in London in 1873 entitled "Sunland Songs." Succeeding, the "Songs of the Desert" appeared in 1875; "Songs of Italy" 1878; Songs of the Mexican Seas 1887. Later he has published "With Walker in Nicaragua " and he is also author of a play called "The Danites," and of several prose works relating to life in the West among which are "The Danites in the Sierras," "Shadows of Shasta" and 49, or "The Gold-seekers of the Sierras."
The chief excellencies of Miller's works are his gorgeous pictures of the gigantic scenery of the Western mountains. In this sense he is a true poet. As compared with Bret Harte, while Miller has the finer poetic perception of the two, he does not possess the dramatic power nor the literary skill of Harte; nor does he seem to recognize the native generosity and noble qualities which lie hidden beneath the vicious lives of outlaws, as the latter reveals it in his writings. After all the question arises which is the nearer the truth? Harte is about the same age as Miller, lived among the camps at about the same time, but he was not, to use a rough expression, "one of the gang," was not so pronouncedly "on the inside" as was his brother poet. He never dug in the mines, he was not a filibuster, nor an Indian Sachem. All these and more Miller was, and perhaps he is nearer the plumb line of truth in his delineations after all.
Mr. Miller's home is on the bluffs overlooking the San Francisco Bay in sight of the Golden Gate. He devotes himself to literature, his old mother and his friends.
THOUGHTS OF MY WESTERN HOME.
IERRAS, and eternal tents
Of snow that flashed o'er battlements Of mountains! My land of the sun, Am I not true? have I not done All things for thine, for thee alone, O sun-land, sea-land, thou mine own? From other loves and other lands, As true, perhaps, as strong of hands, Have I not turned to thee and thine, O sun-land of the palm and pine, And sung thy scenes, surpassing skies, Till Europe lifted up her face And marveled at thy matchless grace,
O lord all Godland! lift the brow Familiar to the noon,-to top The universal world,-to prop The hollow heavens up.-to vow Stern constancy with stars,-to keep Eternal ward while cons sleep;
To tower calmly up and touch God's purple garment-hems that sweep
With eager and inquiring eyes? Be my reward some little place To pitch my tent, some tree and vine Where I may sit above the sea, And drink the sun as drinking wine, And dream, or sing some songs of thee; Or days to climb to Shasta's dome Again, and be with gods at home, Salute my mountains-clouded Hood, Saint Helen's in its sea of wood- Where sweeps the Oregon, and where White storms are in the feathered fir.
The cold blue north! Oh, this were much!
Where storm-born shadows hide and hunt I knew thee in my glorious youth, I loved thy vast face, white as truth, I stood where thunderbolts were wont To smite thy Titan-fashioned front, And heard rent mountains rock and roll. I saw thy lightning's gleaming rod Reach forth and write on heaven's scroll The awful autograph of God!
KIT CARSON'S RIDE. UN? Now you bet you; I rather guess 80. But he's blind as a badger. Whoa, Paché, boy, whoa.
No, you wouldn't think so to look at his eyes, But he is badger blind, and it happened this wise
We lay low in the grass on the broad plain levels, Old Revels and I, and my stolen brown bride.
Forty full miles if a foot to ride,
Forty full miles if a foot and the devils
Of red Camanches are hot on the track When once they strike it. Let the sun go down Soon, very soon," muttered bearded old Revels As he peered at the sun, lying low on his back, Holding fast to his lasso; then he jerked at his steed, And sprang to his feet, and glanced swiftly around. And then dropped, as if shot, with his ear to the ground,-
Then again to his feet and to me, to my bride, While his eyes were like fire, his face like a shroud, His form like a king, and his beard like a cloud, And his voice loud and shrill, as if blown from reed,-
“Pull, pull in your lassos, and bridle to steed, And speed, if ever for life you would speed; And ride for your lives, for your lives you must ride, For the plain is aflame, the prairie on fire, And feet of wild horses, hard flying before I hear like a sea breaking hard on the shore; While the buffalo come like the surge of the sea, Driven far by the flame, driving fast on us three As a hurricane comes, crushing palms in his ire."
We drew in the lassos, seized saddle and rein, Threw them on, sinched them on, sinched them over again,
And again drew the girth, cast aside the macheer, Cut away tapidaros, loosed the sash from its fold, Cast aside the catenas red and spangled with gold, And gold-mounted Colts, true companions for years, Cast the red silk serapes to the wind in a breath And so bared to the skin sprang all haste to the horse.
