Songs of the Sierras

Front matter

Songs of the Sierras.

BY JOAQUIN MILLER.

ROBERTS BROTHERS. 1873.

Arizonian

England, 1871.

SONGS OF THE SIERRAS.

A I have said, and I say it ever, As the years go on and the world goes over, "Twere better to be content and clever In tending of cattle and tossing of clover, In the grazing of cattle and the growing of grain, Than a strong man striving for fame or gain; Be even as kine in the red-tipp'd clover; For they lie down and their rests are rests, And the days are theirs, come sun come rain, To lie, rise up, and repose again; While we wish, yearn, and do pray in vain, And hope to ride on the billows of bosoms, And hope to rest in the haven of breasts, Till the heart is, sicken'd and the fair hope dead; Be even as clover with its crown of blossoms, Even as blossoms ere the bloom is shed,

Kiss'd by kine and the brown sweet bee— For these have the sun, and moon, and air, And never a bit of the burthen of care; And with all of our caring what more have we? I would court content like a lover lonely, I would woo her, win her, and wear her only, And never go over this white sea wall For gold or glory or for aught at all."

He said these things as he stood with the Squire By the river's rim in the fields of clover, While the stream flow'd under and the clouds flew over, With the sun tangled in and the fringes afire. So the Squire lean'd with a kind desire To humor his guest, and to hear his story; For his guest had gold, and he yet was clever, And mild of manner; and, what was more, he, In the morning's ramble, had praised the kine, The clover's reach and the meadows fine, And so made the Squire his friend for ever.

His brow was brown'd by the sun and weather, And touch'd by the terrible hand of time; His rich black beard had a fringe of rime,

As silk and silver inwove together. There were hoops of gold all over his hands, And across his breast, in chains and bands, Broad and massive as belts of leather. And the belts of gold were bright in the sun, But brighter than gold his black eyes shone From their sad face-setting so swarth and dun, Brighter than beautiful Santan stone, Brighter even than balls of fire, As he said, hot-faced, in the face of the Squire:—

"The pines bow'd over, the stream bent under The cabin cover'd with thatches of palm, Down in a cañon so deep, the wonder Was what it could know in its clime but calm. Down in a cañon so cleft asunder By sabre-stroke in the young world's prime, It look'd as broken by bolts of thunder, And bursted asunder and rent and riven By earthquakes, driven, the turbulent time A red cross lifted red hands to heaven. And this in the land where the sun goes down, And gold is gather'd by tide and by stream, And maidens are brown as the cocoa brown,

And a life is a love and a love is a dream; Where the winds come in from the far Cathay With odor of spices and balm and bay, And summer abideth for aye and aye, Nor comes in a tour with the stately June, And comes too late and returns too soon To the land of the sun and of summer's noon.

"She stood in the shadows as the sun went down, Fretting her curls with her fingers brown, As tall as the silk-tipp'd tassel'd corn— Stood strangely watching as I weigh'd the gold We had wash'd that day where the river roll'd; And her proud lip curl'd with a sun-clime scorn, As she ask'd, 'Is she better or fairer than I?— She, that blonde in the land beyond, Where the sun is hid and the seas are high— That you gather in gold as the years go on, And hoard and hide it away for her As a squirrel burrows the black pine-burr?'

"Now the gold weigh'd well, but was lighter of weight Than we two had taken for days of late, So I was fretted, and, brow a-frown,

I said, 'She is fairer, and I loved her first, And shall love her last come the worst to worst.' Now her eyes were black and her skin was brown, But her lips grew livid and her eyes afire As I said this thing: and higher and higher The hot words ran, when the booming thunder Peal'd in the crags and the pine-tops under, While up by the cliff in the murky skies It look'd as the clouds had caught the fire— The flash and fire of her wonderful eyes.

"She turn'd from the door and down to the river. And mirror'd her face in the whimsical tide; Then threw back her hair, as if throwing a quiver, As an Indian throws it back far from his side And free from his hands, swinging fast to the shoulder When rushing to battle; and, rising, she sigh'd And shook, and shiver'd as aspens shiver. Then a great green snake slid into the river, Glistening, green, and with eyes of fire; Quick, double-handed she seized a boulder, And cast it with all the fury of passion, As with lifted head it went curving across, Swift darting its tongue like a fierce desire,

Curving and curving, lifting higher and higher, Bent and beautiful as a river moss; Then, smitten, it turn'd, bent, broken and doubled, And lick'd, red-tongued, like a forkèd fire, And sank, and the troubled waters bubbled, And then swept on in their old swift fashion.

