Dolores.Her old boat loaded with oranges,Her baby tied on her breast,Minorcan Dolores bends her oars,Noting each reed[833]on the swift-moving shores;But the way is long and the inlet wide—[834]Can two small hands overcome the tideSweeping up from the west?Four little walls of conquina stone,Rude thatch of palmetto leaves;There[835]they have nestled, like birds in a tree,[836]From winter, and labor, and hunger free,Taking from earth their small need, but no more;No thought of the morrow,[837]no laying in store.No gathering patient sheaves.Alone in their southern island home,Through the year of summer days,The two live on; and the bountiful beach[838]Clusters its sea-food within his reach;The two love on, and the tropical landAnd life is a shining haze.Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,With dreamy, passionate eyes—Far in the past,[839]lured by Saxon wiles,A simple folk came from the Spanish sea-isles,Now, tinged with the blood of the creole quadroonTheir children live idly along[840]the lagoon,Under the Florida skies.[841]Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,Ah! their blooming life of love!—But fever falls, with its withering blight;[842]Dolores keeps watch through the sultry night;In vain[843]her poor herbs, in vain[844]her poor prayers,Her Luiz is mounting the silver-winged stairsThat lead up[845]to heaven above.So, her old boat loaded with oranges,Her baby tied on her breast,Dolores rows off to the ancient town,[846]Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching downFrom the far cold North;[847]they are men who know—Thus Dolores thinks—how to cure all[848]woe;Nay, their very touch is blest.“Oranges! Oranges!”[849]hear her cry,Through the shaded plaza path;But the Northern soldiers come marching inThrough the old Spanish city with stir and din;And silent people[850]stand sullen by,To see the old flag mount[851]again to the sky—The flag they had trampled[852]in wrath.Ah! brown Dolores, will no one hear,And buy thy little store?Now north,[853]now south,[854]on the old sea-wall,But her pitiful tones unheeded fall;Now east,[855]now west,[856]through the angry town,Patient she journeys up and down,Nor misses one surly door.Then, desperate, up[857]to the dreaded ranksShe carries her passionate suit;“I have no money,[858]for none would buy;But come,[859]for God’s sake, or he will die!Save him—my Luiz—he is so young,”She pleads in her liquid Minorcan tongue,And proffers[860]her store of fruit.But the Northern soldiers move steadily on,[861]They hear not, nor understand;The last blue rank has passed down the street,[862]She sees but the dust of their marching feet;[863]They have crossed the whole country,[864]by night and by day,And marked with their blood every step of the way,To conquer[865]this Southern land.They are gone—O despair![866]she turns to the church,[867]Half fainting, her fruit wet with tears;“Perhaps de old Saint, who is always dere,May wake up and take dem to pay for a prayer;They are very sweet, as the saint will see,If he would but wake up and listen to me.But he sleeps, so he never hears.”She enters;[868]the church is filled[869]with men,The pallid men of the North;Each dingy old pew[870]is a sick man’s bed,Each battered old bench[871]holds a weary head,The altar candles are swept away,[872]For vials and knives in shining array,And a new saint[873]is stepping forth.He must be a saint, for he comes from the shrine,A saint of a Northern creed,Clad in a uniform, army blue,But surely the saints may wear any hue,[874]Dolores thinks, as he takes her hand,And hears all her story, and understandsThe cry of her desperate need.An orange he gives to each weary man,[875]To freshen the fevered mouth,Then forth[876]they go down the old sea-wall,And they hear[877]in the dusk the pickets call,And the row-boat is moored on the shadowy shore,[878]The Northern saint can manage an oar,And the boat glides fast[879]to the south.A healing touch and a holy drink,A bright little heavenly knife,And this Northern saint, who prays no prayers,Brings back the soul from the spirit-winged stairs,[880]And once more Minorcan Luiz’s dark eyes,In whose depths the warmth of the tropics lies,Rest calm[881]on the awe-stricken wife.“Oh! dear Nordern saint![882]a shrine will I build,Wild roses I’ll bring from afar,[883]De jasmine, orange flower, wood tulips bright,And dose will I worship each morning and night.”“Nay, nay![884]poor Dolores, I am but a man,A surgeon, who binds up, with what skill he can,The wounds of this heart-breaking man.“See, build me no shrines, but take this small book,[885]And teach the brown baby to read.”He is gone, and Dolores is left on the shore,She watches the boat[886]till she sees it no more,She hears[887]the quick musketry all through the night,She holds fast the book in her pine knot’s red light,The book of the Northern creed.* * * * *The sad war is over, the dear peace has come,The blue-coated soldiers depart.[888]The brown baby reads the small book, and the threeLive on in their isle in the Florida sea,The brown baby learns many things wise and strange,But all[889]his new English words never can changeThe faith of Dolores’ fond heart.Gestures.[833]H. Sw. at side.[834]B. H. O.[835]H. O.[836]A. O.[837]H. F.[838]D. O.[839]H. B.[840]H. Sw.[841]Glance up.[842]P. H. O.[843]H. L.[844]Imp.[845]A. F.[846]H. F.[847]Left H. L.[848]H. O.[849]Listen.[850]H. O.[851]A. O.[852]P. D. O.[853]Left H. L.[854]H. L.[855]H. F.[856]H. B.[857]H. F.[858]B. D. L.[859]B. Cla.[860]B. H. F.[861]H. Sw.[862]Look to R. bending forward.[863]H. L.[864]B. H. O.[865]D. F.[866]B. Cli. D.[867]H. F.[868]H. F.[869]B. H. O.[870]H. Sw.[871]Left H. Sw.[872]V. H. Sw.[873]H. F.[874]H. O.[875]H. Sw.[876]H. F.[877]Lis.[878]D. O.[879]H. Sw.[880]A. O.[881]P. H. O.[882]B. Cla.[883]H. L.[884]V. H. O.[885]H. O.[886]Hand over eyes.[887]Listen.[888]Left H. L.[889]B. H. O.
Her old boat loaded with oranges,Her baby tied on her breast,Minorcan Dolores bends her oars,Noting each reed[833]on the swift-moving shores;But the way is long and the inlet wide—[834]Can two small hands overcome the tideSweeping up from the west?Four little walls of conquina stone,Rude thatch of palmetto leaves;There[835]they have nestled, like birds in a tree,[836]From winter, and labor, and hunger free,Taking from earth their small need, but no more;No thought of the morrow,[837]no laying in store.No gathering patient sheaves.Alone in their southern island home,Through the year of summer days,The two live on; and the bountiful beach[838]Clusters its sea-food within his reach;The two love on, and the tropical landAnd life is a shining haze.Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,With dreamy, passionate eyes—Far in the past,[839]lured by Saxon wiles,A simple folk came from the Spanish sea-isles,Now, tinged with the blood of the creole quadroonTheir children live idly along[840]the lagoon,Under the Florida skies.[841]Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,Ah! their blooming life of love!—But fever falls, with its withering blight;[842]Dolores keeps watch through the sultry night;In vain[843]her poor herbs, in vain[844]her poor prayers,Her Luiz is mounting the silver-winged stairsThat lead up[845]to heaven above.So, her old boat loaded with oranges,Her baby tied on her breast,Dolores rows off to the ancient town,[846]Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching downFrom the far cold North;[847]they are men who know—Thus Dolores thinks—how to cure all[848]woe;Nay, their very touch is blest.“Oranges! Oranges!”[849]hear her cry,Through the shaded plaza path;But the Northern soldiers come marching inThrough the old Spanish city with stir and din;And silent people[850]stand sullen by,To see the old flag mount[851]again to the sky—The flag they had trampled[852]in wrath.Ah! brown Dolores, will no one hear,And buy thy little store?Now north,[853]now south,[854]on the old sea-wall,But her pitiful tones unheeded fall;Now east,[855]now west,[856]through the angry town,Patient she journeys up and down,Nor misses one surly door.Then, desperate, up[857]to the dreaded ranksShe carries her passionate suit;“I have no money,[858]for none would buy;But come,[859]for God’s sake, or he will die!Save him—my Luiz—he is so young,”She pleads in her liquid Minorcan tongue,And proffers[860]her store of fruit.But the Northern soldiers move steadily on,[861]They hear not, nor understand;The last blue rank has passed down the street,[862]She sees but the dust of their marching feet;[863]They have crossed the whole country,[864]by night and by day,And marked with their blood every step of the way,To conquer[865]this Southern land.They are gone—O despair![866]she turns to the church,[867]Half fainting, her fruit