He hears the last retreating sound

Of iron on volcanic stone,

That echoes far from peak to plain,

And 'neath the thick wood's darken'd zone

He peers the dark Sierras down.)
"But darker yet shall be the frown,

And redder yet shall be the flame ;
And yet I would that this were not—
That all, forgiven or forgot

Of curses deep and awful crimes,
Of blood and terror, could but seem
Some troubled and unholy dream;

That even now I could awake,
And waking find me once again,
With hand and heart without a stain,
Swift gliding o'er that sunny lake,
Begirt with town and castle-wall,
Where first I saw the silver light-
Begirt with blossoms, and the bloom
Of orange, sweet with the perfume
Of cactus, pomegranate, and all

The thousand sweets of tropic climes;

And waking, see the mellow moon
Pour'd out in gorgeous plenilune

On silver ripples of that tide;
And waking, hear soft music pour
Along that flora-formèd shore;

And waking, find you at my side,
My father's moss'd and massive halls,
My brothers in their strength and pride.”

(His hand forsakes her raven hair,
His eyes have an unearthly glare:
She shrinks and shudders at his side,
Then lifts to his her moisten'd eye,
And only looks her sad reply.
A sullenness his soul enthrals,
A silence born of hate and pride.
His fierce volcanic heart so deep
Is stirr'd, his teeth, despite his will,
Do chatter as if in a chill;

His very dagger at his side

Does shake and rattle in its sheath,

As blades of brown grass in a gale

Do rustle on the frosted heath,

And yet he does not bend or weep.)

“I did not vow a girlish vow,

Nor idle imprecation now

Will I bestow by boasting word.

Feats of the tongue become the knave.

A wailing in the land is heard

For those that will not come again;
And weeping for the rashly brave,
Who sleep in many a gulch and glen,
Has wet a hundred hearths with tears,
And darken'd them for years and years.
Would I could turn their tears to gore,
Make every hearth as cold as one
Is now upon that sweet lake shore,
Where my dear kindred dwelt of yore;

Where now is but an ashen heap,

And mass of mossy earth and stone;

Where round the altar black wolves keep

Their carnival and doleful moan;

Where hornèd lizards dart and climb,

And mollusks slide and leave their slime.

"But tremble not.

This night alone

Shall see my vengeance fully done;

And ere the day-star gleams again

My horse's hoofs shall

spurn the dead

The still warm reeking dead of those
Who brought us all our bitter woes.
While all my glad returning way
Shall be as light as living day,
From ranchos, campos, burning red.
And then! And then, my peri pearl'
(As if to charm her from her fears
And drive away the starting tears,
Again his small hand seeks a curl,

And voice forgets its sullen ire,

And eye forsakes its flashing fire)—

Away to where the orange tree

Is white through all the cycled years,

And love lives an eternity;

Where birds are never out of tune

And life knows no decline of noon;

Where climes are sweet as woman's breath,

And purpled, dreamy, mellow skies

Are lovely as a woman's eyes:

There, we in calm and perfect bliss
Of boundless faith and sweet delight
Shall realize the world above,

Forgetting all the wrongs of this;
Forgetting all of blood and death,
And all your terrors of to-night,
In pure devotion and deep love."

As gently as a mother bows Her first-born sleeping babe above, The cherish'd cherub lips to kiss, In her full blessedness and bliss, He bends to her with stately air, His proud head in its cloud of hair: I do not heed the hallow'd kiss; I do not hear the hurried vows Of passion, faith, unfailing love; I do not mark the prison'd sigh, I do not meet the moisten'd eye: A low, sweet melody is heard Like cooing of some Orient bird; So fine it does not touch the air,