"I lay in my hammock: the air was heavy And hot and threat'ning; the very heaven Was holding its breath; and bees in a bevy Hid under my thatch; and birds were driven In clouds to the rocks in a hurried whirr As I peer'd down by the path for her. She stood like a bronze bent over the river, The proud eyes fix'd, the passion unspoken— When the heavens broke like a great dyke broken. Then, ere I fairly had time to give her A shout of warning, a rushing of wind And the rolling of clouds and a deafening din And a darkness that had been black to the blind Came down, as I shouted, 'Come in! come in! Come under the roof, come up from the river, As up from a grave—come now, or come never!' The tassel'd tops of the pines were as weeds,

The red-woods rock'd like to lake-side reeds, And the world seem'd darken'd and drown'd for ever.

"One time in the night as the black wind shifted, And a flash of lightning stretch'd over the stream, I seem'd to see her with her brown hands lifted— Only seem'd to see, as one sees in a dream— With her eyes wide wild and her pale lips press'd, And the blood from her brow and the flood to her breast; When the flood caught her hair as the flax in a wheel, And wheeling and whirling her round like a reel, Laugh'd loud her despair, then leapt long like a steed, Holding tight to her hair, folding fast to her heel, Laughing fierce, leaping far as if spurr'd to its speed. Now mind, I tell you all this did but seem— Was seen as you see fearful scenes in a dream; For what the devil could the lightning show In a night like that, I should like to know!

"And then I slept, and sleeping I dream'd Of great green serpents with tongues of fire, And of death by drowning, and of after death— Of the day of judgment, wherein it seem'd

That she, the heathen, was hidden higher, Higher than I; that I clung to her side, And clinging struggled, and struggling cried, And crying, waken'd, all weak of my breath.

"Long leaves of the sun lay over the floor, And a chipmonk chirp'd in the open door, But above on his crag the eagle scream'd, Scream'd as he never had scream'd before. I rush'd to the river: the flood had gone Like a thief, with only his tracks upon The weeds and grasses and warm wet sand; And I ran after with reaching hand, And call'd as I reach'd and reach'd as I ran, And ran till I came to the cañon's van, Where the waters lay in a bent lagoon, Hook'd and crook'd like the hornèd moon.

"Here in the surge where the waters met, And the warm wave lifted, and the winds did fret The wave till it foam'd with rage on the land, She lay with the wave on the warm white sand; Her rich hair trail'd with the trailing weeds, And her small brown hands lay prone or lifted

As the wave sang strophes in the broken leeds, Or paused in pity, and in silence sifted Sands of gold, as upon her grave. And as sure as you see yon browsing kine, And breathe the breath of your meadows fine, When I went to my waist in the warm white wave And stood all pale in the wave to my breast, And reach'd for her in her rest and unrest, Her hands were lifted and reach'd to mine.

"Now mind, I tell you I cried, 'Come in! Come in to the house, come out from the hollow, Come out of the storm, come up from the river!' Cried, and call'd, in that desolate din, Though I did not rush out, and in plain words give her A wordy warning of the flood to follow, Word by word, and letter by letter: But she knew it as well as I, and better; For once in the desert of New Mexico When I sought frantically far and wide For the famous spot where Apaches shot With bullets of gold their buffalo, And she followed faithfully at my side, (threw me down in the hard hot sand

Utterly famish'd, and ready to die, And a speck arose in the red-hot sky— A speck no larger than a lady's hand— While she at my side bent tenderly over, Shielding my face from the sun as a cover, And wetting my face, as she watch'd by my side, From a skin she had borne till the high noon-tide, (I had emptied mine in the heat of the morning) When the thunder matter'd far over the plain Like a monster bound or a beast in pain, She sprang the instant, and gave the warning, With her brown hand pointed to the burning skies. I was too weak unto death to arise, And I pray'd for death in my deep despair, And did curse and clutch in the sand in my rage, And bite in the bitter white ashen sage, That covers the desert like a coat of hair; But she knew the peril, and her iron will, With heart as true as the great North Star, Did bear me up to the palm-tipp'd hill, Where the fiercest beasts in a brotherhood, Beasts that had fled from the plain and far, In perfectest peace expectant stood, With their heads held high, and their limbs a-quiver,

And ere she barely had time to breathe The boiling waters began to seethe From hill to hill in a booming river, Beating and breaking from hill to hill— Even while yet the sun shot fire, Without the shield of a cloud above— Filling the cañon as you would fill A wine-cup, drinking in swift desire, With the brim new-kiss'd by the lips you love.

