The King Of The Vasse

A LEGEND OF THE BUSH. MY tale which I have brought is of a time Ere that fair Southern land was stained with crime, Brought thitherward in reeking ships and cast Like blight upon the coast, or like a blast From angry levin on a fair young tree, That stands thenceforth a piteous sight to see. So lives this land to-day beneath the sun,— A weltering plague-spot, where the hot tears run, And hearts to ashes turn, and souls are dried Like empty kilns where hopes have parched and died. Woe's cloak is round her,—she the fairest shore In all the Southern Ocean o'er and o'er. Poor Cinderella! she must bide her woe, Because an elder sister wills it so. Ah! could that sister see the future day When her own wealth and strength are shorn away, A.nd she, lone mother then, puts forth her hand To rest on kindred blood in that far land; Could she but see that kin deny her claim Because of nothing owing her but shame,— Then might she learn 'tis building but to fall, If carted rubble be the basement-wall. But this my tale, if tale it be, begins Before the young land saw the old land's sins Sail up the orient ocean, like a cloud Far-blown, and widening as it neared,—a shroud Fate-sent to wrap the bier of all things pure, And mark the leper-land while stains endure. In the far days, the few who sought the West Were men all guileless, in adventurous quest Of lands to feed their flocks and raise their grain, And help them live their lives with less of pain Than crowded Europe lets her children know. From their old homesteads did they seaward go, As if in Nature's order men must flee As flow the streams,—from inlands to the sea. In that far time, from out a Northern land, With home-ties severed, went a numerous band Of men and wives and children, white-haired folk: Whose humble hope of rest at home had broke, As year was piled on year, and still their toil Had wrung poor fee from -Sweden's rugged soil. One day there gathered from the neighboring steads, In Jacob Eibsen's, five strong household heads,— Five men large-limbed and sinewed, Jacob's sons, Though he was hale, as one whose current runs In stony channels, that the streamlet rend, But keep it clear and full unto the end. Eight sons had Jacob Eibsen,—three still boys, And these five men, who owned of griefs and joys The common lot; and three tall girls beside, Of whom the eldest was a blushing bride One year before. Old-fashioned times and men, And wives and maidens, were in Sweden then. These five came there for counsel: they were tired Of hoping on for all the heart desired; And Jacob, old but mighty-thewed as youth, In all their words did sadly own the truth, And said unto them, 'Wealth cannot be found In Sweden now by men who till the ground. I've thought at times of leaving this bare place, And holding seaward with a seeking face For those new lands they speak of, where men thrive. Alone .I've thought of this-; but now you five— Five brother men of Eibsen blood—shall say If our old stock from here must wend their way, And seek a home where anxious sires can give To every child enough whereon to live.' Then each took thought in silence. Jacob gazed Across them at the pastures worn and grazed By ill-fed herds; his glance to corn-fields passed, Where stunted oats, worse each year than the last, And blighted barley, grew amongst the stones, That showed ungainly, like earth's fleshless bones. He sighed, and turned away. 'Sons, let me know What think you?' Each one answered firm, 'We go.' And then they said, 'We want no northern wind To chill us more, or driving hail to blind. But let us sail where south winds fan the sea, And happier we and all our race shall be.' And so in time there started for the coast, With farm and household gear, this Eibsen host; And there, with others, to a good ship passed, Which soon of Sweden's hills beheld the last. I know not of their voyage, nor how they Did wonder-stricken sit, as day by day, 'Neath tropic rays, they saw the smooth sea swell And heave; while night by night the north-star fell, Till last they watched him burning on the sea; Nor how they saw, and wondered it could be, Strange beacons rise before them as they gazed: Nor how their hearts grew light when southward blazed Five stars in blessed shape,—the Cross! whose flame Seemed shining welcome as the wanderers came. My story presses from this star-born hope To where on young New Holland's western slope These Northern-farming folk found homes at last, And all their thankless toil seemed now long past. Nine fruitful years chased over, and nigh all Of life was sweet. But one dark dropp of gall Had come when first they landed, like a sign Of some black woe; and deep in Eibsen's wine Of life it hid, till in the sweetest cup The old man saw its shape come shuddering up. And first it came in this wise: when their ship Had made the promised land, and every lip Was pouring praise for what the eye did meet,— For all the air was yellow as with heat Above the peaceful sea and