by day, as time went by, Prince after prince was banished; She sent them forth, they knew not why, Till all her knights had vanished.

"Now see the lips which royal men Risked all for, but ne'er tasted, Raped by a boor, oft and again, Their sweets on letchery wasted.

"Ah, my lady sweet, my lady fair! You have spoiled the lovely fashion Of spotless lineage, in despair, By just one hour of passion."

The song was ended and Ybarre Upon him threw an angry stare, "There is a tartness in your song. That intimates you've suffered wrong, I pray you, stranger, do you know One lady who has acted so?"

"Full well, I know one of that sort, Whom true men lady call for sport." Ah well a day, ah well a day! What will not men despairing say!

"Lady or not," Ybarre began,

With an answer rude and pat, "It ill becomes a gentleman

To sing a song like that."

Quoth Garcia, with a heightened tone, "I'll sing whate'er I please." "Not on this ship, which is my own.

Nor while it sails these seas,"

Replied Ybarre; "or false or true.

Be what you sing or say,

No gentleman I placard you,

So take yourself away."

"Allow me, Captain, ere I go," Quoth Garcia, speaking fierce but low,

"To say I know the lady well Of whom I sang upon my shell; And though to call her name I'm loth, I dare to say upon my oath.

That good Alphonso's daughter fair Has brought him nearly to despair; And those who know her, know like me She's not as spotless as the sea."

"Whate'er the lady's faults may be," Ybarre responded fiercely, "she Should not be whipped by vulgar tongues. Nor add a rhythm to their songs: The blackguard who assails her fame, Or throws aspersions on her name. Insults all gentlemen who hear. And should be punished" — Here he rose And felled him with unlooked for blows; And more enraged by Garcia's pluck — Who quick recovering, at him struck With keen stiletto, telling cuts. And downing him, his fury gluts.

"I fear you not, Captain Ybarre, And fling your flings back, for I swear, I know Yahnita — that's her name — Is not a woman of good fame. I have been banished from her shrine. Where with the best men of the land, I dog-like used to lick her hand;

Now am I glad she is not mine; I've learned to have contempt for her; She is not worthy honest love, She's but a narrow span's remove From ill repute — bad character."

The vessel into harbor rode,

And white with rage ashore he strode;

Long "The Ben Yarber" in the bay

Of Cienfugos at anchor lay:

For long the Captain, sad Ybarre,

Nursing his wounds was lingering there;

Nor was it body wounds alone

That kept him in his cabin prone;

But afterwhile, by slow degrees,

Suspicion had become disease:

The maddening dark persuasion grew

That Garcia's tale, though vile was true;

And this a wound far deeper made

Than was inflicted by the blade.

This struck the brain, the soul, the heart,

Nor yielded to the healer's art;

This quenched within his breast the fire

Of hope, and chilled the sweet desire,

That would not listen to demur

Of flying o'er the waves to her.

Who had been yesterday his pride.

His joy, his hope, his peerless bride.

The sequel's in a sentence told: He changed his name, his vessel sold. And shipping to another shore. He never saw Yahnita more.

"Farewell, brave bark, no longer mine,

I give thee up forever!

May all thy flights across the brine,

Like arrow from its quiver.

Be through the storm as through the shine.

My good bark, brave Ben Yarber, And happy gales at sea be thine

And shelter sweet in harbor. But as for me, oh, as for me,

No more thy proud, proud master, Henceforth a sailor shall I be, i8 GULP SONGS

Through tempest and disaster; Nor shall I look for, on life's sea,

The glory of sweet morrows, Or refuge from life's storms," quoth he, "Or surcease from my sorrow.

"Henceforth I sail and sail away,

Courting the billow's dangers. Nor reckon round what shores I play,

So that it be with strangers; I'll mourn in San Antonio's Bay;

I'll sing at Matagorda; Revel at Barratraria,

With pirate and marauder.

"I shall familiar grow with din. Nor let it break my slumber, 'Neath scorching suns shall tan my skin,

And wear an aspect sombre; And fortune only seek to win.

In all lands, 'neath all banners: Be anything but what I've been — A martyr to all manners.

"Ev'n memory afterwhile will cease

To fling old scenes before me; Her dreams will fly upon the breeze,

Nor leave one shadow o'er me; And I may rest me, then, at ease,

By shadows shaken never; And from my mad, wild memories

I may be free forever."

He paced, soliloquizing thus, The white strand of the harbor; While fled away from Cienfuegos His one time bark, Ben Yarber: His passion so tempestuous Made a passing stranger curious:

"As none are wandering here but us, I'd beg you why so furious?

And why this ecstacy?" Ybarre Turned on him with angry stare. But seeing kindness in his eye,

"Ben Yarber!" kindly made reply.

