At last one night they came. I knew I near could count them on one hand; The proud chief still disdained to fly, And only left that cell to die. * My recollection, like a ghost, Years after, sheltered from the sun A black Muchacho1 by me lay His brown mule browsing by his side, How he once fought, how long and well, 1 Youth (Spanish). Broad breast to breast, red hand to hand, And how the fierce invader fell; To die with hand and brow unbound Then looked afar, half paused, and then He kissed his thin hand to the sun; Then smiled so proudly none had known A nude brown beggar peon child, Two deep, a musket's length, they stood, Afront, in sandals, nude, and dun As death and darkness wove in one, Their thick lips thirsting for his blood. He took their black hands one by one, And, smiling with a patient grace, Forgave them all and took his place. He bared his broad brow to the sun, Gave one long last look to the sky, A last list to the cockatoo That hung by beak from cocoa-bough Hung all red-crowned and robed in green, A bow, a touch of heart, a pall Success had made him more than king; Defeat made him the vilest thing In name, contempt or hate can bring: So much the leaded dice of war Do make or mar of character. Speak ill who will of him, he died In all disgrace; say of the dead His heart was black, his hands were redSay this much, and be satisfied; Gloat over it all undenied. I only say that he to me, Whatever he to others was, Was truer far than anyone That I have known beneath the sun, Sinner, saint, or Pharisee, As boy or man, for any cause; I simply say he was my friend When strong of hand and fair of fame: Dead and disgraced, I stand the same I lay this crude wreath on his dust, He lies low in the leveled sand, A palm not far held out a hand, 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, 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; 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. In my left hand I held a shell, O shell! sing well, wild, with a will, I said some things, with folded hands, I turned me down the olive shore, And set a sad face to the sea. Joaquin Miller 6 TH SIR PATRICK SPENCE HE king sits in Dumferling toune, "O whar will I get guid sailor, To sail this schip of mine?" Up and spak an eldern knicht, "Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor |