"Again I sprang forth from my bed!

I shook as in an ague fit; I clutched that red gold, burning red, I clutched, as if to strangle it.

"I clutched it up--you hear me, boy?-- I clutched it up with joyful tears!

I clutched it close, with such wild joy I had not felt for years and years!

"Such joy! for I should now retrace My steps, should see my land, her face; Bring back her gold this battle day, And see her, see her, hear her pray!

"I brought it back--you hear me, boy?-- I clutch it, hold it, hold it now: Red gold, bright gold that giveth joy To all, and anywhere or how;

"That giveth joy to all but me,-- To all but me, yet soon to all.

It burns my hands, it burns! but she Shall ope my hands and let it fall.

"For oh I have a willing hand To give these bags of gold; to see Her smile as once she smiled on me Here in this pleasant, warm palm-land!"

He ceased, he thrust each hard-clenched fist, He threw his gold hard forth again, As one impelled by some mad pain He would not or could not resist.

The creole, scorning, turned away, As if he turned from that lost thief,-- The one that died without belief That awful crucifixion day.

III.

Believe in man, nor turn away.

Lo! man advances year by year; Time bears him upward, and his sphere Of life must broaden day by day.

Believe in man with large belief; The garnered grain each harvest-time Hath promise, roundness, and full prime For all the empty chaff and sheaf.

Believe in man with proud belief: Truth keeps the bottom of her well, And when the thief peeps down, the thief Peeps back at him, perpetual.

Faint not that this or that man fell; For one that falls a thousand rise To lift white Progress to the skies: Truth keeps the bottom of her well.

Fear not for man, nor cease to delve For cool sweet truth, with large belief.

Lo! Christ himself chose only twelve, Yet one of these turned out a thief.

IV.

Down through the dark magnolia leaves Where climbs the rose of Cherokee Against the orange-blossomed tree, A loom of moonlight weaves and weaves,--

A loom of moonlight, weaving clothes From snow-white rose of Cherokee, And bridal blooms of orange-tree, For fairy folk in fragrant rose.

Down through the mournful myrtle c.r.a.pe, Through moving moss, through ghostly gloom, A long white moonbeam takes a shape Above a nameless, lowly tomb;

A long white finger through the gloom Of gra.s.ses gathered round about,-- As G.o.d's white finger pointing out A name upon that nameless tomb.

V.

Her white face bowed in her black hair, The maiden prays so still within That you might hear a falling pin,-- Ay, hear her white unuttered prayer.

The moon has grown disconsolate, Has turned her down her walk of stars: Why, she is shutting up her bars, As maidens shut a lover's gate.

The moon has grown disconsolate; She will no longer watch and wait.

But two men wait; and two men will Wait on till morning, mute and still:

Still wait and walk among the trees, Quite careless if the moon may keep Her walk along her starry steep Above the Southern pearl-sown seas.

They know no moon, or set or rise Of stars, or anything to light The earth or skies, save her dark eyes, This praying, waking, watching night.

They move among the tombs apart, Their eyes turn ever to that door; They know the worn walks there by heart-- They turn and walk them o'er and o'er.

They are not wide, these little walks For dead folk by this crescent town.

They lie right close when they lie down, As if they kept up quiet talks.

VI.

The two men keep their paths apart; But more and more begins to stoop The man with gold, as droop and droop Tall plants with something at their heart.

Now once again with eager zest He offers gold with silent speech; The other will not walk in reach, But walks around, as round a pest.

His dark eyes sweep the scene around, His young face drinks the fragrant air, His dark eyes journey everywhere,-- The other's cleave unto the ground.

It is a weary walk for him, For oh he bears a weary load!

He does not like that narrow road Between the dead--it is so dim:

It is so dark, that narrow place, Where graves lie thick, like yellow leaves: Give us the light of Christ and grace, Give light to garner in the sheaves.

Give light of love; for gold is cold, And gold is cruel as a crime; It gives no light at such sad time As when man's feet wax weak and old.

Ay, gold is heavy, hard, and cold!

And have I said this thing before?

Well, I will tell it o'er and o'er, 'Twere need be told ten thousand fold.

"Give us this day our daily bread,"-- Get this of G.o.d, then all the rest Is housed in thine own honest breast, If you but lift a lordly head.

VII.

Oh, I have seen men, tall and fair, Stoop down their manhood with disgust, Stoop down G.o.d's image to the dust, To get a load of gold to bear;

Have seen men selling day by day The glance of manhood that G.o.d gave: To sell G.o.d's image as a slave Might sell some little pot of clay!

Behold! here in this green graveyard A man with gold enough to fill A coffin, as a miller's till; And yet his path is hard, so hard!

His feet keep sinking in the sand, And now so near an opened grave!

He seems to hear the solemn wave Of dread oblivion at hand.

The sands, they grumble so, it seems As if he walks some shelving brink.

He tries to stop, he tries to think, He tries to make believe he dreams: