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AN ARCTIC VISION

 
     Where the short-legged Esquimaux
     Waddle in the ice and snow,
     And the playful Polar bear
     Nips the hunter unaware;
     Where by day they track the ermine,
     And by night another vermin,—
     Segment of the frigid zone,
     Where the temperature alone
     Warms on St. Elias' cone;
     Polar dock, where Nature slips
     From the ways her icy ships;
     Land of fox and deer and sable,
     Shore end of our western cable,—
     Let the news that flying goes
     Thrill through all your Arctic floes,
     And reverberate the boast
     From the cliffs off Beechey's coast,
     Till the tidings, circling round
     Every bay of Norton Sound,
     Throw the vocal tide-wave back
     To the isles of Kodiac.
     Let the stately Polar bears
     Waltz around the pole in pairs,
     And the walrus, in his glee,
     Bare his tusk of ivory;
     While the bold sea-unicorn
     Calmly takes an extra horn;
     All ye Polar skies, reveal your
     Very rarest of parhelia;
     Trip it, all ye merry dancers,
     In the airiest of "Lancers;"
     Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide,
     One inch farther to the tide,
     Nor in rash precipitation
     Upset Tyndall's calculation.
     Know you not what fate awaits you,
     Or to whom the future mates you?
     All ye icebergs, make salaam,—
     You belong to Uncle Sam!
 
 
     On the spot where Eugene Sue
     Led his wretched Wandering Jew,
     Stands a form whose features strike
     Russ and Esquimaux alike.
     He it is whom Skalds of old
     In their Runic rhymes foretold;
     Lean of flank and lank of jaw,
     See the real Northern Thor!
     See the awful Yankee leering
     Just across the Straits of Behring;
     On the drifted snow, too plain,
     Sinks his fresh tobacco stain,
     Just beside the deep inden-
     Tation of his Number 10.
 
 
     Leaning on his icy hammer
     Stands the hero of this drama,
     And above the wild-duck's clamor,
     In his own peculiar grammar,
     With its linguistic disguises,
     La! the Arctic prologue rises:
     "Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad,
     Seein' ez 'twas all they had.
 
 
     True, the Springs are rather late,
     And early Falls predominate;
     But the ice-crop's pretty sure,
     And the air is kind o' pure;
     'Tain't so very mean a trade,
     When the land is all surveyed.
     There's a right smart chance for fur-chase
     All along this recent purchase,
     And, unless the stories fail,
     Every fish from cod to whale;
     Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,—
     'Twould be strange if there should be,—
     Seems I've heerd such stories told;
     Eh!—why, bless us,—yes, it's gold!"
 
 
     While the blows are falling thick
     From his California pick,
     You may recognize the Thor
     Of the vision that I saw,—
     Freed from legendary glamour,
     See the real magician's hammer.
 

ST. THOMAS

(A GEOGRAPHICAL SURVEY, 1868)

 
     Very fair and full of promise
     Lay the island of St. Thomas:
     Ocean o'er its reefs and bars
     Hid its elemental scars;
     Groves of cocoanut and guava
     Grew above its fields of lava.
     So the gem of the Antilles—
     "Isles of Eden," where no ill is—
     Like a great green turtle slumbered
     On the sea that it encumbered.
 
 
     Then said William Henry Seward,
     As he cast his eye to leeward,
     "Quite important to our commerce
     Is this island of St. Thomas."
 
 
     Said the Mountain ranges, "Thank'ee,
     But we cannot stand the Yankee
     O'er our scars and fissures poring,
     In our very vitals boring,
     In our sacred caverns prying,
     All our secret problems trying,—
     Digging, blasting, with dynamit
     Mocking all our thunders!  Damn it!
     Other lands may be more civil;
     Bust our lava crust if we will!"
 
 
     Said the Sea, its white teeth gnashing
     Through its coral-reef lips flashing,
     "Shall I let this scheming mortal
     Shut with stone my shining portal,
     Curb my tide and check my play,
     Fence with wharves my shining bay?
     Rather let me be drawn out
     In one awful waterspout!"
 
 
     Said the black-browed Hurricane,
     Brooding down the Spanish Main,
     "Shall I see my forces, zounds!
     Measured by square inch and pounds,
     With detectives at my back
     When I double on my track,
     And my secret paths made clear,
     Published o'er the hemisphere
     To each gaping, prying crew?
     Shall I?  Blow me if I do!"
 
 
     So the Mountains shook and thundered,
     And the Hurricane came sweeping,
     And the people stared and wondered
     As the Sea came on them leaping:
     Each, according to his promise,
     Made things lively at St. Thomas.
 
 
     Till one morn, when Mr. Seward
     Cast his weather eye to leeward,
     There was not an inch of dry land
     Left to mark his recent island.
     Not a flagstaff or a sentry,
     Not a wharf or port of entry,—
     Only—to cut matters shorter—
     Just a patch of muddy water
     In the open ocean lying,
     And a gull above it flying.
 

OFF SCARBOROUGH

(SEPTEMBER, 1779)

I

 
     "Have a care!" the bailiffs cried
       From their cockleshell that lay
     Off the frigate's yellow side,
       Tossing on Scarborough Bay,
     While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched away.
     "Take your chicks beneath your wings,
       And your claws and feathers spread,
     Ere the hawk upon them springs,—
       Ere around Flamborough Head
     Swoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and talons red."
 

II

 
     How we laughed!—my mate and I,—
       On the "Bon Homme Richard's" deck,
     As we saw that convoy fly
       Like a snow-squall, till each fleck
     Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by speck;
     And scuffling back to shore
       The Scarborough bailiffs sped,
     As the "Richard" with a roar
       Of her cannon round the Head,
     Crossed her royal yards and signaled to her consort: "Chase ahead"
 

III

 
     But the devil seize Landais
       In that consort ship of France!
     For the shabby, lubber way
       That he worked the "Alliance"
     In the offing,—nor a broadside fired save to our mischance!—
     When tumbling to the van,
       With his battle-lanterns set,
     Rose the burly Englishman
       'Gainst our hull as black as jet,—
     Rode the yellow-sided "Serapis," and all alone we met!
 

IV

 
     All alone, though far at sea
       Hung his consort, rounding to;
     All alone, though on our lee
       Fought our "Pallas," stanch and true!
     For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle drew:
     And, like champions in a ring,
       There was cleared a little space—
     Scarce a cable's length to swing—
       Ere we grappled in embrace,
     All the world shut out around us, and we only face to face!
 

V

 
     Then awoke all hell below
       From that broadside, doubly curst,
     For our long eighteens in row
       Leaped the first discharge and burst!
     And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own guns the worst.
     And as dumb we lay, till, through
       Smoke and flame and bitter cry,
     Hailed the "Serapis:" "Have you
       Struck your colors?" Our reply,
     "We have not yet begun to fight!" went shouting to the sky!
 

VI

 
     Roux of Brest, old fisher, lay
       Like a herring gasping here;
     Bunker of Nantucket Bay,
       Blown from out the port, dropped sheer
     Half a cable's length to leeward; yet we faintly raised a cheer
     As with his own right hand
       Our Commodore made fast
     The foeman's head-gear and
       The "Richard's" mizzen-mast,
     And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to last!
 

VII

 
     Yet the foeman, gun on gun,
       Through the "Richard" tore a road,
     With his gunners' rammers run
       Through our ports at every load,
     Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers showed.
     Yet with entrails torn we clung
       Like the Spartan to our fox,
     And on deck no coward tongue
       Wailed the enemy's hard knocks,
     Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks.
 

VIII

 
     Then a thought rose in my brain,
       As through Channel mists the sun.
     From our tops a fire like rain
       Drove below decks every one
     Of the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a gun:
     And that thought took shape as I
       On the "Richard's" yard lay out,
     That a man might do and die,
       If the doing brought about
     Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates' cheering shout!
 

IX

 
     Then I crept out in the dark
       Till I hung above the hatch
     Of the "Serapis,"—a mark
       For her marksmen!—with a match
     And a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to snatch
     One last look at sea and sky!
       At the lighthouse on the hill!
     At the harvest-moon on high!
       And our pine flag fluttering still!
     Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that devil's pill!
 