The stranger eyed Ybarre awhile,

And gave him back a questioning smile;

And yet was pained by what he heard: "If I can help you, speak the word,"

QuotH he. Ybarre stared at him queer,

With half surprise and half a sneer: "Why thrust yourself upon me thus?

My woe with you I'd not discuss;

You think me crazed, but that's absurd." "Nay, but your answer seems to me

A little fanciful," quoth he. "I've sailed full often in yon bark,

Ben Yarber, o'er the billows dark." "And so have I, for she was mine

Long years upon the stormy brine." "Are you Ben Yarber?" "As you please:

You are too curious, but I'll say,

Ben Yarber now is lost for aye;

No more the falcon of the seas!

Ask no more questions, I am sick —

Ben Yarber's lost; the clouds are thick:

There is no sunshine in my skies,

No prospect bright before my eyes:

Call me Ben Yarber, that's a name

Will never make me blush in shame,

To utter or hear uttered. Go!

You worry me. Your care bestow

On such as need it: as for me,

I'm left alone, and lone would be;

I need no pity, though I'm sick."

Then turning from the stranger quick,

He left him musing by the sea.

Muttering alone, half audibly, "Ben Yarber? I'm mistaken: he

Is not the man I took him for,

Who saved me at Okeechobee,

In that most bloody Indian war."

And Ben Ybarre, thus left alone,

Out spoke in almost merry tone: "He leaves me with a thought: henceforth,

Ben Yarber'll be my name. Ha! Ha!

Now for a new role on this earth;

Now has my hope another birth;

Now sees life's dream another star.

I feared the man might know me, when He eyed me closely: so 'tis well, To play the madman now and then: I knew him in the army well. And have but good of him to tell; But then I almost hate a man, Go where I may, fly where I can. Turns up before me like a haunt. And his nice excellencies flaunt Before me. So comrade La Muse, By giving me a name, your dues To me are settled: Friend, good-bye! Ben Yarber after this am I." A steed is near, he mounts, is gone: Whither? We'll talk of that anon.

Canto Second. First Part

A glorious woman was Anneet — Daughter of expectations sweet; For wealth was lying at her feet,

And comforts came, From hill and valley rich, and beat

Entrance to claim — Against her father's threshold door: And lovers knelt her shrine before.

Dull was the eye, that could not see, With nature's loveliest, that she Was in perfect harmony,

In face and form: Dull was the heart, her wichery

Couldn't take by storm.

To call her beautiful as youth. To her no flattery was, 'twas truth.

Anneet was born of gentle blood. Laughing like fountain at its flood, Where whispered leaf and opened bud.

To amorous breeze.

And each the other understood,

And kissed in peace: Bright as the wimpling waters she, In youth's wild uplands glad and free. Anneet a spirit had for joy; And seeking pleasure was not coy. But with the hornets' nest would toy.

Their rage to test; And made a mockery of annoy,

To gain her quest: Nothing so pleasing to her soul, As the attainment of her goal.

Reared in the wilderness, the wild Had breathed itself into the child: The freeborn spirit undefiled.

And chainless, too, Her spirit nurtured and beguiled,

And round it threw, Those elements of loveliness. All feel when seen, but few possess.

But as the fairest, sweetest rose, Which by the streamlet's margin blows. The keenest thorn full often shows;

In her was found.

The savage element, which knows

And owns no bound; Save that which circled modesty. And being clean, as she should be.

Who turns from voice of dove and lark,

Singing to answering mates at dark.

Good bye! good night! and hears the bark

Approaching near Of coming wolves with hunger stark,

And laughs to hear — Familiar grown with danger — mocks At sheltering barricades and locks.

Nothing is so despised as fear By him who, on the dark frontier. Kindles the watchfires there and here,

Unhired — unbought.

He faces perils with good cheer,

And gives no thought To fancied troubles — goblins they, Which harbor not where dangers stay.

Wautauga's princess in redoubt Of logs — alone — from help shut out. Beleaguered by a savage rout,

Whose fiery darts Sent thick and fast, with hoot and shout,

Would shake brave hearts — Unerring rifle balls sent back. And loosed, besides, her blood-hound pack.

The red man's hiding was in vain, As bootless, too, his arrows rain Of fire; the sleuth-hound, free from chain.

And true of scent, Raged fierce, with thirst for blood insane,

The savage rent: The Princess at a port-hole sat. And laughed a merry laugh thereat.

Such were the daughters of the front, Such shared with men the bloody brunt, And laid their hands, as 'twere, upon't.

To spare and save The heroic, where it was the wont.

Black flags to wave.

Men blazed the way through deadly wrath; They kept the briars from the path.

The flags of liberty and peace. Were borne and set up, if you please, In the face of Creeks and Cherokees,

On points of swords; And Civilization's victories.

O'er savage hordes.

