COLUMBUS.

[This poem is taken from the complete works of Joaquin Miller, copyrighted, published by the Whitaker Ray Company, San Francisco.]

Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of sh.o.r.es, Before him only sh.o.r.eless seas.

The good mate said, "Now must we pray, For lo! the very stars are gone.

Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say!"

"Why, say, 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous by day, My men grow ghastly pale and weak."

The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.

"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"

"Why, you shall say at break of day, 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed, and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why, now, not even G.o.d would know Should I and all my men fall dead.

These very winds forget their way, For G.o.d from these dread seas has gone.

Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say"-- He said, "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: "This mad sea shows its teeth to-night.

He curls his lips, he lies in wait With lifted teeth as if to bite!

Brave Admiral, say but one good word: What shall we do when hope is gone?"

The words leapt like a leaping sword, "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck-- A light! A light! A light! A light!

It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn, He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson: "On! sail on!"

JOAQUIN MILLER.

MY LAST d.u.c.h.eSS.

FERRARA.

That's my last d.u.c.h.ess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf's hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will't please you sit and look at her? I said.

"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read Strangers like you that pictured countenance, The depth and pa.s.sion of its earnest glance, But to myself they turned (since none puts by The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, How such a glance came there; so, not the first Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not Her husband's presence only, called that spot Of joy into the d.u.c.h.ess' cheek: perhaps Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps Over my Lady's wrist too much," or "Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat;" such stuff Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough For calling up that spot of joy. She had A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er She looked on, and her looks went everywhere Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, The dropping of the daylight in the West, The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule She rode with round the terrace--all and each Would draw from her alike the approving speech, Or blush, at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame This sort of trifling? Even had you skill In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will Quite clear to such an one, and say "Just this "Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, "Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, --E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose Never to stoop. Oh, Sir, she smiled, no doubt, Whene'er I pa.s.sed her; but who pa.s.sed without Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet The company below, then. I repeat The Count your Master's known munificence Is ample warrant that no just pretence Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go Together down, Sir. Notice Neptune, though, Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

ROBERT BROWNING.

"THE TALE."

What a pretty tale you told me Once upon a time --Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) Was it prose or rhyme, Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there's no forgetting This much if no more, That a poet (pray, no petting!) Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, Went where such like used to go, Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely Sing, but play the lyre; Playing was important clearly Quite as singing; I desire, Sir, you keep the fact in mind For a purpose that's behind.

There stood he, while deep attention Held the judges round, --Judges able, I should mention, To detect the slightest sound Sung or played amiss: such ears Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly, Played in time and tune Till the judges, weighing coldly Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, Sure to smile "In vain one tries Picking faults out: take the prize!"

When, a mischief! Were they seven Strings the lyre possessed?

Oh, and afterwards eleven, Thank you! Well, sir--who had guessed Such ill luck in store?--it happed One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket (What "cicada"? Pooh!) --Some mad thing that left its thicket For mere love of music--flew With its little heart on fire Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (Ah, joy!) our singer For his truant string Feels with disconcerted finger, What does cricket else but fling Fiery heart forth, sound the note Wanted by the throbbing throat?

Ay and, ever to the ending, Cricket chirps at need, Executes the hand's intending, Promptly, perfectly,--indeed Saves the singer from defeat With her chirrup low and sweet.

Till, at ending, all the judges Cry with one a.s.sent "Take the prize--a prize who grudges Such a voice and instrument?

Why, we took your lyre for harp, So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"

Did the conqueror spurn the creature, Once its service done?

That's no such uncommon feature In the case when Music's son Finds his Lotte's power too spent For aiding soul development.

No! This other, on returning Homeward, prize in hand, Satisfied his bosom's yearning: (Sir! I hope you understand!) --Said "Some record there must be Of this cricket's help to me!"

So he made himself a statue: Marble stood, life-size; On the lyre, he pointed at you, Perched his partner in the prize; Never more apart you found Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.

That's the tale: its application?

Somebody I know Hopes one day for reputation Through his poetry that's--Oh, All so learned and so wise And deserving of a prize!

If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue's built, Tell the gazer "'Twas a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?

"For as victory was nighest, While I sang and played,-- With my lyre at lowest, highest, Right alike,--one string that made 'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain Never to be heard again,--

"Had not a kind cricket fluttered, Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duly uttered 'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the ba.s.s Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat sombre drone."

But you don't know music! Wherefore Keep on casting pearls To a--poet? All I care for Is--to tell him a girl's "Love" comes aptly in when gruff Grows his singing. (There, enough!)

ROBERT BROWNING.