X

 
     Then a blank was all between
       As the flames around me spun!
     Had I fired the magazine?
       Was the victory lost or won?
     Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was done:
     For I lay among the dead
       In the cockpit of our foe,
     With a roar above my head,—
       Till a trampling to and fro,
     And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what now you know!
 

CADET GREY

CANTO I

I

 
     Act first, scene first.  A study.  Of a kind
       Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave;
     Rare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mind
       Of common man to compass or to crave;
     Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined
       The soul at first to trifling, till, dismayed
     By text and title, it drew back resigned,
       Nor cared with levity to vex a shade
       That to itself such perfect concord made.
 

II

 
     Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain
       Of Jones, Lawgiver to the Commonwealth,
     As on the threshold of this chaste domain
       He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth
     To darkened canvases that frowned amain,
       With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began
     To spread their roots in Georgius Primus' reign,
       Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan,
       Their century fruit,—the perfect Boston man.
 

III

 
     Somewhere within that Russia-scented gloom
       A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear:
     "Brief is our business, Jones.  Look round this room!
       Regard yon portraits!  Read their meaning clear!
     These much proclaim MY station.  I presume
       YOU are our Congressman, before whose wit
     And sober judgment shall the youth appear
       Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit
       To serve his country and to honor it."
 

IV

 
     "Such is my son!  Elsewhere perhaps 'twere wise
       Trial competitive should guide your choice.
     There are some people I can well surmise
       Themselves must show their merits.  History's voice
     Spares me that trouble: all desert that lies
       In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day,
     Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy's,—
       Reverts to him; entailed, as one might say;
       In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey!"
 

V

 
     He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled,
       On the cropped head of one who stood beside.
     Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy child
       Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride;
     'Twas but a Mind that somehow had beguiled
       From soulless Matter processes that served
     For speech and motion and digestion mild,
       Content if all one moral purpose nerved,
       Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved.
 

VI

 
     He was scarce eighteen.  Yet ere he was eight
       He had despoiled the classics; much he knew
     Of Sanskrit; not that he placed undue weight
       On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew,
     His favorite tongue.  He learned, alas! too late,
       One can't begin too early,—would regret
     That boyish whim to ascertain the state
       Of Venus' atmosphere made him forget
       That philologic goal on which his soul was set.
 

VII

 
     He too had traveled; at the age of ten
       Found Paris empty, dull except for art
     And accent.  "Mabille" with its glories then
       Less than Egyptian "Almees" touched a heart
     Nothing if not pure classic.  If some men
       Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit,
     But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen,
       The better to instruct them, through some sheet
       Published in Boston, and signed "Beacon Street."
 

VIII

 
     From premises so plain the blind could see
       But one deduction, and it came next day.
     "In times like these, the very name of G.
       Speaks volumes," wrote the Honorable J.
     "Inclosed please find appointment."  Presently
       Came a reception to which Harvard lent
     Fourteen professors, and, to give esprit,
       The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent,
       Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment.
 

IX

 
     Four poets came who loved each other's song,
       And two philosophers, who thought that they
     Were in most things impractical and wrong;
       And two reformers, each in his own way
     Peculiar,—one who had waxed strong
       On herbs and water, and such simple fare;
     Two foreign lions, "Ram See" and "Chy Long,"
       And several artists claimed attention there,
       Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere.
 

X

 
     With this indorsement nothing now remained
       But counsel, Godspeed, and some calm adieux;
     No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained,
       And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew.
     A slight publicity, such as obtained
       In classic Rome, these few last hours attended.
     The day arrived, the train and depot gained,
       The mayor's own presence this last act commended
       The train moved off and here the first act ended.
 

CANTO II

I

 
     Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield
       Turns the whole river eastward through the pass;
     Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed
       Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas;
     Where buttressed low against the storms that wield
       Their summer lightnings where her eaglets swarm,
     By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeled
       Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm
       Of leveled lances bares her bosom warm.
 

II

 
     But not to-night.  The air and woods are still,
       The faintest rustle in the trees below,
     The lowest tremor from the mountain rill,
       Come to the ear as but the trailing flow
     Of spirit robes that walk unseen the hill;
       The moon low sailing o'er the upland farm,
     The moon low sailing where the waters fill
       The lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm,
       Gleams like a chevron on the river's arm.
 

