Some leaning shadows crooning crept Through desolation, crown'd in dust. And had the mad pursuer kept His path, and cherished his pursuit? There lay no choice. Advance he must: Advance, and eat his ashen fruit. Yet on and on old Morgan led. His black men totter'd to and fro, A leaning, huddled heap of woe; Then one fell down, then two fell dead; Yet not one moaning word was said. They made no sign, they said no word, Nor lifted once black, helpless hands; And all the time no sound was heard Save but the dull, dead, muffled tread Of shuffled feet in shining sands. Again the still moon rose and stood Above the dim, dark belt of wood, Above the buttes, above the snow, And bent a sad, sweet face below. She reach'd along the level plain Her long, white fingers. Then again She reach'd, she touch'd the snowy sands, Then reach'd far out until she touch'd A heap that lay with doubled hands, Reach'd from its sable self, and clutch'd With death. O tenderly That black, that dead and hollow face Was kiss'd at midnight.... What if I say The long, white moonbeams reaching there, Caressing idle hands of clay, And resting on the wrinkled hair And great lips push'd in sullen pout, Were God's own fingers reaching out From heaven to that lonesome place? XXXIV. By waif and stray and cast-away, Such as are seen in seas withdrawn, Old Morgan led in silence on, And sometime lifting up his head To guide his footsteps as he led, He deem'd he saw a great ship lay Her keel along the sea-wash'd sand, As with her captain's old command. * * * * * The stars were seal'd; and then a haze Of gossamer fill'd all the west, So like in Indian summer days, And veil'd all things. And then the moon Grew pale, and faint, and far. She died, And now nor star nor any sign Fell out of heaven. Oversoon Some black men fell. Then at their side Some one sat down to watch, to rest ... To rest, to watch, or what you will, The man sits resting, watching still. XXXV. The day glared through the eastern rim Of rocky peaks, as prison bars; With light as dim as distant stars The sultry sunbeams filter'd down Through misty phantoms weird and dim, Through shifting shapes bat-wing'd brown.