Not a word, not a wail from a lip was let fall, Not a kiss from my bride, not a look or low call Of love-note or courage, but on o'er the plain So steady and still, leaning low to the mane, With the heel to the flank and the hand to the rein, Rode we on, rode we three, rode we gray nose and
Reaching long, breathing loud, like a creviced wind blows,
Yet we spoke not a whisper, we breathed not a prayer,
There was work to be done, there was death in the air, And the chance was as one to a thousand for all.
Gray nose to gray nose and each steady mustang Stretched neck and stretched nerve till the hollow earth rang
And the foam from the flank and the croup and the neck
Flew around like the spray on a storm-driven deck. Twenty miles! thirty miles a dim distant speck— Then a long reaching line and the Brazos in sight. And I rose in my seat with a shout of delight. I stood in my stirrup and looked to my right, But Revels was gone; I glanced by my shoulder And saw his horse stagger; I saw his head drooping Hard on his breast, and his naked breast stooping
Low down to the mane as so swifter and bolder
Ran reaching out for us the red-footed fire. To right and to left the black buffalo came, In miles and in millions, rolling on in despair, With their beards to the dust and black tails in the
As a terrible surf on a red sea of flame Rushing on in the rear, reaching high, reaching
And he rode neck to neck to a buffalo bull, The monarch of millions, with shaggy mane full Of smoke and of dust, and it shook with desire Of battle, with rage and with bellowings loud And unearthly and up through its lowering cloud Came the flash of his eyes like a half-hidden fire, While his keen crooked horns through the storm of
Like black lances lifted and lifted again;
And I looked but this once, for the fire licked through,
And he fell and was lost, as we rode two and two.
I looked to my left then, and nose, neck, and shoulder Sank slowly, sank surely, till back to my thighs; And up through the black blowing veil of her hair Did beam full in mine her two marvelous eyes With a longing and love, yet look of despair, And a pity for me, as she felt the smoke fold her, And flames reaching far for her glorious hair. Her sinking steed faltered, his eager ears fell To and fro and unsteady, and all the neck's swell Did subside and recede, and the nerves fell as dead. Then she saw that my own steed still lorded his head
With a look of delight, for this Paché, you see, Was her father's and once at the South Santafee Had won a whole herd, sweeping everything down In a race where the world came to run for the crown; And so when I won the true heart of my bride,-
My neighbor's and deadliest enemy's child, And child of the kingly war-chief of his tribe,- She brought me this steed to the border the night She met Revels and me in her perilous flight,
From the lodge of the chief to the north Brazos side;
And said, so half guessing of ill as she smiled, As if jesting, that I, and I only, should ride The fleet-footed Paché, so if kin should pursue I should surely escape without other ado Than to ride, without blood, to the north Brazos side, And await her.-and wait till the next hollow moon Hung her horn in the palms, when surely and soon And swift she would join me, and all would be well Without bloodshed or word. And now as she fell From the front, and went down in the ocean of fire, The last that I saw was a look of delight That I should escape,—a love,—a desire,— Yet never a word, not a look of appeal.—
Till they died with a wild and a desolate moan, As a sea heart-broken on the hard brown stone, And into the Brazos I rode all alone- All alone, save only a horse long-limbed, And blind and bare and burnt to the skin. Then just as the terrible sea came in
And tumbled its thousands hot into the tide, Till the tide blocked up and the swift stream brimmed
In eddies, we struck on the opposite side.
"Sell Paché-blind Paché? Now, mister! look here!
You have slept in my tent and partook of my cheer Many days, many days, on this rugged frontier." For the ways they were rough and Comanches were
"But you'd better pack up, sir! That tent is too small
Lest I should reach hand, should stay hand or stay For us two after this! Has an old mountaineer,
One instant for her in my terrible flight.
Then the rushing of fire rose around me and under. And the howling of beast like the sound of thunder.— Beasts burning and blind and forced onward and over, As the passionate flame reached around them and wove her
Hands in their hair, and kissed hot till they died.—
Do you book-men believe, get no tum-tum at all? Sell Paché! You buy him! a bag full of gold! You show him! Tell of him the tale I have told! Why he bore me through fire, and is blind and is old!
Now pack up your papers, and get up and spin To them cities you tell of. your tin!"
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