III

 
     All space breathes languor: from the hilltop high,
       Where Putnam's bastion crumbles in the past,
     To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lie
       And wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast;
     Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and die
       On the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream;
     Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by,
       Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleam
       Far on the level plain, then passes as a dream.
 

IV

 
     Soft down the line of darkened battlements,
       Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls,
     Where the low arching sallyport indents,
       Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam falls.
     All is repose save where the camping tents
       Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound
     No morning guns for reveille, nor whence
       No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found
       Waiting and present on each sentry's round.
 

V

 
     Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave,
       Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame,
     Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave;
       Bred to fear nothing but reproach and blame,
     Ascetic dandies o'er whom vestals rave,
       Clean-limbed young Spartans, disciplined young elves,
     Taught to destroy, that they may live to save,
       Students embattled, soldiers at their shelves,
       Heroes whose conquests are at first themselves.
 

VI

 
     Within the camp they lie, in dreams are freed
       From the grim discipline they learn to love;
     In dreams no more the sentry's challenge heed,
       In dreams afar beyond their pickets rove;
     One treads once more the piny paths that lead
       To his green mountain home, and pausing hears
     The cattle call; one treads the tangled weed
       Of slippery rocks beside Atlantic piers;
       One smiles in sleep, one wakens wet with tears.
 

VII

 
     One scents the breath of jasmine flowers that twine
       The pillared porches of his Southern home;
     One hears the coo of pigeons in the pine
       Of Western woods where he was wont to roam;
     One sees the sunset fire the distant line
       Where the long prairie sweeps its levels down;
     One treads the snow-peaks; one by lamps that shine
       Down the broad highways of the sea-girt town;
       And two are missing,—Cadets Grey and Brown!
 

VIII

 
     Much as I grieve to chronicle the fact,
       That selfsame truant known as "Cadet Grey"
     Was the young hero of our moral tract,
       Shorn of his twofold names on entrance-day.
     "Winthrop" and "Adams" dropped in that one act
       Of martial curtness, and the roll-call thinned
     Of his ancestors, he with youthful tact
       Indulgence claimed, since Winthrop no more sinned,
     Nor sainted Adams winced when he, plain Grey, was "skinned."
 

IX

 
     He had known trials since we saw him last,
       By sheer good luck had just escaped rejection,
     Not for his learning, but that it was cast
       In a spare frame scarce fit for drill inspection;
     But when he ope'd his lips a stream so vast
       Of information flooded each professor,
     They quite forgot his eyeglass,—something past
       All precedent,—accepting the transgressor,
       Weak eyes and all of which he was possessor.
 

X

 
     E'en the first day he touched a blackboard's space—
       So the tradition of his glory lingers—
     Two wise professors fainted, each with face
       White as the chalk within his rapid fingers:
     All day he ciphered, at such frantic pace,
       His form was hid in chalk precipitation
     Of every problem, till they said his case
       Could meet from them no fair examination
       Till Congress made a new appropriation.
 

XI

 
     Famous in molecules, he demonstrated
       From the mess hash to many a listening classful;
     Great as a botanist, he separated
       Three kinds of "Mentha" in one julep's glassful;
     High in astronomy, it has been stated
       He was the first at West Point to discover
     Mars' missing satellites, and calculated
       Their true positions, not the heavens over,
       But 'neath the window of Miss Kitty Rover.
 

XII

 
     Indeed, I fear this novelty celestial
       That very night was visible and clear;
     At least two youths of aspect most terrestrial,
       And clad in uniform, were loitering near
     A villa's casement, where a gentle vestal
       Took their impatience somewhat patiently,
     Knowing the youths were somewhat green and "bestial"—
       (A certain slang of the Academy,
       I beg the reader won't refer to me).
 

XIII

 
     For when they ceased their ardent strain, Miss Kitty
       Glowed not with anger nor a kindred flame,
     But rather flushed with an odd sort of pity,
       Half matron's kindness, and half coquette's shame;
     Proud yet quite blameful, when she heard their ditty
       She gave her soul poetical expression,
     And being clever too, as she was pretty,
       From her high casement warbled this confession,—
       Half provocation and one half repression:—
 

NOT YET

 
     Not yet, O friend, not yet! the patient stars
     Lean from their lattices, content to wait.
     All is illusion till the morning bars
     Slip from the levels of the Eastern gate.
     Night is too young, O friend! day is too near;
     Wait for the day that maketh all things clear.
           Not yet, O friend, not yet!
 