dazzling sand That wooed each other round the beauteous land, Where inward stretched the slumbering forest's green,— When first these sights from off the deck were seen, There rose a wailing stern wards, and the men Who dreamt of heaven turned to earth agen, And heard the direful cause with bated breath,— The land's first gleam had brought the blight of death! The wife of Eibsen held her six-years' son, Her youngest, and in secret best-loved one, Close to her lifeless: his had been the cry That first horizonwards bent every eye; And from that opening sight of sand and tree Like one deep spell-bound did he seem to be, And moved by some strange phantasy; his eyes Were wide distended as in glad surprise At something there he saw; his arms reached o'er The vessel's side as if to greet the shore, And sounds came from his lips like sobs of joy. A brief time so; and then the blue-eyed boy Sank down convulsed, as if to him appeared Strange sights that they saw not; and all afeard Grew the late joyous people with vague dread; And loud the mother wailed above her dead. The ship steered in and found a bay, and then The anchor plunged aweary-like: the men Breathed breaths of rest at treading land agen. Upon the beach by Christian men untrod The wanderers kneeling offered up to God The land's first-fruits; and nigh the kneeling band The burdened mother sat upon the sand, And still she wailed, not praying. 'Neath the wood That lined the beach a crowd of watchers stood: Tall men spear-armed, with skins like dusky night, And aspect blended of deep awe and fright. The ship that morn they saw, like some vast bird, Come sailing toward their country; and they heard The voices now of those strange men whose eyes Were turned aloft, who spake unto the skies! They heard and feared, not knowing, that first prayer, But feared not when the wail arose, for there Was some familiar thing did not appall,— Grief, common heritage and lot of all. They moved and breathed more freely at the cry, And slowly from the wood, and timorously, They one by one emerged upon the beach. The white men saw, and like to friends did reach Their hands unarmed; and soon the dusky crowd Drew nigh and stood where wailed the mother loud. They claimed her kindred, they could understand That woe was hers and theirs; whereas the band Of white-skinned men did not as brethren seem. But now, behold! a man, whom one would deem From eye and mien, wherever met, a King, Did stand beside the woman. No youth's spring Was in the foot that naked pressed the sand; No warrior's might was in the long dark hand That waved his people backward; no bright gold. Of lace or armor glittered; gaunt and old,— A belt, half apron, made of emu-down, Upon his loins; upon his head no crown Save only that which eighty years did trace In whitened hair above his furrowed face. Nigh nude he was: a short fur boka hung In toga-folds upon his back, but flung From his right arm and shoulder,—ever there The spear-arm of the warrior is bare. So stood he nigh the woman, gaunt and wild But king-like, spearless, looking on the child That lay with livid face upon her knees. Thus long and fixed he gazed, as one who sees A symbol hidden in a simple thing, And trembles at its meaning: so the King Fell trembling there, and from his breast there broke A cry, part joy, part fear; then to his folk With upraised hands he spoke one guttural word, And said it over thrice; and when they heard, They, too, were stricken with strange fear and joy. The white-haired King then to the breathless boy Drew closer still, while all the dusky crowd In weird abasement to the earth were bowed. Across his breast the aged ruler wore A leathern thong or belt; whate'er it bore Was hidden 'neath the boka. As he drew Anigh the mother, from his side he threw Far back the skin that made his rich-furred robe, And showed upon the belt a small red globe Of carven wood, bright-polished, as with years: When this they saw, deep grew his people's fears, And to the white sand were their foreheads pressed. The King then raised his arms, as if he blest The youth who lay there seeming dead and cold; Then took the globe and oped it, and behold! Within it, bedded in the carven case, There lay a precious thing for that rude race To hold, though it as God they seemed to prize, — A Pearl of purest hue and wondrous size! And as the sunbeams kissed it, from the dead The dusk King looked, and o'er his snowy head With both long hands he raised the enthroned gem, And turned him toward the strangers: e'en on them Before the lovely Thing, an awe did fall To see that worship deep and mystical, That King with upraised god, like rev' rent priest With elevated Host at Christian feast. Then to the mother turning slow, the King Took out the Pearl, and laid the beauteous Thing Upon the dead boy's mouth and brow and breast, And as it touched him, lo! the awful rest Of death was broken, and the youth uprose! * * * * * * * Nine years passed over since on that fair shore The wanderers