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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 reached far over
To the tree of promise, and have plucked 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 labour
For maid or man, good name or neighbour;
For I have given, and what have I?—
Given all my youth, my years, and labour,
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 deferred,

And the strong heart sickens, and the soul is stirred
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 Starred and barred by the bolts of fire,

In storms where stars are riven, and driven

As clouds through heaven, as a dust blown higher;
The angels hurled 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 hardened, and the hands grow

weary,

Holding them up for their heritage.

"And the strained heart-strings wear bare and brittle, And the fond hope dies when so long deferred; Then the fair hope lies in the heart interred,

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 sickened and a fair hope dead.

"So I have said, and I say it over,

And can prove it over and over again,

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That the four-footed beasts on the red-crowned 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.

HE was a brick : let this be said
Above my brave dishonoured 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 anyking,

Yet simple as a child at play,

In camp and court the same alway,
And never moved at anything;
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 questioned 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, jewelled 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 dashed and dangled at the heel-
The famous filibuster chief

Stood by his tent 'mid tall brown trees
That top the fierce Cordilleras,

With brawn arm arched 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-thewed as Samson was,
That had been kings in any cause,
A remnant of the races past;
Dark-browed 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 erred, yet bravely dared to err;
A remnant of that early few

Who held no crime or curse or vice
As dark as that of cowardice;
With blendings of the worst and best

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Of faults and virtues that have blest
Or cursed or thrilled 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 means 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.

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