 
     Not yet, O love, not yet! all is not true,
     All is not ever as it seemeth now.
     Soon shall the river take another blue,
     Soon dies yon light upon the mountain brow.
     What lieth dark, O love, bright day will fill;
     Wait for thy morning, be it good or ill.
           Not yet, O love, not yet!
 

XIV

 
     The strain was finished; softly as the night
       Her voice died from the window, yet e'en then
     Fluttered and fell likewise a kerchief white;
       But that no doubt was accident, for when
     She sought her couch she deemed her conduct quite
       Beyond the reach of scandalous commenter,—
     Washing her hands of either gallant wight,
       Knowing the moralist might compliment her,—
       Thus voicing Siren with the words of Mentor.
 

XV

 
     She little knew the youths below, who straight
       Dived for her kerchief, and quite overlooked
     The pregnant moral she would inculcate;
       Nor dreamed the less how little Winthrop brooked
     Her right to doubt his soul's maturer state.
       Brown—who was Western, amiable, and new—
     Might take the moral and accept his fate;
       The which he did, but, being stronger too,
       Took the white kerchief, also, as his due.
 

XVI

 
     They did not quarrel, which no doubt seemed queer
       To those who knew not how their friendship blended;
     Each was opposed, and each the other's peer,
       Yet each the other in some things transcended.
     Where Brown lacked culture, brains,—and oft, I fear,
       Cash in his pocket,—Grey of course supplied him;
     Where Grey lacked frankness, force, and faith sincere,
       Brown of his manhood suffered none to chide him,
       But in his faults stood manfully beside him.
 

XVII

 
     In academic walks and studies grave,
       In the camp drill and martial occupation,
     They helped each other: but just here I crave
       Space for the reader's full imagination,—
     The fact is patent, Grey became a slave!
       A tool, a fag, a "pleb"!  To state it plainer,
     All that blue blood and ancestry e'er gave
       Cleaned guns, brought water!—was, in fact, retainer
       To Jones, whose uncle was a paper-stainer!
 

XVIII

 
     How they bore this at home I cannot say:
       I only know so runs the gossip's tale.
     It chanced one day that the paternal Grey
       Came to West Point that he himself might hail
     The future hero in some proper way
       Consistent with his lineage.  With him came
     A judge, a poet, and a brave array
       Of aunts and uncles, bearing each a name,
       Eyeglass and respirator with the same.
 

XIX

 
     "Observe!" quoth Grey the elder to his friends,
       "Not in these giddy youths at baseball playing
     You'll notice Winthrop Adams!  Greater ends
       Than these absorb HIS leisure.  No doubt straying
     With Caesar's Commentaries, he attends
       Some Roman council.  Let us ask, however,
     Yon grimy urchin, who my soul offends
       By wheeling offal, if he will endeavor
       To find—  What! heaven!  Winthrop!  Oh! no! never!"
 

XX

 
     Alas! too true!  The last of all the Greys
       Was "doing police detail,"—it had come
     To this; in vain the rare historic bays
       That crowned the pictured Puritans at home!
     And yet 'twas certain that in grosser ways
       Of health and physique he was quite improving.
     Straighter he stood, and had achieved some praise
       In other exercise, much more behooving
       A soldier's taste than merely dirt removing.
 

XXI

 
     But to resume: we left the youthful pair,
       Some stanzas back, before a lady's bower;
     'Tis to be hoped they were no longer there,
       For stars were pointing to the morning hour.
     Their escapade discovered, ill 'twould fare
       With our two heroes, derelict of orders;
     But, like the ghost, they "scent the morning air,"
       And back again they steal across the borders,
       Unseen, unheeded, by their martial warders.
 

