Poems (Jackson)/The Singer's Hills
THE SINGER'S HILLS.
E dwelt where level lands lay low and drear,Long stretches of waste meadow pale and sere,With dull seas languid tiding up and down,Turning the lifeless sands from white to brown,—Wide barren fields for miles and miles, untilThe pale horizon walled them in, and stillNo lifted peak, no slope, not even moundTo raise and cheer the weary eye was found.From boyhood up and down these dismal lands,And pacing to and fro the barren sands,And always gazing, gazing seaward, wentThe Singer. Daily with the sad winds blentHis yearning voice."There must be hills," he said,"I know they stand at sunset rosy red,And purple in the dewy shadowed morn;Great forest trees like babes are rocked and borne Upon their breasts, and flowers like jewels shineAround their feet, and gold and silver lineTheir hidden chambers, and great cities riseStately where their protecting shadow lies,And men grow brave and women are more fair'Neath higher skies, and in the clearer air!"One day thus longing, gazing, lo! in aweMade calm by ecstasy, he sudden saw,Far out to seaward, mountain peaks appear,Slow rising from the water pale and clear.Purple and azure, there they were, as heHad faithful yearning visions they must be;Purple and azure and bright rosy red,Like flashing jewels, on the sea they shedTheir quenchless light.Great tears ran downThe Singer's cheeks, and through the busy town,And all across the dreary meadow lands,And all along the dreary lifeless sands,He called aloud,"Ho! tarry! tarry ye!Behold those purple mountains in the sea!"The people saw no mountains!"He is mad,"They careless said, and went their way and hadNo further thought of him.And so, amongHis fellows' noisy, idle, crowding throng,The Singer walked, as strangers walk who speakA foreign tongue and have no friend to seek.And yet the silent joy which filled his faceSometimes their wonder stirred a little space, And following his constant seaward look,One wistful gaze they also seaward took.One day the Singer was not seen. Men saidThat as the early day was breaking red,He rowed far out to sea, rowed swift and strong,Toward the spot where he had gazed so long.Then all the people shook their heads, and wentA little sadly, thinking he had spentHis life in vain, and sorry they no moreShould hear his sweet mad songs along their shore.But when the sea with sunset hues was dyed,A boat came slowly drifting with the tide,Nor oar nor rudder set to turn or stay,And on the crimson deck the Singer lay."Ah, he is dead," some cried. "No! he but sleeps,"Said others, "madman that he is, joy keepsSweet vigils with him now."The light keel grazedThe sands; alert and swift the Singer raisedHis head, and with red cheeks and eyes aflameLeaped out, and shouted loud, and called by nameEach man, and breathlessly his story told."Lo, I have landed on the hills of gold!See, these are flowers, and these are fruits, and theseAre boughs from off the giant forest trees;And these are jewels which lie loosely there,And these are stuffs which beauteous maidens wear!"And staggering he knelt upon the sandsAs laying burdens down.But empty handsHis fellows saw, and passed on smiling. Yet,The ecstasy in which his face was set Again smote on their hearts with sudden senseOf half involuntary reverence.And some said, whispering, "Alack, is heThe madman? Have ye never heard there beSome spells which make men blind?"And thenceforth theyMore closely watched the Singer day by day,Till finally they said, "He is not mad.There be such hills, and treasure to be hadFor seeking there! We too without delayWill sail."And of the men who sailed that way,Some found the purple mountains in the sea,Landed, and roamed their treasure countries free,And drifted back with brimming laden hands.Walking along the lifeless silent sands,The Singer, gazing ever seaward, knew,Well knew the odors which the soft wind blewOf all the fruits and flowers and boughs they bore.Standing with hands stretched eager on the shore,When they leaped out, he called, "Now God be praised,Sweet comrades, were they then not fair?"Amazed,And with dull scorn, the other men who broughtNo treasures, found no mountains, and saw naughtIn these men's hands, beheld them kneeling low,Lifting, shouting, and running to and froAs men unlading argosies whose freightOf gorgeous things bewildered by its weight. Tireless the great years waxed; the great years waned;Slowly the Singer's comrades grew and gainedTill they were goodly number.No man's scornCould hurt or hinder them. No pity bornOf it could make them blush, or once make lessTheir joy's estate; and as for lonelinessThey knew it not.Still rise the magic hills,Purple and gold and red; the shore still thrillsWith fragrance when the sunset winds beginTo blow and waft the subtle odors inFrom treasure laden boats that drift, and bideThe hours and moments of the wave and tide,Laden with fruits and boughs and flowers rare,And jewels such as monarchs do not wear,And costly stuffs which dazzle on the sight,Stuffs wrought for purest virgin, bravest knight;And men with cheeks all red, and eyes aflame,And hearts that call to hearts by brothers' name,Still leap out on the silent lifeless sands,And staggering with over-burdened handsJoyous lay down the treasures they have brought,While smiling, pitying, the world sees nought!