knelt,—but wanderers they no more. With hopeful hearts they bore the promise-pain Of early labor, and soon bending grain And herds and homesteads and a teeming soil A thousand-fold repaid their patient toil. Nine times the sun's high glory glared above, As if his might set naught on human love, But yearned to scorn and scorch the things that grew On man's poor home, till all the forest's hue Of blessed green was burned to dusty brown; And still the ruthless rays rained fiercely down, Till insects, reptiles, shriveled as they lay, And piteous cracks, like lips, in parching clay Sent silent pleadings skyward,—as if she, The fruitful, generous mother, plaintively Did wail for water. Lo! her cry is heard, And swift, obedient to the Ruler's word, From Southern Iceland sweeps the cool sea breeze, To fan the earth and bless the suffering trees, And bear dense clouds with bursting weight of rain To soothe with moisture all the parching pain. Oh, Mercy's sweetest symbol! only they Who see the earth agape in burning day, Who watch its living things thirst-stricken lie, And turn from brazen heaven as they die,— Their hearts alone, the shadowy cloud can prize That veils the sun,—as to poor earth-dimmed eyes The sorrow comes to veil our joy's dear face, All rich-in mercy and in God's sweet grace! Thrice welcome, clouds from seaward, settling down O'er thirsting nature! Now the trees' dull brown Is washed away, and leaflet buds appear, And youngling undergrowth, and far and near The bush is whispering in her pent-up glee, As myriad roots bestir them to be free, And drink the soaking moisture; while bright heaven Shows clear, as inland are the spent clouds driven; And oh! that arch, that sky's intensate hue! That deep, God-painted, unimagined blue Through which the golden sun now smiling sails, And sends his love to fructify the vales That late he seemed to curse! Earth throbs and heaves With pregnant prescience of life and leaves; The shadows darken 'neath the tall trees' screen, While round their stems the rank and velvet green Of undergrowth is deeper still; and there, Within the double shade and steaming air, The scarlet palm has fixed its noxious root, And hangs the glorious poison of its fruit; And there, 'mid shaded green and shaded light, The steel-blue silent birds take rapid flight From earth to tree and tree to earth; and there The crimson-plumaged parrot cleaves the air Like flying fire, and huge brown owls awake To watch, far down, the stealing carpet snake, Fresh-skinned and glowing in his changing dyes, With evil wisdom in the cruel eyes That glint like gems as o'er his head flits by The blue-black armor of the emperor-fly; And all the humid earth displays its powers Of prayer, with incense from the hearts of flowers That load the air with beauty and with wine Of mingled color, as with one design Of making there a carpet to be trod, In woven splendor, by the feet of God! And high o'erhead is color: round and round The towering gums and tuads, closely wound Like cables, creep the climbers to the sun, And over all the reaching branches run And hang, and still send shoots that climb and wind Till every arm and spray and leaf is twined, And miles of trees, like brethren joined in love, Are drawn and laced; while round them and above, When all is knit, the creeper rests for days As gathering might, and then one blinding blaze Of very glory sends, in wealth and strength, Of scarlet flowers o'er the forest's length! Such scenes as these have subtile power to trace Their clear-lined impress on the mind and face; And these strange simple folk, not knowing why, Grew more and more to silence; and the eye, The quiet eye of Swedish gray, grew deep With listening to the solemn rustling sweep From wings of Silence, and the earth's great psalm Intoned forever by the forest's calm. But most of all was younger Jacob changed: From morn till night, alone, the woods he ranged, To kindred, pastime, sympathy estranged. Since that first day of landing from the ship When with the Pearl on brow and breast and lip The aged King had touched him and he rose, His former life had left him, and he chose The woods as home, the wild, uncultured men As friends and comrades. It were better then, His brethren said, the boy had truly died Than they should live to be by him denied, As now they were. He lived in somber mood, He spoke no word to them, he broke no food That they did eat: his former life was dead,— The soul brought back was not the soul that fled! 