XXII

 
     They got to bed with speed: young Grey to dream
       Of some vague future with a general's star,
     And Mistress Kitty basking in its gleam;
       While Brown, content to worship her afar,
     Dreamed himself dying by some lonely stream,
       Having snatched Kitty from eighteen Nez Perces,
     Till a far bugle, with the morning beam,
       In his dull ear its fateful song rehearses,
       Which Winthrop Adams after put to verses.
 

XXIII

 
     So passed three years of their novitiate,
       The first real boyhood Grey had ever known.
     His youth ran clear,—not choked like his Cochituate,
       In civic pipes, but free and pure alone;
     Yet knew repression, could himself habituate
       To having mind and body well rubbed down,
     Could read himself in others, and could situate
       Themselves in him,—except, I grieve to own,
       He couldn't see what Kitty saw in Brown!
 

XXIV

 
     At last came graduation; Brown received
       In the One Hundredth Cavalry commission;
     Then frolic, flirting, parting,—when none grieved
       Save Brown, who loved our young Academician.
     And Grey, who felt his friend was still deceived
       By Mistress Kitty, who with other beauties
     Graced the occasion, and it was believed
       Had promised Brown that when he could recruit his
       Promised command, she'd share with him those duties.
 

XXV

 
     Howe'er this was I know not; all I know,
       The night was June's, the moon rode high and clear;
     "'Twas such a night as this," three years ago,
       Miss Kitty sang the song that two might hear.
     There is a walk where trees o'erarching grow,
       Too wide for one, not wide enough for three
     (A fact precluding any plural beau),
       Which quite explained Miss Kitty's company,
       But not why Grey that favored one should be.
 

XXVI

 
     There is a spring, whose limpid waters hide
       Somewhere within the shadows of that path
     Called Kosciusko's.  There two figures bide,—
       Grey and Miss Kitty.  Surely Nature hath
     No fairer mirror for a might-be bride
       Than this same pool that caught our gentle belle
     To its dark heart one moment.  At her side
       Grey bent.  A something trembled o'er the well,
       Bright, spherical—a tear?  Ah no! a button fell!
 

XXVII

 
     "Material minds might think that gravitation,"
       Quoth Grey, "drew yon metallic spheroid down.
     The soul poetic views the situation
       Fraught with more meaning.  When thy girlish crown
     Was mirrored there, there was disintegration
       Of me, and all my spirit moved to you,
     Taking the form of slow precipitation!"
       But here came "Taps," a start, a smile, adieu!
       A blush, a sigh, and end of Canto II.
 

BUGLE SONG

 
     Fades the light,
       And afar
     Goeth day, cometh night;
       And a star
           Leadeth all,
           Speedeth all
                  To their rest!
 
 
     Love, good-night!
       Must thou go
       When the day
     And the light
           Need thee so,—
     Needeth all,
     Heedeth all,
           That is best?
 

CANTO III

I

 
     Where the sun sinks through leagues of arid sky,
       Where the sun dies o'er leagues of arid plain,
     Where the dead bones of wasted rivers lie,
       Trailed from their channels in yon mountain chain;
     Where day by day naught takes the wearied eye
       But the low-rimming mountains, sharply based
     On the dead levels, moving far or nigh,
       As the sick vision wanders o'er the waste,
       But ever day by day against the sunset traced:
 

II

 
     There moving through a poisonous cloud that stings
       With dust of alkali the trampling band
     Of Indian ponies, ride on dusky wings
       The red marauders of the Western land;
     Heavy with spoil, they seek the trail that brings
       Their flaunting lances to that sheltered bank
     Where lie their lodges; and the river sings
       Forgetful of the plain beyond, that drank
       Its life blood, where the wasted caravan sank.
 

III

 
     They brought with them the thief's ignoble spoil,
       The beggar's dole, the greed of chiffonnier,
     The scum of camps, the implements of toil
       Snatched from dead hands, to rust as useless here;
     All they could rake or glean from hut or soil
       Piled their lean ponies, with the jackdaw's greed
     For vacant glitter.  It were scarce a foil
       To all this tinsel that one feathered reed
       Bore on its barb two scalps that freshly bleed!
 

IV

 
     They brought with them, alas! a wounded foe,
       Bound hand and foot, yet nursed with cruel care,
     Lest that in death he might escape one throe
       They had decreed his living flesh should bear:
     A youthful officer, by one foul blow
       Of treachery surprised, yet fighting still
     Amid his ambushed train, calm as the snow
       Above him; hopeless, yet content to spill
       His blood with theirs, and fighting but to kill.
 

