IV.

THE sun is red and flush'd and dry,
And fretted from his weary beat
Across the hot and desert sky,
And swollen as from overheat,

And failing too, for see, he sinks
Swift as a ball of burnish'd ore:
It may be fancy, but methinks
He never fell so fast before.

I hear the neighing of hot steeds,

I see the marshalling of men

That silent move among the trees

As busily as swarming bees

With step and stealthiness profound, On carpetings of spindled weeds, Without a syllable, or sound,

Save clashing of their burnish'd arms, Clinking their dull death-like alarms: Grim bearded men and brawny men That grope among the ghostly trees. Were ever silent men as these?

Was ever sombre forest deep

And dark as this? Here one might sleep
While all the weary years went round,
Nor wake nor weep for sun or sound.

A stone's-throw to the right, a rock Has rear'd his head among the stars, An island in the upper deep,

And on his front a thousand scars

Of thunder's crash and earthquake's shock
Are seam'd, as if by sabre's sweep

Of gods, enraged that he should rear

His front amid their realms of air.

What moves along his beetling brow,

So small, so indistinct and far,

This side yon blazing evening star,

Seen through that redwood's shifting bough?

A lookout on the world below?

A watcher for the friend

-or foe?

This still troop's sentry it must be,

Yet seems no taller than

my knee.

But for the grandeur of this gloom, And for the chafing steeds' alarms,

And brown men's sullen clash of arms,

This were but as a living tomb.

These weeds are spindled, pale and white,
As if nor sunshine, life nor light
Had ever reach'd this forest's heart.
Above, the redwood boughs entwine
Thick as a copse of tangled vine;
Above, so fearfully afar,

It seems as 'twere a lesser sky—

A sky without a moon or star

The moss'd boughs are so thick and high;

At every lisp of leaf I start!

Would I could hear a cricket trill,

Or that yon sentry from his hill
Might shout or show some sign of life,
The place does seem so deathly still.
"Mount ye, and forward for the strife!"
Who by yon dark trunk sullen stands,
With black cloak clasp'd in his thin hands,

And coldly gives his brief commands?

They mount; away! Quick on his heel He turns, and grasps his gleaming steel, Then sadly smiles, and stoops to kiss

An upturn'd face so sweetly fair—
So sadly, saintly, purely fair,

So rich of blessedness and bliss.

I know she is not flesh and blood,

But some sweet spirit of this wood;
I know it by her wealth of hair,
And step on the unyielding air;
Her seamless robe of shining white,
Her soul-deep eyes of darkest night;
But over all and more than all
That could be said or can befall,

That tongue can tell or pen can trace,

That wondrous witchery of face.

Among the trees I see him stride To where a red steed fretting stands, Impatient for his lord's commands; And she glides noiseless at his side.

Lo! not a bud, or leaf, or stem,

The way she went, is broke or bent;
They only nodded as she stepp'd,
And all their grace and freshness kept,
And now will in their beauty bloom
As though fresh risen from a tomb,

For fairest sun has shone on them.

"The world is mantling black again! Beneath us, o'er the sleeping plain, Dull steel-grey clouds slide up and down As if the still earth wore a frown.

The west is red with sunlight slain !”

(One hand toys with her waving hair, Soft lifting from her shoulders bare; The other holds the loosen'd rein,

And rests upon the swelling mane
That curls the curved neck o'er and o'er,

Like waves that swirl along the shore.