"So you see she knew—knew perfectly well, As well as I could shout and tell, The mountains would send a flood to the plain, Sweeping the gorge like a hurricane, When the fire flash'd, and the thunder fell. Therefore it is wrong, and I say therefore Unfair, that a mystical brown wing'd moth Or midnight bat should for evermore Fan my face with its wings of air, And follow me up, down, everywhere, Flit past, pursue me, or fly before, Dimly limning in each fair place The full fix'd eyes and the sad brown face, So forty times worse than if it were wroth.

"I gather'd the gold I had hid in the earth, Hid over the door and hid under the hearth: Hoarded and hid, as the world went over, For the love of a blonde by a sun-brown'd lover; And I said to myself, as I set my face To the East and afar from the desolate place, 'She has braided her tresses, and through her tears Look'd away to the West, for years, the years That I have wrought where the sun tans brown; She has waked by night, she has watch'd by day, She has wept and wonder'd at my delay, Alone and in tears, with her head held down, Where the ships sail out and the seas swirl in, Forgetting to knit and refusing to spin. She shall lift her head, she shall see her lover, She shall hear his voice like a sea that rushes, She shall hold his gold in her hands of snow, And down on his breast she shall hide her blushes, And never a care shall her true heart know, While the clods are below, or the clouds are above her.

"On the fringe of the night she stood with her pitcher At the old town-pump: and oh! passing fair

'I am riper now,' I said, 'but am richer,' And I lifted my hand to my beard and hair; 'I am burnt by the sun, I am brown'd by the sea; I am white of my beard, and am bald, may be; Yet for all such things what can her heart care?' Then she moved; and I said, 'How marvellous fair!' She look'd to the West, with her arm arch'd over; 'Looking for me, her sun-brown'd lover,' I said to myself, with a hot heart-thump, And stepp'd me nearer to the storm-stain'd pump, As approaching a friend; for 'twas here of old Our troths were plighted and the tale was told.

"How young she was and how fair she was! How tall as a palm, and how pearly fair, As the night came down on her glorions hair! Then the night grew deep and the eye grew dim, And a sad-faced figure began to swim And float in my face, flit past, then pause, With her hands held up and her head held down, Yet face to face; and her face was brown. Now why did she come and confront me there, With the mould on her face and the moist in her hair, And a mystical stare in ber marvellous eyes?

I had call'd to her twice, 'Come in! come in Come out of the storm to the calm within!' Now, that is the reason that I make complain That for ever and ever her face should arise, Facing face to face with her great sad eyes. I said then to myself, and I say it again, Gainsay it you, gainsay it who will, I shall say it over and over still, And will say it ever, for I know it true, That I did all that a man could do (Some good men's doings are done in vain) To save that passionate child of the sun, With her love as deep as the doubled main, And as strong and fierce as a troubled sea— That beautiful bronze with its soul of fire, Its tropical love and its kingly ire— That child as fix'd as a pyramid, 'As tall as a tula and as pure as a nun— And all there is of it the all I did, As often happens, was done in vain. So there is no bit of her blood on me.

She is marvellous young and is wonderful fair, I said again, and my heart; grew bold,

And beat and beat a charge for my feet. 'Time that defaces us, places, and replaces us, And trenches the faces as in furrows for tears, Has traced here nothing in all these years. 'Tis the hair of gold that I vex'd of old, The marvellous flowing flower of hair, And the peaceful eyes in their sweet surprise That I have kiss'd till the head swam round, And the delicate curve of the dimpled chin, And the pouting lips and the pearls within Are the same, the same, but so young, so fair!' My heart leapt out and back at a bound, As a child that starts, then stops, then lingers. 'How wonderful young!' I lifted my fingers And fell to counting the round years over That I had dwelt where the sun goes down. Four full hands, and a finger over! 'She does not know me, her truant lover,' I said to myself, for her brow was a-frown As I stepp'd still nearer, with my head held down, All abash'd and in blushes my brown face over; 'She does not know me, her long-lost lover, For my beard's so long and my skin's so brown, That I well might pass myself for another.'

So I lifted my voice and I spoke aloud: 'Annette, my darling! Annette Macleod!' She started, she stopp'd, she turn'd, amazed, She stood all wonder with her eyes wild-wide, Then turn'd in terror down the dusk wayside, And cried as she fled, 'The man is crazed, And calls the maiden name of my mother!'

"From a scene that saddens, from a ghost that wearies, From a white isle set in a wall of seas, From the kine and clover and all of these I shall set my face for the fierce Sierras. I shall make me mates on the stormy horder, I shall beard the grizzly, shall battle again, And from mad disorder shall mould me order And a wild repose for a weary brain.