V

 
     He had fought nobly, and in that brief spell
       Had won the awe of those rude border men
     Who gathered round him, and beside him fell
       In loyal faith and silence, save that when
     By smoke embarrassed, and near sight as well,
       He paused to wipe his eyeglass, and decide
     Its nearer focus, there arose a yell
       Of approbation, and Bob Barker cried,
       "Wade in, Dundreary!" tossed his cap and—died.
 

VI

 
     Their sole survivor now! his captors bear
       Him all unconscious, and beside the stream
     Leave him to rest; meantime the squaws prepare
       The stake for sacrifice: nor wakes a gleam
     Of pity in those Furies' eyes that glare
       Expectant of the torture; yet alway
     His steadfast spirit shines and mocks them there
       With peace they know not, till at close of day
       On his dull ear there thrills a whispered "Grey!"
 

VII

 
     He starts!  Was it a trick?  Had angels kind
       Touched with compassion some weak woman's breast?
     Such things he'd read of!  Faintly to his mind
       Came Pocahontas pleading for her guest.
     But then, this voice, though soft, was still inclined
       To baritone!  A squaw in ragged gown
     Stood near him, frowning hatred.  Was he blind?
       Whose eye was this beneath that beetling frown?
       The frown was painted, but that wink meant—Brown!
 

VIII

 
     "Hush! for your life and mine! the thongs are cut,"
       He whispers; "in yon thicket stands my horse.
     One dash!—I follow close, as if to glut
       My own revenge, yet bar the others' course.
     Now!"  And 'tis done.  Grey speeds, Brown follows; but
       Ere yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels,
     Yet not before Brown's circling arms close shut
       His in, uplifting him!  Anon he feels
       A horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling heels.
 

IX

 
     Then rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprang
       Headlong the savages in swift pursuit;
     Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hang
       Hot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot.
     Long is the chase; Brown hears with inward pang
       The short, hard panting of his gallant steed
     Beneath its double burden; vainly rang
       Both voice and spur.  The heaving flanks may bleed,
       Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed!
 

X

 
     Brown saw it—reined his steed; dismounting, stood
       Calm and inflexible.  "Old chap! you see
     There is but ONE escape.  You know it?  Good!
       There is ONE man to take it.  You are he.
     The horse won't carry double.  If he could,
       'Twould but protract this bother.  I shall stay:
     I've business with these devils, they with me;
       I will occupy them till you get away.
       Hush! quick time, forward.  There! God bless you, Grey!"
 

XI

 
     But as he finished, Grey slipped to his feet,
       Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye:
     "You do forget yourself when you compete
       With him whose RIGHT it is to stay and die:
     That's not YOUR duty.  Please regain your seat;
       And take my ORDERS—since I rank you here!—
     Mount and rejoin your men, and my defeat
       Report at quarters.  Take this letter; ne'er
       Give it to aught but HER, nor let aught interfere."
 

XII

 
     And, shamed and blushing, Brown the letter took
       Obediently and placed it in his pocket;
     Then, drawing forth another, said, "I look
       For death as you do, wherefore take this locket
     And letter."  Here his comrade's hand he shook
       In silence.  "Should we both together fall,
     Some other man"—but here all speech forsook
       His lips, as ringing cheerily o'er all
       He heard afar his own dear bugle-call!
 

XIII

 
     'Twas his command and succor, but e'en then
       Grey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgot
     He likewise had been wounded, and both men
       Were picked up quite unconscious of their lot.
     Long lay they in extremity, and when
       They both grew stronger, and once more exchanged
     Old vows and memories, one common "den"
       In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged,
       Awaiting orders, but no more estranged.
 

XIV

 
     And yet 'twas strange—nor can I end my tale
       Without this moral, to be fair and just:
     They never sought to know why each did fail
       The prompt fulfillment of the other's trust.
     It was suggested they could not avail
       Themselves of either letter, since they were
     Duly dispatched to their address by mail
       By Captain X., who knew Miss Rover fair
       Now meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank Square.