wet with tears;“Perhaps de old Saint, who is always dere,May wake up and take dem to pay for a prayer;They are very sweet, as the saint will see,If he would but wake up and listen to me.But he sleeps, so he never hears.”She enters;[868]the church is filled[869]with men,The pallid men of the North;Each dingy old pew[870]is a sick man’s bed,Each battered old bench[871]holds a weary head,The altar candles are swept away,[872]For vials and knives in shining array,And a new saint[873]is stepping forth.He must be a saint, for he comes from the shrine,A saint of a Northern creed,Clad in a uniform, army blue,But surely the saints may wear any hue,[874]Dolores thinks, as he takes her hand,And hears all her story, and understandsThe cry of her desperate need.An orange he gives to each weary man,[875]To freshen the fevered mouth,Then forth[876]they go down the old sea-wall,And they hear[877]in the dusk the pickets call,And the row-boat is moored on the shadowy shore,[878]The Northern saint can manage an oar,And the boat glides fast[879]to the south.A healing touch and a holy drink,A bright little heavenly knife,And this Northern saint, who prays no prayers,Brings back the soul from the spirit-winged stairs,[880]And once more Minorcan Luiz’s dark eyes,In whose depths the warmth of the tropics lies,Rest calm[881]on the awe-stricken wife.“Oh! dear Nordern saint![882]a shrine will I build,Wild roses I’ll bring from afar,[883]De jasmine, orange flower, wood tulips bright,And dose will I worship each morning and night.”“Nay, nay![884]poor Dolores, I am but a man,A surgeon, who binds up, with what skill he can,The wounds of this heart-breaking man.“See, build me no shrines, but take this small book,[885]And teach the brown baby to read.”He is gone, and Dolores is left on the shore,She watches the boat[886]till she sees it no more,She hears[887]the quick musketry all through the night,She holds fast the book in her pine knot’s red light,The book of the Northern creed.* * * * *The sad war is over, the dear peace has come,The blue-coated soldiers depart.[888]The brown baby reads the small book, and the threeLive on in their isle in the Florida sea,The brown baby learns many things wise and strange,But all[889]his new English words never can changeThe faith of Dolores’ fond heart.
Her old boat loaded with oranges,Her baby tied on her breast,Minorcan Dolores bends her oars,Noting each reed[833]on the swift-moving shores;But the way is long and the inlet wide—[834]Can two small hands overcome the tideSweeping up from the west?Four little walls of conquina stone,Rude thatch of palmetto leaves;There[835]they have nestled, like birds in a tree,[836]From winter, and labor, and hunger free,Taking from earth their small need, but no more;No thought of the morrow,[837]no laying in store.No gathering patient sheaves.Alone in their southern island home,Through the year of summer days,The two live on; and the bountiful beach[838]Clusters its sea-food within his reach;The two love on, and the tropical landAnd life is a shining haze.Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,With dreamy, passionate eyes—Far in the past,[839]lured by Saxon wiles,A simple folk came from the Spanish sea-isles,Now, tinged with the blood of the creole quadroonTheir children live idly along[840]the lagoon,Under the Florida skies.[841]Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,Ah! their blooming life of love!—But fever falls, with its withering blight;[842]Dolores keeps watch through the sultry night;In vain[843]her poor herbs, in vain[844]her poor prayers,Her Luiz is mounting the silver-winged stairsThat lead up[845]to heaven above.So, her old boat loaded with oranges,Her baby tied on her breast,Dolores rows off to the ancient town,[846]Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching downFrom the far cold North;[847]they are men who know—Thus Dolores thinks—how to cure all[848]woe;Nay, their very touch is blest.“Oranges! Oranges!”