'Twas Jacob's form and feature, but the light Within his eyes was strange unto their sight. His mother's grief was piteous to see; Unloving was he to the rest, but she Held undespairing hope that deep within Her son's changed heart was love that she might win By patient tenderness; and so she strove For nine long years, but won no look of love! At last his brethren gazed on him with awe, And knew untold that from the form they saw Their brother's gentle mind was sure dispelled, And now a gloomy savage soul it held. From that first day, close intercourse he had With those who raised him up,—fierce men, unclad, Spear-armed and wild, in all their ways uncouth, And strange to every habit of his youth. His food they brought, his will they seemed to crave, The wildest bushman tended like a slave; He worked their charms, their hideous chants he sung; Though dumb to all his own, their guttural tongue He often spoke in tones of curt command, And kinged it proudly o'er the dusky band. And once each year there gathered from afar A swarming host, as if a sudden war Had called them forth, and with them did they bring In solemn, savage pomp the white-haired King, Who year by year more withered was and weak; And he would lead the youth apart and speak Some occult words, and from the carven case Would take the Pearl and touch the young man's face, And hold it o'er him blessing; while the crowd, As on the shore, in dumb abasement bowed. And when the King had closed the formal rite, The rest held savage revelry by night, Round blazing fires, with dance and orgies base, That roused the sleeping echoes of the place, Which down the forest vistas moaned the din, Like spirits pure beholding impious sin. Nine times they gathered thus; but on the last The old king's waning life seemed well-nigh past. His feeble strength had failed: he walked no more, But on a woven spear-wood couch they bore With careful tread the form that barely gasped, As if the door of death now hung unhasped, Awaiting but a breath to swing, and show The dim eternal plain that stretched below. The tenth year waned: the cloistered bush was stilled, The earth lay sleeping, while the clouds distilled In ghostly veil their blessing. Thin and white, Through opening trees the moonbeams cleft the night, And showed the somber arches, taller far Than grandest aisles of built cathedrals are. And up those dim-lit aisles in silence streamed Tall men with trailing spears, until it seemed, So many lines converged of endless length, A nation there was gathered in its strength. Around one spot was kept a spacious ring, Where lay the body of the white-haired King, Which all the spearmen gathered to behold Upon its spear-wood litter, stiff and cold. All naked, there the dusky corse was laid Beneath a royal tuad's mourning shade; Upon the breast was placed the carven case That held the symbol of their ancient race, And eyes awe-stricken saw the mystic Thing That soon would clothe another as their King! The midnight moon was high and white o'erhead, And threw a ghastly pallor round the dead That heightened still the savage pomp and state In which they stood expectant, as for Fate To move and mark with undisputed hand The one amongst them to the high command. And long they stood unanswered; each on each Had looked in vain for motion or for speech: Unmoved as ebon statues, grand and tall, They ringed the shadowy circle, silent all. Then came a creeping tremor, as a breeze With cooling rustle moves the summer trees Before the thunder crashes on the ear; The dense ranks turn expectant, as they hear A sound, at first afar, but nearing fast; The outer crowd divides, as waves are cast On either side a tall ship's cleaving bow, Or mold is parted by the fearless plow That leaves behind a passage clear and broad: So through the murmuring multitude a road Was cleft with power, up which in haughty swing A figure stalking broke the sacred ring. And stood beside the body of the King! 'Twas Jacob Eibsen, sad and gloomy-browed, Who bared his neck and breast, one moment bowed Above the corse, and then stood proud and tall, And held the carven case before them all! A breath went upward like a smothered fright From every heart, to see that face, so white, So foreign to their own, but marked with might From source unquestioned, and to them divine; Whilst he, the master of the mystic sign, Then oped the case and took the Pearl and raised, As erst the King had done, and upward gazed, As swearing fealty to God on high! But ere the oath took form, there thrilled a cry Of shivering horror through the hush of night; And there before him, blinded by the sight Of all his impious purpose, brave with love, His mother stood, and stretched her arms above To tear the idol from her darling's hand; But one fierce look, and rang a harsh command In Jacob's voice, that smote her like a sword. A thousand men sprang forward at the word, To tear the mother from the form of stone, And cast her forth; but, as he stood alone, The keen, heart-broken wail that cut the air Went two-edged through him, half reproach, half prayer. But all unheeding, he nor marked her cry By sign or look within the gloomy eye; But round his body bound the carven case, And swore the fealty with marble face. As fades a dream before slow-waking sense, The shadowy host, that late stood fixed and dense, Began to melt; and as they came erewhile, The streams flowed backward through each moonlit aisle; And soon he stood alone within the place, Their new-made