By strong arms came and bayonets. Which faithful history ne'er forgets. Yet woman's presence — woman's smile, Along the bloody path the while. Gave aid and comfort — made the spoil

Well worth the strife; Made it a proud, chivalric toil.

For her, as wife, Sister or mother, on to push. Or else for faltering to blush.

The offspring of such strenuous men And women, had in part their ken Of difficulties, and made light Of things they could face and fight. The spirit of resistance grew. As a heredity, which threw The gauntlet down, or took it up; Tt took the sweet or bitter cup Of circumstances, and did not care: Such children loved to do and dare — On something hazardous intent; And hated dickering sentiment: Not cultivated and refined.

To such extent, in soul and mind, And body too, the maiden was, That she feared the reptile in the grass: That she could not saddle up her steed, And o'er the hills and torrents speed, Without some brave attendant; nay She was a goddess in that day.

Her mother taught her many a song

Of those who dared be free, And fought oppression, fierce and long,

In lands beyond the sea: The slogan of the martial Scot — By him and his — oh, ne'er forgot.

She sang to her the Benshee's call:

A thrill of pain it brought; And hatred of the tyrant's thrall

In every strain was taught; And every Irish lad she saw Recalled to her "Erin Go Bragh."

Her mother sprinkled on her tongue

The sweet or bitter strains. Of ancient peoples who had sung

Of liberty or chains — Of mourning Poland — sorrowing Greece, Whose deathless memories ne'er shall cease.

So Anneet learned among the hills. Afar from discord's throngs.

But strains to which the lover thrills. Or patriotic songs;

Her heart to poesy was stirred.

And she sang as natural as a bird.

And any day the paths along, That skirted cotton field and wood When twilight wrapped the solitude, You heard some pleasing burst of song, As with a kind of child-like glee A-horseback galloping went she.

Nor loved she much the sorrowing strain, Nor notes that wakened throbs of pain,

Nor yet the weird, woeful plaint From spirit, with its anguish faint. But rather some heroic song, Some simple ballad passion-strong.

"Give me," she cried, "some ballad, The unlettered soldier sang. When through the woods and o'er the floods, To Jackson's call he sprang. He dreamed of home and mother, And sang his cares to cheat, And whate'er the strain of joy or pain, I know 'twas wild and sweet.

"Or let it be some ditty The negro loves to sing.

When the twilight's gloam has called him home, And the darkness spreads her wings; For his throat was made for music, And o'er his bosom's chords. Where sorrow stays she fondly strays: So both are in his words.

"Or teach some tuneful story. Which charms the dullest soul. And witching starts in dullest hearts, A tide they can't control: A lay that melts the woodman. Yet fires the city dame, But let it be, when taught to me, In love and music's name.

"Tell of the horn and the hunter; Tell of the hound and fox; Of mountaineer and bear and deer. And the chase among the rocks: Sing of the hand so horny, Of the man with heart of oak; For what's the glory of the land. But the brave and simple folk?"

Then while she gaily sped along She burst forth with this favorite song: "Fair Barbara loved a mountain man, A poor man, brave and true;

But he was under bar and ban,

And into hiding flew.

They followed him with horn and hound,

As you would chase the deer, But at Barbara's home he shelter found —

Lenoir, the mountaineer.

"Full many a time, when hunters came

With packs to drive the 'dome,' Most vainly hunted they the game,

Most helpless did they roam, Till the very outlaw they pursued

To them gave aid and cheer, And his woodsman's lore, his shelter rude—

Lenoir, the mountaineer.

"Fair Barbara sang as seraphs sing.

And her beauty helped her song: And the coldest to her feet she'd bring.

And hold them tight and strong. Law's angry minions saw her charms

And forgot their prize was near: And no longer woke they fond alarms

In Lenoir, the mountaineer.

"Oh, Barbara fair! oh, Barbara sweet!

Who loved the mountain man, Who helped the wretch the law to cheat,

And to laugh at bar and ban, I would you prized my broken heart.

And I to you were dear, I'd consent to act the outlaw's part.

Like Lenoir, the mountaineer.

"I have brought you jewels for your hands,

And bracelets for your arms. And gold-set pearls and coral bands.

Just to multiply your charms. But I can only win a smile,

Not a sigh from you, my dear; While I pray your love, you pray the while,

For Lenoir, the mountaineer."

Thus oft to warblings in her shell — A rich begemmed guitar,

Her numbers wild and weird would swell

Beneath the evening star: And woe to him the gallant gay,

Who knelt his bowers among, On her he threw his pleas away,

Who had no soul for song.

Her fancies were for men of song. The rest might plod their way along. In those good days when we were young In this peculiar land of ours. The country mansion hid in bowers, Luxuriant was the home of song. And peacefulness and family pride And hospitality a shrine Where poured out corn and oil and wine. To pent up city shrines denied.