"Such joy! for I should now retrace My steps, should see my land, her face; Bring back her gold this battle day, And see her, see her, hear her pray! "I brought it back--you hear me, boy?-- I clutch it, hold it, hold it now: Red gold, bright gold that giveth joy To all, and anywhere or how; "That giveth joy to all but me,-- To all but me, yet soon to all. It burns my hands, it burns! but she Shall ope my hands and let it fall. "For oh I have a willing hand To give these bags of gold; to see Her smile as once she smiled on me Here in this pleasant, warm palm-land!" He ceased, he thrust each hard-clenched fist, He threw his gold hard forth again, As one impelled by some mad pain He would not or could not resist. The creole, scorning, turned away, As if he turned from that lost thief,-- The one that died without belief That awful crucifixion day. III. Believe in man, nor turn away. Lo! man advances year by year; Time bears him upward, and his sphere Of life must broaden day by day. Believe in man with large belief; The garnered grain each harvest-time Hath promise, roundness, and full prime For all the empty chaff and sheaf. Believe in man with proud belief: Truth keeps the bottom of her well, And when the thief peeps down, the thief Peeps back at him, perpetual. Faint not that this or that man fell; For one that falls a thousand rise To lift white Progress to the skies: Truth keeps the bottom of her well. Fear not for man, nor cease to delve For cool sweet truth, with large belief. Lo! Christ himself chose only twelve, Yet one of these turned out a thief. IV. Down through the dark magnolia leaves Where climbs the rose of Cherokee Against the orange-blossomed tree, A loom of moonlight weaves and weaves,-- A loom of moonlight, weaving clothes From snow-white rose of Cherokee, And bridal blooms of orange-tree, For fairy folk in fragrant rose. Down through the mournful myrtle crape, Through moving moss, through ghostly gloom, A long white moonbeam takes a shape Above a nameless, lowly tomb; A long white finger through the gloom Of grasses gathered round about,-- As God's white finger pointing out A name upon that nameless tomb. V. Her white face bowed in her black hair, The maiden prays so still within That you might hear a falling pin,-- Ay, hear her white unuttered prayer. The moon has grown disconsolate, Has turned her down her walk of stars: Why, she is shutting up her bars, As maidens shut a lover's gate. The moon has grown disconsolate; She will no longer watch and wait. But two men wait; and two men will Wait on till morning, mute and still: Still wait and walk among the trees, Quite careless if the moon may keep Her walk along her starry steep Above the Southern pearl-sown seas.