| |
(From With Walker in Nicaragua)
I LAY this crude wreath on his dust, | |
| Inwove with sad, sweet memories | |
| Recalled here by these colder seas. | |
| I leave the wild bird with his trust, | |
| To sing and say him nothing wrong; | 5 |
| I wake no rivalry of song. | |
| |
| He lies low in the levelled sand, | |
| Unsheltered from the tropic sun, | |
| And now of all he knew not one | |
| Will speak him fair in that far land. | 10 |
| Perhaps ’t was this that made me seek, | |
| Disguised, his grave one winter-tide; | |
| A weakness for the weaker side, | |
| A siding with the helpless weak. | |
| |
| A palm not far held out a hand, | 15 |
| Hard by a long green bamboo swung, | |
| And bent like some great bow unstrung, | |
| And quivered like a willow wand; | |
| Beneath a broad banana’s leaf, | |
| Perched on its fruits that crooked hang, | 20 |
| A bird in rainbow splendor sang | |
| A low sad song of tempered grief. | |
| |
| No sod, no sign, no cross nor stone, | |
| But at his side a cactus green | |
| Upheld its lances long and keen; | 25 |
| It stood in hot red sands alone, | |
| Flat-palmed and fierce with lifted spears; | |
| One bloom of crimson crowned its head, | |
| A drop of blood, so bright, so red, | |
| Yet redolent as roses’ tears. | 30 |
| In my left hand I held a shell, | |
| All rosy lipped and pearly red; | |
| I laid it by his lowly bed, | |
| For he did love so passing well | |
| The grand songs of the solemn sea. | 35 |
| O shell! sing well, wild, with a will, | |
| When storms blow loud and birds be still, | |
| The wildest sea-song known to thee! | |
| |
| I said some things, with folded hands, | |
| Soft whispered in the dim sea-sound, | 40 |
| And eyes held humbly to the ground, | |
| And frail knees sunken in the sands. | |
| He had done more than this for me, | |
| And yet I could not well do more: | |
| I turned me down the olive shore, | 45 |
| And set a sad face to the sea. | |
| |
