He lean'd, he reach'd an eager face, His black wolf skin flapp'd out and in, And tiger claws on tiger skin Held seat and saddle to its place; But that gray ghost that clutch'd thereat ... Arrête! the tale is not of that. A chieftain touch'd the desert's rim One autumn eve: he rode alone And still as moon-made shadows swim. He stopp'd, he stood as still as stone, He lean'd, he look'd, there glisten'd bright From out the yellow yielding sand A golden cup with jewell'd rim. He lean'd him low, he reach'd a hand, He caught it up, he gallop'd on, He turn'd his head, he saw a sight ... His panther skins flew to the wind, The dark, the desert lay behind; The tawny Ishmaelite was gone; But something sombre as death is ... Tut, tut! the tale is not of this. A mountaineer, storm-stained and brown, From farthest desert touched the town, And, striding through the crowd, held up Above his head a jewell'd cup. He put two fingers to his lip, He whisper'd wild, he stood a-tip, And lean'd the while with lifted hand, And said, "A ship lies yonder dead," And said, "Doubloons lie sown in sand In yon far desert dead and brown, Beyond where wave-wash'd walls look down, As thick as stars set overhead. That three shipmasts uplift like trees" ... Away! the tale is not of these. An Indian hunter held a plate Of gold above his lifted head, Around which kings had sat in state ... "'Tis from that desert ship," they said, "That sails with neither sail nor breeze, Or galleon, that sank below Of old, in olden dried-up seas, Ere yet the red men drew the bow." But wrinkled women wagg'd the head, And walls of warriors sat that night In black, nor streak of battle red, Around against the red camp light, And told such wondrous tales as these Of wealth within their dried-up seas. And one, girt well in tiger's skin, Who stood, like Saul, above the rest, With dangling claws about his breast, A belt without, a blade within, A warrior with a painted face, And lines that shadow'd stern and grim, Stood pointing east from his high place, And hurling thought like cannon shot, Stood high with visage flush'd and hot ... But, stay! this tale is not of him. II. By Arizona's sea of sand Some bearded miners, gray and old, And resolute in search of gold, Sat down to tap the savage land. They tented in a canñon's mouth That gaped against the warm wide south, And underneath a wave-wash'd wall, Where now nor rains nor winds may fall, They delved the level salt-white sands For gold, with bold and hornéd hands.