king,—their king with pallid face, Their king with strange foreboding and unrest, And half-formed thoughts, like dreams, within his breast. Like Moses' rod, that mother's cry of woe Had struck for water; but the fitful flow That weakly welled and streamed did seem to mock Before it died forever on the rock. The sun rose o'er the forest, and his light Made still more dreamlike all the evil night. Day streamed his glory down the aisles' dim arch, All hushed and shadowy like a pillared church; And through the lonely bush no living thing Was seen, save now and then a garish wing Of bird low-flying on its silent way. But woeful searchers spent the weary day In anxious dread, and found not what they sought,— Their mother and their brother: evening brought A son and father to the lonesome place That saw the last night's scene; and there, her face Laid earthward, speaking dumbly to her heart, They found her, as the hands that tore apart The son and mother flung her from their chief, And with one cry her heart had spent its grief. They bore the cold earth that so late did move In household happiness and works of love, Unto their rude home, lonely now; and he Who laid her there, from present misery Did turn away, half-blinded by his tears, To see with inward eye the far-off years When Swedish toil was light and hedgerows sweet; Where, when the toil was o'er, he used to meet A simple gray-eyed girl, with sun-browned face, Whose love had won his heart, and whose sweet grace Had blessed for threescore years his humble life. So Jacob Eibsen mourned his faithful wife, And found the world no home when she was gone. The days that seemed of old to hurry on Now dragged their course, and marred the wish that grew, When first he saw her grave, to sleep there too. But though to him, whose yearning hope outran The steady motion of the seasons' plan, The years were slow in coming, still their pace With awful sureness left a solemn trace, Like dust that settles on an open page, On Jacob Eibsen's head, bent down with age; And ere twice more the soothing rains had come, The old man had his wish, and to his home, Beneath the strange trees' shadow where she lay, They bore the rude-made bier; and from that day, When round the parent graves the brethren stood, Their new-made homesteads were no longer good, But marked they seemed by some o'erhanging dread That linked the living with the dreamless dead. Grown silent with the woods the men were all, But words were needed not to note the pall That each one knew hung o'er them. Duties now, With straying herds or swinging scythe, or plow, Were cheerless tasks: like men they were who wrought A weary toil that no repayment brought. And when the seasons came and went, and still The pall was hanging o'er them, with one will They yoked their oxen teams and piled the loads Of gear selected for the aimless roads That nature opens through the bush; and when The train was ready, women-folk and men Went over to the graves and wept and prayed, Then rose and turned away, but still delayed Ere leaving there forever those poor mounds. The next bright sunrise heard the teamsters' sounds Of voice and whip a long day's march away; And wider still the space grew day by day From their old resting-place: the trackless wood Still led them on with promises of good, As when the mirage leads a thirsty band With palm-tree visions o'er the arid sand. I Snow not where they settled down at last: Their lives and homes from out my tale have passed, And left me naught, or seeming naught, to trace But cheerless record of the empty place, Where long unseen the palm-thatched cabins stood, And made more lonely still the lonesome wood. Long lives of men passed over; but the years That line men's faces with hard cares and tears, Pass lightly o'er a forest, leaving there No wreck of young disease or old despair; For trees are mightier than men, and Time, When left by cunning Sin and dark-browed Crime To work alone, hath ever gentle mood. Unchanged the pillars and the arches stood, But shadowed taller vistas; and the earth, That takes and gives the ceaseless death and birth, Was blooming still, as once it bloomed before When sea-tired eyes beheld the beauteous shore. But man's best work is weak, nor stands nor grows Like Nature's simplest. Every breeze that blows, Health-bearing to the forest, plays its part In hasting graveward all his humble art. Beneath the trees the cabins still remained, By all the changing seasons seared and stained; Grown old and weirdlike, as the folk might grow In such a place, who left them long ago. Men came, and wondering found the work of men Where they had deemed them first. The savage then Heard through the wood the axe's death watch stroke For him and all his people: odorous smoke Of burning sandal rose where white men dwelt, Around the huts; but they had shuddering felt The weird, forbidden aspect of the spot, And left the place untouched to mold and rot. The woods grew blithe with labor: all around, From point