[849]hear her cry,Through the shaded plaza path;But the Northern soldiers come marching inThrough the old Spanish city with stir and din;And silent people[850]stand sullen by,To see the old flag mount[851]again to the sky—The flag they had trampled[852]in wrath.Ah! brown Dolores, will no one hear,And buy thy little store?Now north,[853]now south,[854]on the old sea-wall,But her pitiful tones unheeded fall;Now east,[855]now west,[856]through the angry town,Patient she journeys up and down,Nor misses one surly door.Then, desperate, up[857]to the dreaded ranksShe carries her passionate suit;“I have no money,[858]for none would buy;But come,[859]for God’s sake, or he will die!Save him—my Luiz—he is so young,”She pleads in her liquid Minorcan tongue,And proffers[860]her store of fruit.But the Northern soldiers move steadily on,[861]They hear not, nor understand;The last blue rank has passed down the street,[862]She sees but the dust of their marching feet;[863]They have crossed the whole country,[864]by night and by day,And marked with their blood every step of the way,To conquer[865]this Southern land.They are gone—O despair![866]she turns to the church,[867]Half fainting, her fruit wet with tears;“Perhaps de old Saint, who is always dere,May wake up and take dem to pay for a prayer;They are very sweet, as the saint will see,If he would but wake up and listen to me.But he sleeps, so he never hears.”She enters;[868]the church is filled[869]with men,The pallid men of the North;Each dingy old pew[870]is a sick man’s bed,Each battered old bench[871]holds a weary head,The altar candles are swept away,[872]For vials and knives in shining array,And a new saint[873]is stepping forth.He must be a saint, for he comes from the shrine,A saint of a Northern creed,Clad in a uniform, army blue,But surely the saints may wear any hue,[874]Dolores thinks, as he takes her hand,And hears all her story, and understandsThe cry of her desperate need.An orange he gives to each weary man,[875]To freshen the fevered mouth,Then forth[876]they go down the old sea-wall,And they hear[877]in the dusk the pickets call,And the row-boat is moored on the shadowy shore,[878]The Northern saint can manage an oar,And the boat glides fast[879]to the south.A healing touch and a holy drink,A bright little heavenly knife,And this Northern saint, who prays no prayers,Brings back the soul from the spirit-winged stairs,[880]And once more Minorcan Luiz’s dark eyes,In whose depths the warmth of the tropics lies,Rest calm[881]on the awe-stricken wife.“Oh! dear Nordern saint![882]a shrine will I build,Wild roses I’ll bring from afar,[883]De jasmine, orange flower, wood tulips bright,And dose will I worship each morning and night.”“Nay, nay![884]poor Dolores, I am but a man,A surgeon, who binds up, with what skill he can,The wounds of this heart-breaking man.“See, build me no shrines, but take this small book,[885]And teach the brown baby to read.”He is gone, and Dolores is left on the shore,She watches the boat[886]till she sees it no more,She hears[887]the quick musketry all through the night,She holds fast the book in her pine knot’s red light,The book of the Northern creed.* * * * *The sad war is over, the dear peace has come,The blue-coated soldiers depart.[888]The brown baby reads the small book, and the threeLive on in their isle in the Florida sea,The brown baby learns many things wise and strange,But all[889]his new English words never can changeThe faith of Dolores’ fond heart.
Her old boat loaded with oranges,
Her baby tied on her breast,
Minorcan Dolores bends her oars,
Noting each reed[833]on the swift-moving shores;
But the way is long and the inlet wide—[834]
Can two small hands overcome the tide
Sweeping up from the west?
Four little walls of conquina stone,Rude thatch of palmetto leaves;There[835]they have nestled, like birds in a tree,[836]From winter, and labor, and hunger free,Taking from earth their small need, but no more;No thought of the morrow,[837]no laying in store.No gathering patient sheaves.
Four little walls of conquina stone,
Rude thatch of palmetto leaves;
There[835]they have nestled, like birds in a tree,[836]
From winter, and labor, and hunger free,
Taking from earth their small need, but no more;
No thought of the morrow,[837]no laying in store.
No gathering patient sheaves.
Alone in their southern island home,Through the year of summer days,The two live on; and the bountiful beach[838]Clusters its sea-food within his reach;The two love on, and the tropical landAnd life is a shining haze.
Alone in their southern island home,
Through the year of summer days,
The two live on; and the bountiful beach[838]
Clusters its sea-food within his reach;
The two love on, and the tropical land
And life is a shining haze.
Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,With dreamy, passionate eyes—Far in the past,[839]lured by Saxon wiles,A simple folk came from the Spanish sea-isles,Now, tinged with the blood of the creole quadroonTheir children live idly along[840]the lagoon,Under the Florida skies.[841]
Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,
With dreamy, passionate eyes—
Far in the past,[839]lured by Saxon wiles,
A simple folk came from the Spanish sea-isles,
Now, tinged with the blood of the creole quadroon
Their children live idly along[840]the lagoon,
Under the Florida skies.[841]
Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,Ah! their blooming life of love!—But fever falls, with its withering blight;[842]Dolores keeps watch through the sultry night;In vain[843]her poor herbs, in vain[844]her poor prayers,Her Luiz is mounting the silver-winged stairsThat lead up[845]to heaven above.
Luiz, Dolores, and baby brown,
Ah! their blooming life of love!—
But fever falls, with its withering blight;[842]
Dolores keeps watch through the sultry night;
In vain[843]her poor herbs, in vain[844]her poor prayers,
Her Luiz is mounting the silver-winged stairs
That lead up[845]to heaven above.
So, her old boat loaded with oranges,Her baby tied on her breast,Dolores rows off to the ancient town,[846]Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching downFrom the far cold North;[847]they are men who know—Thus Dolores thinks—how to cure all[848]woe;Nay, their very touch is blest.
So, her old boat loaded with oranges,
Her baby tied on her breast,
Dolores rows off to the ancient town,[846]
Where the blue-eyed soldiers come marching down
From the far cold North;[847]they are men who know—
Thus Dolores thinks—how to cure all[848]woe;
Nay, their very touch is blest.
“Oranges! Oranges!”[849]hear her cry,Through the shaded plaza path;But the Northern soldiers come marching inThrough the old Spanish city with stir and din;And silent people[850]stand sullen by,To see the old flag mount[851]again to the sky—The flag they had trampled[852]in wrath.
“Oranges! Oranges!”[849]hear her cry,
Through the shaded plaza path;
But the Northern soldiers come marching in
Through the old Spanish city with stir and din;
And silent people[850]stand sullen by,
To see the old flag mount[851]again to the sky—
The flag they had trampled[852]in wrath.
Ah! brown Dolores, will no one hear,And buy thy little store?Now north,[853]now south,[854]on the old sea-wall,But her pitiful tones unheeded fall;Now east,[855]now west,[856]through the angry town,Patient she journeys up and down,Nor misses one surly door.
Ah! brown Dolores, will no one hear,
And buy thy little store?
Now north,[853]now south,[854]on the old sea-wall,
But her pitiful tones unheeded fall;
Now east,[855]now west,[856]through the angry town,
Patient she journeys up and down,
Nor misses one surly door.
Then, desperate, up[857]to the dreaded ranksShe carries her passionate suit;“I have no money,[858]for none would buy;But come,[859]for God’s sake, or he will die!Save him—my Luiz—he is so young,”She pleads in her liquid Minorcan tongue,And proffers[860]her store of fruit.
Then, desperate, up[857]to the dreaded ranks
She carries her passionate suit;
“I have no money,[858]for none would buy;
But come,[859]for God’s sake, or he will die!
Save him—my Luiz—he is so young,”
She pleads in her liquid Minorcan tongue,
And proffers[860]her store of fruit.
But the Northern soldiers move steadily on,[861]They hear not, nor understand;The last blue rank has passed down the street,[862]She sees but the dust of their marching feet;[863]They have crossed the whole country,[864]by night and by day,And marked with their blood every step of the way,To conquer[865]this Southern land.
But the Northern soldiers move steadily on,[861]
They hear not, nor understand;
The last blue rank has passed down the street,[862]
She sees but the dust of their marching feet;[863]
They have crossed the whole country,[864]by night and by day,
And marked with their blood every step of the way,
To conquer[865]this Southern land.
They are gone—O despair![866]she turns to the church,[867]Half fainting, her fruit wet with tears;“Perhaps de old Saint, who is always dere,May wake up and take dem to pay for a prayer;They are very sweet, as the saint will see,If he would but wake up and listen to me.But he sleeps, so he never hears.”
They are gone—O despair![866]she turns to the church,[867]
Half fainting, her fruit wet with tears;
“Perhaps de old Saint, who is always dere,
May wake up and take dem to pay for a prayer;
They are very sweet, as the saint will see,
If he would but wake up and listen to me.
