XI.

Like blown and snowy wintry pine, Old Morgan stoop'd his head and pass'd Within his cabin door. He cast A great arm out to men, made sign,

Then turned to Ina; stood beside A time, then turn'd and strode the floor, Stopp'd short, breathed sharp, threw wide the door, Then gazed beyond the murky tide,

Toward where the forky peaks divide. He took his beard in his hard hand, Then slowly shook his grizzled head And trembled, but no word he said.

His thought was something more than pain; Upon the seas, upon the land He knew he should not rest again. He turn'd to her; but then once more

Quick turn'd, and through the oaken door He sudden pointed to the west. His eye resumed its old command, The conversation of his hand,

It was enough: she knew the rest. He turn'd, he stoop'd, and smoothed her hair, As if to smooth away the care From his great heart, with his left hand.

His right hand hitch'd the pistol round That dangled at his belt... The sound Of steel to him was melody

More sweet than any song of sea. He touch'd his pistol, press'd his lips, Then tapp'd it with his finger-tips, And toy'd with it as harper's hand

Seeks out the chords when he is sad And purposeless. At last he had Resolved. In haste he touch'd her hair,

Made sign she should arise — prepare For some long journey, then again He look'd awest toward the plain: Toward the land of dreams and space,

The land of Silences, the land Of shoreless deserts sown with sand, Where desolation's dwelling is: The land where, wondering, you say,

What dried-up shoreless sea is this? Where, wandering, from day to day You say, To-morrow sure we come To rest in some cool resting-place,

And yet you journey on through space While seasons pass, and are struck dumb With marvel at the distances. Yea, he would go. Go utterly

Away, and from all living kind, Pierce through the distances, and find New lands. He had outlived his race. He stood like some eternal tree

That tops remote Yosemite, And cannot fall. He turn'd his face Again and contemplated space. And then he raised his hand to vex

His beard, stood still, and there fell down Great drops from some unfrequent spring, And streak'd his channell'd cheeks sun-brown, And ran uncheck'd, as one who recks

Nor joy, nor tears, nor any thing. And then, his broad breast heaving deep, Like some dark sea in troubled sleep, Blown round with groaning ships and wrecks,

He sudden roused himself, and stood With all the strength of his stern mood, Then call'd his men, and bade them go And bring black steeds with banner'd necks,

And strong like burly buffalo.