to point, was heard the hollow sound, The solemn, far-off clicking on the ear That marks the presence of the pioneer. And children came like flowers to bless the toil That reaped rich fruitage from the virgin soil; And through, the woods they wandered fresh and fair, To feast on all the beauties blooming there. But always did they shun the spot where grew, From earth once tilled, the flowers of rarest hue. There wheat grown wild in rank luxuriance spread, And fruits grown native; but a sudden tread Or bramble's fall would foul goanos wake, Or start the chilling rustle of the snake; And diamond eyes of these and thousand more Gleamed out from ruined roof and wall and floor. The new-come people, they whose axes rung Throughout the forest, spoke the English tongue, And never knew that men of other race From Europe's fields had settled in the place; But deemed these huts were built some long-past day By lonely seamen who were cast away And thrown upon the coast, who there had built Their homes, and lived until some woe or guilt Was bred among them, and they fled the sight Of scenes that held a horror to the light. But while they thought such things, the spell that hung, And cast its shadow o'er the place, was strung To utmost tension that a breath would break, And show between the rifts the deep blue lake Of blessed peace,—as next to sorrow lies A stretch of rest, rewarding hopeful eyes. And while such things bethought this 'new-come folk, That breath was breathed, the olden spell was broke: From far away within the unknown land, O'er belts of forest and o'er wastes of sand, A cry came thrilling, like a cry of pain From suffering heart and half-awakened brain; As one thought dead who wakes within the tomb, And, reaching, cries for sunshine in the gloom. In that strange country's heart, whence comes the breath Of hot disease and pestilential death, Lie leagues of wooded swamp, that from the hills Seem stretching meadows; but the flood that fills Those valley-basins has the hue of ink, And dismal doorways open on the brink, Beneath the gnarled arms of trees that grow All leafless to the top, from roots below The Lethe flood; and he who enters there Beneath their screen sees rising, ghastly-bare, Like mammoth bones within a charnel dark, The white and ragged stems of paper-bark, That drip down moisture with a ceaseless drip, From lines that run like cordage of a ship; For myriad creepers struggle to the light, And twine and mat o'erhead in murderous fight For life and sunshine, like another race That wars on brethren for the highest place. Between the water and the matted screen, The baldhead vultures, two and two, are seen In dismal grandeur, with revolting face Of foul grotesque, like spirits of the place; And now and then a spear-shaped wave goes by, Its apex glittering with an evil eye That sets above its enemy and prey, As from the wave in treacherous, slimy way The black snake winds, and strikes the bestial bird, Whose shriek-like wailing on the hills is heard. Beyond this circling swamp, a circling waste Of baked and barren desert land is placed,— A land of awful grayness, wild and stark, Where man will never leave a deeper mark, On leagues of fissured clay and scorching stones, Than may be printed there by bleaching bones. Within this belt, that keeps a savage guard, As round a treasure sleeps a dragon ward, A forest stretches far of precious trees; Whence came, one day, an odor-laden breeze Of jam-wood bruised, and sandal sweet in smoke. For there long dwelt a numerous native folk In that heart-garden of the continent,— There human lives with aims and fears were spent, And marked by love and hate and peace and pain, And hearts well-filled and hearts athirst for gain, And lips that clung, and faces bowed in shame; For, wild or polished, man is still the same, And loves and hates and envies in the wood, With spear and boka and with manners rude, As loves and hates his brother shorn and sleek, Who learns by lifelong practice how to speak With oily tongue, while in his heart below Lies rankling poison that he dare not show. Afar from all new ways this people dwelt, And knew no books, and to no God had knelt, And had no codes to rule them writ in blood; But savage, selfish, nomad-lived and rude, With human passions fierce from unrestraint, And free as their loose limbs; with every taint That earth can give to that which God has given; Their nearest glimpse of Him, o'er-arching heaven, Where dwelt the giver and preserver,—Light, Who daily slew and still was slain by Night. A savage people they, and prone to strife; Yet men grown weak with years had spent a life Of peace unbroken, and their sires, long dead, Had equal lives of peace unbroken led. It was no statute's bond or coward fear Of retribution kept the shivering spear In all those years from fratricidal sheath; But one it was who ruled them,—one whom Death Had passed as if he saw not,—one whose word Through all that lovely central land was heard And bowed to, as of yore the people bent, In desert wanderings, to a leader sent To guide and guard them to a promised land. O'er all the Austral tribes he held command,— A man unlike them and not of their race, A man of flowing hair and pallid face, A man who strove by no deft juggler's art To keep his kingdom in the people's heart, Nor held his place by feats of brutal might Or showy skill, to please the savage sight; But one who ruled them as a King of kings, A man above, not of them,—one who brings, To prove his kingship to the low and high, The inborn power of the regal eye. Like him of Sinai with the stones of law, Whose people almost worshiped when they saw The veiled face whereon God's glory burned; But yet who, mutable as water, turned From that veiled ruler who had talked with God, To make themselves an idol from a clod: So turned one day this savage Austral race Against their monarch with the pallid face. The young men knew him not, the old had heard In far-off days, from men grown old, a word That dimly lighted up the mystic choice Of this their alien King,—how once a voice Was heard by their own monarch calling clear, And leading onward, where as on a bier A dead child lay upon a woman's knees; Whom when the old King saw, like one who sees Far through the mist of common life, he spoke And touched him with the Pearl, and he awoke, And from that day the people owned his right To wear the Pearl and rule them, when the light Had left their old King's eyes. But now, they said, The men who owned that right were too long dead; And they were young and strong and held their spears In idle resting through this white King's fears, Who still would live to rule them till they changed Their men to puling women, and estranged To Austral hands the spear and coila grew. And so they rose against him, and they slew The white-haired men who raised their hands to warn, And true to ancient trust in warning fell, While o'er them rang the fierce revolters' yell. Then midst the dead uprose the King in scorn, Like some strong, hunted thing that stands at bay To win a brief but desperate delay. A moment thus, and those within the ring 'Gan backward press from their unarmed King, Who swept his hand as though he bade them fly, And brave no more the anger of his eye. The heaving crowd grew still before that face, And watched him take the ancient carven case, And ope it there, and take the Pearl and stand As once before he stood, with upraised hand And upturned eyes of inward worshiping. Awe-struck and dumb, once more they owned him King, And humbly crouched before him; when a sound, A whirring sound that thrilled them, passed o'erhead, And with a spring they rose. a spear had sped With aim unerring and with deathful might, And split the awful center of their sight,— The upraised Pearl! A moment there it shone Before the spear-point,—then forever gone! * * * * * * * The spell that long the ruined huts did shroud Was rent and scattered, as a hanging cloud In moveless air is torn and blown away By sudden gust uprising; and one day When evening's lengthened shadows came to hush The children's voices, and the awful bush Was lapt in somber stillness, and on high Above the arches stretched the frescoed sky,— When all the scene such chilling aspect wore As marked one other night long years before, When through the reaching trees the moonlight shone Upon a prostrate form, and o'er it one With kingly gesture. Now the light is shed No more on youthful brow and daring head, But on a man grown weirdly old, whose face Keeps turning ever to some new-found place That rises up before him like a dream; And not unlike a dreamer does he seem, Who might have slept, unheeding time's sure flow, And woke to find a world he does not know. His long white hair flows o'er a form low bowed By wondrous weight of years: he speaks aloud In garbled Swedish words, with piteous wist, As long-lost objects rise through memory's mist. Again and once again his pace he stays, As crowding images of other days Loom up before him dimly, and he sees A vague, forgotten friendship in the trees That reach their arms in welcome; but agen These olden glimpses vanish, and dark men Are round him, dumb and crouching, and he stands With guttural sentences and upraised hands, That hold a carven case,—but empty now, Which makes more pitiful the aged brow Full-turned to those tall tuads that did hear A son's fierce mandate and a mother's prayer. Ah, God! what memories can live of these, Save only with the half-immortal trees That saw the death of one, the other lost! The weird-like figure now the bush has crost And stands within the ring, and turns and moans, With arms out-reaching and heart-piercing tones, And groping hands, as one a long time blind Who sees a glimmering light on eye and mind. From tree to sky he turns, from sky to earth, And gasps as one to whom a second birth Of wondrous meaning is an instant shown. Who is this wreck of years, who all alone, In savage raiment and with words unknown, Bows down like some poor penitent who fears The wrath of God provoked?