Full Online Books
Authors Authors Short Stories Short Stories Long Stories Long Stories Funny Stories Funny Stories Love Stories Love Stories Stories For Kids Stories For Kids Poems Poems Essays Essays Nonfictions Nonfictions Plays Plays Folktales Folktales Fairy Tales Fairy Tales Fables Fables Learning Kitchen Learning Kitchen
Valid XHTML 1.0 Transitional Free Classified Website Without Registration Free Classified Website Daniel Company
Twitter Twitter Add book
Full Online Book HomePoemsThe Legend Of La Brea
Famous Authors (View All Authors)
The Legend Of La Brea Post by :Netbiz4i Category :Poems Author :Charles Kingsley Date :March 2011 Read :1828

Click below to download : The Legend Of La Brea (Format : PDF)

The Legend Of La Brea

The Legend of La Brea {A}

Down beside the loathly Pitch Lake,
In the stately Morichal, {331b}
Sat an ancient Spanish Indian,
Peering through the columns tall.

Watching vainly for the flashing
Of the jewelled colibris; {331c}
Listening vainly for their humming
Round the honey-blossomed trees.

'Few,' he sighed, 'they come, and fewer,
To the cocorite {331d} bowers;
Murdered, madly, through the forests
Which of yore were theirs--and ours

By there came a negro hunter,
Lithe and lusty, sleek and strong,
Rolling round his sparkling eyeballs,
As he loped and lounged along.

Rusty firelock on his shoulder;
Rusty cutlass on his thigh;
Never jollier British subject
Rollicked underneath the sky.

British law to give him safety,
British fleets to guard his shore,
And a square of British freehold--
He had all we have, and more.

Fattening through the endless summer,
Like his own provision ground,
He had reached the summum bonum
Which our latest wits have found.

So he thought; and in his hammock
Gnawed his junk of sugar-cane,
Toasted plantains at the fire-stick,
Gnawed, and dozed, and gnawed again.

Had a wife in his ajoupa {332}--
Or, at least, what did instead;
Children, too, who died so early,
He'd no need to earn their bread.

Never stole, save what he needed,
From the Crown woods round about;
Never lied, except when summoned--
Let the warden find him out.

Never drank, except at market;
Never beat his sturdy mate;
She could hit as hard as he could,
And had just as hard a pate.

Had no care for priest nor parson,
Hope of heaven nor fear of hell;
And in all his views of nature
Held with Comte and Peter Bell.

Healthy, happy, silly, kindly,
Neither care nor toil had he,
Save to work an hour at sunrise,
And then hunt the colibri.

Not a bad man; not a good man:
Scarce a man at all, one fears,
If the Man be that within us
Which is born of fire and tears.

Round the palm-stems, round the creepers,
Flashed a feathered jewel past,
Ruby-crested, topaz-throated,
Plucked the cocorite bast,

Plucked the fallen ceiba-cotton, {333}
Whirred away to build his nest,
Hung at last, with happy humming,
Round some flower he fancied best.

Up then went the rusty muzzle,
'Dat de tenth I shot to-day:'
But out sprang the Indian shouting,
Balked the negro of his prey.

'Eh, you Senor Trinidada!
What dis new ondacent plan?
Spoil a genl'man's chance ob shooting?
I as good as any man.

'Dese not your woods; dese de Queen's woods:
You seem not know whar you ar,
Gibbin' yuself dese buckra airs here,
You black Indian Papist! Dar!'

Stately, courteous, stood the Indian;
Pointed through the palm-tree shade:
'Does the gentleman of colour
Know how yon Pitch Lake was made?'

Grinned the negro, grinned and trembled--
Through his nerves a shudder ran--
Saw a snake-like eye that held him;
Saw--he'd met an Obeah man.

Saw a fetish--such a bottle--
Buried at his cottage door;
Toad and spider, dirty water,
Rusty nails, and nine charms more.

Saw in vision such a cock's head
In the path--and it was white!
Saw Brinvilliers {334} in his pottage:
Faltered, cold and damp with fright.

Fearful is the chance of poison:
Fearful, too, the great unknown:
Magic brings some positivists
Humbly on their marrow-bone.

Like the wedding-guest enchanted,
There he stood, a trembling cur;
While the Indian told his story,
Like the Ancient Mariner.

Told how--'Once that loathly Pitch Lake
Was a garden bright and fair;
How the Chaymas off the mainland
Built their palm ajoupas there.

'How they throve, and how they fattened,
Hale and happy, safe and strong;
Passed the livelong days in feasting;
Passed the nights in dance and song.

