POETRY.

Globe, Volume II, Issue 112, 9 October 1874, Page 3

POETRY.

JOAQUIN MILLER’S LAST.

Alone and sad I sat me down To rest on Rousseau’s narrow Isle, Below Geneva. Mile on mile, And set with many a shining town, Tow’rd Dent du Midi danced the wave Beneath the moon. Winds went and came, And fanned the stars into a flame. I heard the far lake, dark and deep, Rise up and talk as in its sleep, I heard the laughing waters lave And lap against the further shore, An idle oar, and nothing more Save that the Isle had voice, and save That round about its base of stone There plashed and flashed the foamy Rhone, A stately man as black as tan Kept up a stern and broken round Among the strangers on the ground. I named that awful African A second Hannibal. I got My elbows on the table, sat With chin in upturned palm to scan His face, and contemplate the scene. The moon rode by a crowned queen. I was alone. Lo ! not a man To speak my mother-tongue. Ah me ! How more than all alone can be A man in crowds ! Across the isR My Hannibal strode on. The while Diminished Rousseau sat his throne Of books, unnoticed and unknown. This strange, strong man, with face austere, At last drew near. He bowed; he spake In unknown tongues. I could but shake My head. Then, half a chill with fear, I rose, and sought another place. Again I mused. The kings of thought Came by, and on that storied spot I lifted up a tearful face. The star-set Alps they sang a tune Unheard by any soul but mine. Mont Blanc, as lone and as divine And white, seemed mated to the moon. The past was mine, strong-voiced and vast; Stern Calvin, strange Voltaire, and Tell, And two whose names are known too well To name, in grand procession passed. And yet again came Hannibal, King-like he came, and drawing near, I saw his brow, was now severe And resolute. In tongues unknown Again he spake. I was alone, Was all unarmed, was worn and sad ; But now, at last, my spirit had Its old assertion. I arose, As startled from a dull repose, With gathered strength I raised a hand, And cried, “ I do not understand.” His black face brightened as I spake : He bowed, he wagged his woolly head ; He showed his shining teeth, and said, | “ Sar, if you please, dose tables here Are consecrate to lager beer ; And, Sar, what will you have to take ? ” Not that I loved that colored cuss— Nay ! he had awed me all too much— But I sprang forth, and with a clutch I grasped his hand, and holding thus, Cried, “ Bring my country’s drink for two !” For oh ! that speech of Saxon sound To me was as a fountain found In wastes, and thrilled me through and through. On Rousseau’s Isle, in Rousseau’s shade, Two pink and spicy drinks were made ; In classic shade, on classic ground, We stirred two cocktails round and round. Geneva, 1873.