"Let the world turn over, and over, and over, And toss and tumble like a beast in pain, Crack, quake, and tremble, and turn full over And die, and never rise up again; Let her dash her peaks through the purple cover, Let her plash her seas in the face of the sun— I have no one to love me now, not one,

In a world as full as a world can hold; So I will get gold as I erst have done, I will gather a coffin top-full of gold, To take to the door of Death, to buy Content, when I double my hands and die. There is nothing that is, be it beast or human, Love of maiden or the lust of man, Curse of man or the kiss of woman, For which I care or for which I can Give a love for a love or a hate for a hate, A curse for a curse or a kiss for a kiss, Since life has neither a bane nor a bliss, To one that is cheek by jowl with fate; For I have lifted and reach'd far over To the tree of promise, and have pluck'd of all And ate—ate ashes, and myrrh, and gall. Go down, go down to the fields of clover, Down with the kine in the pastures fine, And give no thought, or care, or labor For maid or man, good name or neighbor; For I have given, and what have I?— Given all my youth, my years, and labor, And a love as warm as the world is cold, For a beautiful, bright, and delusive lie.

Gave youth, gave years, gave love for gold, Giving and getting, yet what have I But an empty palm and a face forgotten, And a hope that's dead, and a heart that's rotten? Red gold on the waters is no part bread, But sinks dull-sodden like a lump of lead, And returns no more in the face of Heaven. So the dark day thickens at the hope deferr'd, And the strong heart sickens and the soul is stirr'd Like a weary sea when his hands are lifted, Imploring peace, with his raiment drifted And driven afar and rent and riven.

"The red ripe stars hang low overhead, Let the good and the light of soul reach up, Pluck gold as plucking a butter-cup: But I am as lead and my hands are red; There is nothing that is that can wake one passion In soul or body, or one sense of pleasure, No fame or fortune in the world's wide measure, Or love full-bosomed or in any fashion.

"The doubled sea, and the troubled heaven, Starr'd and barr'd by the bolts of fire,

In storms where stars are riven, and driven As clouds through heaven, as a dust blown higher; The angels harl'd to the realms infernal, Down from the walls in unholy wars. That man misnameth the falling stars; The purple robe of the proud Eternal, The Tyrian blue with its fringe of gold, Shrouding His countenance, fold on fold— All are dull and tame as a tale that is told. For the loves that hasten and the hates that linger, The nights that darken and the days that glisten, And men that lie and maidens that listen, I care not even the snap of my finger.

"So the sun climbs up, and on, and over, And the days go out and the tides come in, And the pale moon rubs on the purple cover Till worn as thin and as bright as tin; But the ways are dark and the days are dreary, And the dreams of youth are but dust in age, And the heart gets harden'd, and the hands grow weary Holding them up for their heritage.

"And the strain'd heart-strings wear bare and brittle,

And the fond hope dies when so long deferr'd; Then the fair hope lies in the heart interr'd, So stiff and cold in its coffin of lead. For you promise so great and you gain so little; For you promise so great of glory and gold, And gain so little that the hands grow cold; And for gold and glory you gain instead A fond heart sicken'd and a fair hope dead.

"So I have said, and I say it over, And can prove it over and over again, That the four-footed beasts on the red-crown'd clover, The pied and hornèd beasts on the plain That lie down, rise up, and repose again, And do never take care or toil or spin, Nor buy, nor build, nor gather in gold, Though the days go out and the tides come in, Are better than we by a thousand fold; For what is it all, in the words of fire, But a vexing of soul and a vain desire?"

With Walker in Nicaragua

<>I. H was a brick: let this be said Above my brave dishonored dead. I ask no more, this is not much, Yet I disdain a colder touch To memory as dear as his; For he was true as any star, And brave as Yuba's grizzlies are, Yet gentle as a panther is, Mouthing her young in her first fierce kiss; Tall, courtly, grand as any king, Yet simple as a child at play, In camp and court the same alway, And never moved at any thing; A dash of sadness in his air, Born, may be, of his over care, And, may be, born of a despair In early love—I never knew;

I question'd not, as many do, Of things as sacred as this is; I only knew that he to me Was all a father, friend, could be; I sought to know no more than this Of history of him or his.

A piercing eye, a princely air, A presence like a chevalier, Half angel and half Lucifer; Fair fingers, jewell'd manifold With great gems set in hoops of gold; Sombrero black, with plume of snow That swept his long silk locks below; A red serape with bars of gold, Heedless falling, fold on fold; A sash of silk, where flashing swung A sword as swift as serpent's tongue, In sheath of silver chased in gold; A face of blended pride and pain, Of mingled pleading and disdain, With shades of glory and of grief; And Spanish spurs with bells of steel That dash'd and dangl'd at the heel—

The famous filibuster chief Stood by his tent 'mid tall brown trees That top the fierce Cordilleras, With brawn arm arch'd above his brow;— Stood still—he stands, a picture, now— Long gazing down the sunset seas.

