Produced by Daniel Emerson Griffith and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) SONGS OF THE MEXICAN SEAS BY JOAQUIN MILLER AUTHOR OF "SONGS OF THE SIERRAS," "SONGS OF ITALY," ETC. BOSTON ROBERTS BROTHERS 1887 Copyright, 1887, By Roberts Brothers. UNIVERSITY PRESS: John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. TO ABBIE. NOTE.--The lines in this little book, as in all my others, were written, or at least conceived, in the lands where the scenes are laid; so that whatever may be said of the imperfections of my work, I at least have the correct atmosphere and color. I have now and then sent forth from Mexico, and from remoter shores of the Gulf, fragments of these thoughts as they rounded into form, and some of them have been used at a Dartmouth College Commencement, and elsewhere; but as a whole the book is new. From the heart of the Sierra, where I once more hear the awful heart-throbs of Nature, I now intrust the first reception of these lessons entirely to my own country. And may I not ask in return, now at the last, when the shadows begin to grow long, something of that consideration which, thus far, has been accorded almost entirely by strangers? Joaquin Miller. Mount Shasta, California, A.D. 1887. SONGS OF THE MEXICAN SEAS. THE SEA OF FIRE. In that far land, farther than Yucatan, Hondurian height, or Mahogany steep, Where the great sea, hollowed by the hand of man Hears deep come calling across to deep; Where the great seas follow in the grooves of men Down under the bastions of Darien: In that land so far that you wonder whether If God would know it should you fall down dead; In that land so far through the wilds and weather That the lost sun sinks like a warrior sped,-- Where the sea and the sky seem closing together, Seem closing together as a book that is read: In that nude warm world, where the unnamed rivers Roll restless in cradles of bright buried gold; Where white flashing mountains flow rivers of silver As a rock of the desert flowed fountains of old; By a dark wooded river that calls to the dawn, And calls all day with his dolorous swan: In that land of the wonderful sun and weather, With green under foot and with gold over head, Where the spent sun flames, and you wonder whether 'Tis an isle of fire in his foamy bed: Where the oceans of earth shall be welded together By the great French master in his forge flame red,-- Lo! the half-finished world! Yon footfall retreating,-- It might be the Maker disturbed at his task. But the footfall of God, or the far pheasant beating, It is one and the same, whatever the mask It may wear unto man. The woods keep repeating The old sacred sermons, whatever you ask.