But he sleeps, so he never hears.”
She enters;[868]the church is filled[869]with men,The pallid men of the North;Each dingy old pew[870]is a sick man’s bed,Each battered old bench[871]holds a weary head,The altar candles are swept away,[872]For vials and knives in shining array,And a new saint[873]is stepping forth.
She enters;[868]the church is filled[869]with men,
The pallid men of the North;
Each dingy old pew[870]is a sick man’s bed,
Each battered old bench[871]holds a weary head,
The altar candles are swept away,[872]
For vials and knives in shining array,
And a new saint[873]is stepping forth.
He must be a saint, for he comes from the shrine,A saint of a Northern creed,Clad in a uniform, army blue,But surely the saints may wear any hue,[874]Dolores thinks, as he takes her hand,And hears all her story, and understandsThe cry of her desperate need.
He must be a saint, for he comes from the shrine,
A saint of a Northern creed,
Clad in a uniform, army blue,
But surely the saints may wear any hue,[874]
Dolores thinks, as he takes her hand,
And hears all her story, and understands
The cry of her desperate need.
An orange he gives to each weary man,[875]To freshen the fevered mouth,Then forth[876]they go down the old sea-wall,And they hear[877]in the dusk the pickets call,And the row-boat is moored on the shadowy shore,[878]The Northern saint can manage an oar,And the boat glides fast[879]to the south.
An orange he gives to each weary man,[875]
To freshen the fevered mouth,
Then forth[876]they go down the old sea-wall,
And they hear[877]in the dusk the pickets call,
And the row-boat is moored on the shadowy shore,[878]
The Northern saint can manage an oar,
And the boat glides fast[879]to the south.
A healing touch and a holy drink,A bright little heavenly knife,And this Northern saint, who prays no prayers,Brings back the soul from the spirit-winged stairs,[880]And once more Minorcan Luiz’s dark eyes,In whose depths the warmth of the tropics lies,Rest calm[881]on the awe-stricken wife.
A healing touch and a holy drink,
A bright little heavenly knife,
And this Northern saint, who prays no prayers,
Brings back the soul from the spirit-winged stairs,[880]
And once more Minorcan Luiz’s dark eyes,
In whose depths the warmth of the tropics lies,
Rest calm[881]on the awe-stricken wife.
“Oh! dear Nordern saint![882]a shrine will I build,Wild roses I’ll bring from afar,[883]De jasmine, orange flower, wood tulips bright,And dose will I worship each morning and night.”“Nay, nay![884]poor Dolores, I am but a man,A surgeon, who binds up, with what skill he can,The wounds of this heart-breaking man.
“Oh! dear Nordern saint![882]a shrine will I build,
Wild roses I’ll bring from afar,[883]
De jasmine, orange flower, wood tulips bright,
And dose will I worship each morning and night.”
“Nay, nay![884]poor Dolores, I am but a man,
A surgeon, who binds up, with what skill he can,
The wounds of this heart-breaking man.
“See, build me no shrines, but take this small book,[885]And teach the brown baby to read.”He is gone, and Dolores is left on the shore,She watches the boat[886]till she sees it no more,She hears[887]the quick musketry all through the night,She holds fast the book in her pine knot’s red light,The book of the Northern creed.* * * * *
“See, build me no shrines, but take this small book,[885]
And teach the brown baby to read.”
He is gone, and Dolores is left on the shore,
She watches the boat[886]till she sees it no more,
She hears[887]the quick musketry all through the night,
She holds fast the book in her pine knot’s red light,
The book of the Northern creed.
* * * * *
The sad war is over, the dear peace has come,The blue-coated soldiers depart.[888]The brown baby reads the small book, and the threeLive on in their isle in the Florida sea,The brown baby learns many things wise and strange,But all[889]his new English words never can changeThe faith of Dolores’ fond heart.
The sad war is over, the dear peace has come,
The blue-coated soldiers depart.[888]
The brown baby reads the small book, and the three
Live on in their isle in the Florida sea,
The brown baby learns many things wise and strange,
But all[889]his new English words never can change
The faith of Dolores’ fond heart.
Gestures.