<>II. What strange strong bearded men were these He led toward the tropic seas! Men sometime of uncommon birth, Men rich in histories untold, Who boasted not, though more than bold, Blown from the four parts of the earth. Men mighty-thew'd as Samson was, That had been kings in any cause, A remnant of the races past; Dark-brow'd as if in iron cast, Broad-breasted as twin gates of brass,— Men strangely brave and fiercely true, Who dared the West when giants were, Who err'd, yet bravely dared to err; A remnant of that early few Who held no erime or curse or vice

As dark as that of cowardice; With blendings of the worst and best Of faults and virtues that have blest Or cursed or thrill'd the human breast.

They rode, a troop of bearded men, Rode two and two out from the town, And some were blonde and some were brown And all as brave as Sioux; but when From San Bennetto south the line That bound them in the laws of men Was passed, and peace stood mute behind And streamed a banner to the wind The world knew not, there was a sign Of awe, of silence, rear and van. Men thought who never thought before; I heard the clang and clash of steel From sword at hand or spur at heel And iron feet, but nothing more. Some thought of Texas, some of Maine, But more of rugged Tennessee,— Of scenes in Southern vales of wine, And scenes in Northern hills of pine As scenes they might not meet again;

And one of Avon thought, and one Thought of an isle beneath the sun, And one of Rowley, one the Rhine, And one turned sadly to the Spree.

Defeat meant something more than death. The world was ready, keen to smite, As stern and still beneath its ban With iron will and bated breath, Their hands against their fellow-man, They rode—each man an Ishmaelite. But when we struck the hills of pine, These men dismounted, doffed their cares, Talked loud and laughed old love affairs, And on the grass took meat and wine, And never gave a thought again To land or life that lay behind, Or love, or care of any kind Beyond the present cross or pain.

And I, a waif of stormy seas, A child among such men as these, Was blown along this savage surf And rested with them on the turf,

And took delight below the trees. I did not question, did not care To know the right or wrong. I saw That savage freedom had a spell, And loved it more than I can tell, And snapped my fingers at the law. I bear my burden of the shame,— I shun it not, and naught forget, However much I may regret: I claim some candor to my name, And courage cannot change or die.— Did they deserve to die? they died. Let justice then be satisfied, And as for me, why what am I?

The standing side by side till death, The dying for some wounded friend, The faith that failed not to the end, The strong endurance till the breath And body took their ways apart, I only know. I keep my trust. Their vices! earth has them by heart. Their virtues! they are with their dust.

How wound we through the solid wood, With all its broad boughs hung in green, With lichen-mosses trail'd between! How waked the spotted beasts of prey, Deep sleeping from the face of day, And dash'd them like a troubled flood Down some defile and denser wood!

And snakes, long, lithe and beautiful As green and graceful-bough'd bamboo, Did twist and twine them through and through The boughs that hung red-fruited full. One, monster-sized, above me hung, Close eyed me with his bright pink eyes, Then raised his folds, and sway'd and swung, And lick'd like lightning his red tongue, Then oped his wide mouth with surprise; He writhed and curved, and raised and lower'd His folds like liftings of the tide, And sank so low I touched his side, As I rode by, with my broad sword.

The trees shook hands high overhead, And bow'd and intertwined across

The narrow way, while leaves and moss And luscious fruit, gold-hued and red, Through all the canopy of green, Let not one sunshaft shoot between.

Birds hung and swung, green-robed and red, Or droop'd in curved lines dreamily, Rainbows reversed, from tree to tree, Or sang low-hanging overhead— Sang low, as if they sang and slept, Sang faint, like some far waterfall, And took no note of us at all, Though nuts that in the way were spread Did crush and crackle as we stept.

Wild lilies, tall as maidens are, As sweet of breath, as pearly fair, As fair as faith, as pure as truth, Fell thick before our every tread, As in a sacrifice to ruth, And all the air with perfume fill'd More sweet than ever man distill'd. The ripen'd fruit a fragrance shed And hung in hand-reach overhead,

In nest of blossoms on the shoot, The bending shoot that bore the fruit.

How ran the monkeys through the leaves! How rush'd they through, brown clad and blue, Like shuttles hurried through and through The threads a hasty weaver weaves!