—this man who hears Around him now, wide circling through the wood, The breathing stillness of a multitude? Who catches dimly through his straining sight The misty vision of an impious rite? Who hears from one a cry that rends his heart, And feels that loving arms are torn apart, And by his mandate fiercely thrust aside? Who is this one who crouches where she died, With face laid earthward as her face was laid, And prays for her as she for him once prayed? 'Tis Jacob Eibsen, Jacob Eibsen's son, Whose occult life and mystic rule are done, And passed away the memory from his brain. 'Tis Jacob Eibsen, who has come again To roam the woods, and see the mournful gleams That flash and linger of his old-time dreams. The morning found him where he sank to rest Within the mystic circle: on his breast With withered hands, as to the dearest place, He held and pressed the empty carven case. That day he sought the dwellings of his folk; And when he found them, once again there broke The far-off light upon him, and he cried From that wrecked cabin threshold for a guide To lead him, old and weary, to his own. And surely some kind spirit heard his moan, And led him to the graves where they were laid. The evening found him in the tuads' shade, And like a child at work upon the spot Where they were sleeping, though he knew it not. Next day the children found him, and they gazed In fear at first, for they were sore amazed To see a man so old they never knew, Whose garb was savage, and whose white hair grew And flowed upon his shoulders; but their awe Was changed to love and pity when they saw The simple work he wrought at; and they came And gathered flowers for him, and asked his name, And laughed at his strange language; and he smiled To hear them laugh, as though himself a child. Ere that brief day was o'er, from far and near The children gathered, wondering; and though fear Of scenes a long time shunned at first restrained, The spell was broken, and soon naught remained But gladsome features,, where of old was dearth Of happy things and cheery sounds of mirth. The lizards fled, the snakes and bright-eyed things Found other homes, where childhood never sings; And all because poor Jacob, old and wild, White-haired and fur-clad, was himself a child. Each day he lived amid these scenes, his ear Heard far-off voices growing still more clear; And that dim light that first he saw in gleams Now left him only in his troubled dreams. From far away the children loved to come And play and work with Jacob at his home. He learned their simple words with childish lip, And told them often of a white-sailed ship That sailed across a mighty sea, and found A beauteous harbor, all encircled round With flowers and tall green trees; but when they asked What did the shipmen then, his mind was tasked Beyond its strength, and Jacob shook his head, And with them laughed, for all he knew was said. The brawny sawyers often ceased their toil, As Jacob with the children passed, to smile With rugged pity on their simple play; Then, gazing after the glad group, would say How strange it was to see that snowy hair And time-worn figure with the children fair. So Jacob Eibsen lived through years of joy,— A patriarch in age, in heart a boy. Unto the last he told them of the sea And white-sailed ship; and ever lovingly, Unto the end, the garden he had made He tended daily, 'neath the tuads' shade. But one bright morning, when the children came And roused the echoes calling Jacob's name, The echoes only answered back the sound. They sought within the huts, but nothing found Save loneliness and shadow, falling chill On every sunny searcher: boding ill, They tried each well-known haunt, and every throat Sent far abroad the bush man's cooing note. But all in vain their searching: twilight fell, And sent them home their sorrowing tale to tell. That night their elders formed a torch-lit chain To sweep the gloomy bush; and not in vain,— For when the moon at midnight hung o'erhead, The weary searchers found poor Jacob—dead! He lay within the tuad ring, his face Laid earthward on his hands; and all the place Was dim with shadow where the people stood. And as they gathered there, the circling wood Seemed filled with awful whisperings, and stirred By things unseen; and every bushman heard, From where the corse lay plain within their sight, A woman's heart-wail rising on the night. For over all the darkness and the fear That marked his life from childhood, shining clear, An arch, like God's bright rainbow, stretched above, And joined the first and last,—his mother's love. They dug a grave beneath the tuads' shade, Where all unknown to them the bones were laid Of Jacob's kindred; and a prayer was said In earnest sorrow for the unknown dead, Hound which the children grouped. Upon the breast The hands were folded in eternal rest; But still they held, as dearest to that place Where life last throbbed, the empty carven case.