II.

By Arizona's sea of sand Some bearded miners, gray and old, And resolute in search of gold, Sat down to tap the savage land.

They tented in a cannon's mouth That gaped against the warm wide south, And underneath a wave-wash'd wall, Where now nor rains nor winds may fall, They delved the level salt-white sands For gold, with bold and horned hands.

A miner stood beside his mine, He pull'd his beard, then look'd away Across the level sea of sand, Beneath his broad and hairy hand, A hand as hard as knots of pine. "It looks so like a sea," said he. He pull'd his beard, and he did say, "It looks just like a dried-up sea." Again he pull'd that beard of his, But said no other thing than this.

A stalwart miner dealt a stroke, And struck a buried beam of oak. An old ship's beam the shaft appear'd, With storm-worn faded figure-head. The miner twisted, twirled his beard, Lean'd on his pick-axe as he spoke: "'Tis from some long-lost ship," he said, "Some laden ship of Solomon That sail'd these lonesome seas upon In search of Ophir's mine, ah me! That sail'd this dried-up desert sea." ... Nay, nay, 'tis not a tale of gold, But ghostly land storm-slain and old.