'Till they cruel grew, and wanton:
Till they killed the colibris.
Then outspake the great Good Spirit,
Who can see through all the trees,

'Said--"And what have I not sent you,
Wanton Chaymas, many a year?
Lapp, {335a} agouti, {335b} cachicame, {335c}
Quenc {335d} and guazu-pita deer.

'"Fish I sent you, sent you turtle,
Chip-chip, {335e} conch, flamingo red,
Woodland paui, {335f} horned screamer, {335g}
And blue ramier {335h} overhead.

'"Plums from balata {335i} and mombin, {335j}
Tania, {335k} manioc, {335l} water-vine; {335m}
Let you fell my slim manacques, {335n}
Tap my sweet moriche wine. {335o}

'"Sent rich plantains, {336a} food of angels;
Rich ananas, {336b} food of kings;
Grudged you none of all my treasures:
Save these lovely useless things."

'But the Chaymas' ears were deafened;
Blind their eyes, and could not see
How a blissful Indian's spirit
Lived in every colibri.

'Lived, forgetting toil and sorrow,
Ever fair and ever new;
Whirring round the dear old woodland,
Feeding on the honey-dew.

'Till one evening roared the earthquake:
Monkeys howled, and parrots screamed:
And the Guaraons at morning
Gathered here, as men who dreamed.

'Sunk were gardens, sunk ajoupas;
Hut and hammock, man and hound:
And above the Chayma village
Boiled with pitch the cursed ground.

'Full, and too full; safe, and too safe;
Negro man, take care, take care.
He that wantons with God's bounties
Of God's wrath had best beware.

'For the saucy, reckless, heartless,
Evil days are sure in store.
You may see the Negro sinking
As the Chayma sank of yore.'

Loudly laughed that stalwart hunter--
'Eh, what superstitious talk!
Nyam {337} am nyam, an' maney maney;
Birds am birds, like park am park;
An' dere's twenty thousand birdskins
Ardered jes' now fram New Yark.'

Eversley, 1870.



{A} This myth about the famous Pitch Lake of Trinidad was told almost word for word to a M. Joseph by an aged half-caste Indian who went by the name of Senor Trinidada. The manners and customs which the ballad described, and the cruel and dangerous destruction of the beautiful birds of Trinidad, are facts which may be easily verified by any one who will take the trouble to visit the West Indies.

{331b} A magnificent wood of the Mauritia Fanpalm, on the south shore of the Pitch Lake.

{331c} Humming-birds.

{331d} Maximiliana palms.

{332} Hut of timber and palm-leaves.

{333} From the Eriodendron, or giant silk-cotton.

{334} Spigelia anthelmia, a too-well-known poison-plant.

{335a} Coelogenys Paca.

{335b} Wild cavy.

{335c} Armadillo.

{335d} Peccary hog.

{335e} Trigonia.

{335f} Penelope.

{335g} Palamedea.

{335h} Dove.

{335i} Mimusops.

{335j} Spondias.

{335k} An esculent Arum.

{335l} Jatropha manihot, 'Cassava.'

{335m} Vitis Caribaea.

{335n} Euterpe, 'mountain cabbage' palm.

{335o} Mauritia palm.

{336a} Musa.

{336b} Pine-apple.

{337} Food.

(The end)
Charles Kingsley's poem: Legend Of La Brea

If you like this book please share to your friends :

The Delectable Day The Delectable Day

The Delectable Day
The boy on the famous gray pony, Just bidding good-bye at the door,Plucking up maiden heart for the fences Where his brother won honour of yore.The walk to 'the Meet' with fair children, And women as gentle as gay,--Ah! how do we male hogs in armour Deserve such companions as they?The afternoon's wander to windward, To meet the dear boy coming back;And to catch, down the turns of the valley, The last weary chime of the pack.The climb homeward by park and by moorland, And through the

'qu'est Qu'il Dit' 'qu'est Qu'il Dit'

'qu'est Qu'il Dit'
'Qu'est Qu'il Dit' {A}Espion aile de la jeune amanteDe l'ombre des palmiers pourquoi ce cri?Laisse en paix le beau garcon plaider et vaincre--Pourquoi, pourquoi demander 'Qu'est qu'il dit?''Qu'est qu'il dit?' Ce que tu dis toi-memeChaque mois de ce printemps eternel;Ce que disent les papillons qui s'entre-baisent,Ce que dit tout bel jeun etre a toute belle.Importun! Attende quelques lustres:Quand les souvenirs 1'emmeneront ici--Mere, grand'mere, pale, lasse, et fidele,Demande mais doucement--'Et le vieillard, Qu'est qu'il dit?'Trinidad, January 10, 1870 Footnote {A} The Qu'est qu'il dit is a Tropical bird.(The end)Charles Kingsley's poem: 'Qu'est Qu'il Dit'