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diff --git a/8402-h/8402-h.htm b/8402-h/8402-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..134b6b4 --- /dev/null +++ b/8402-h/8402-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2757 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Transitional//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-transitional.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en" xml:lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> +<title> East and West, by Bret Harte</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + h1,h2,h3,h4 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-variant: small-caps; +margin-top: 2em;} + h1 { margin-top: 2em; } +.smallcaps { font-variant: small-caps; } +.c {text-align:center;font-size:150%;margin-left:0%;} + p {text-align:justify;text-indent:0%;margin-left:25%;} + ul {list-style-type:none;text-align:center;margin-left:0%;} +.tb {margin-left:28%;} +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of East and West: Poems, by Bret Harte + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license + + +Title: East and West: Poems + +Author: Bret Harte + +Posting Date: November 17, 2012 [EBook #8402] +Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8402] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EAST AND WEST: POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Curtis A. Weyant and The Online Distributed +Proofreading Team + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>East and West<br /> +Poems.</h1> + +<p class="c"><small>BY</small><br /> +Bret Harte.</p> + +<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>Contents.</h2> + +<h3>Part I.</h3> + +<ul> +<li><a href="#ch_01">A Greyport Legend</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_02">A Newport Romance</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_03">The Hawk's Nest</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_04">In the Mission Garden</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_05">The Old Major Explains</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_06">"Seventy-Nine"</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_07">Truthful James's Answer to "Her Letter"</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_08">Further Language from Truthful James</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_09">The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_10">On a Cone of the Big Trees</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_11">A Sanitary Message</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_12">The Copperhead</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_13">On a Pen of Thomas Starr King</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_14">Lone Mountain</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_15">California's Greeting to Seward</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_16">The Two Ships</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_17">The Goddess</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_18">Address</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_19">The Lost Galleon</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_20">The Second Review of the Grand Army</a></li> +</ul> + +<h3>Part II.</h3> + +<ul> +<li><a href="#ch_21">Before the Curtain</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_22">The Stage-Driver's Story</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_23">Aspiring Miss de Laine</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_24">California Madrigal</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_25">St. Thomas</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_26">Ballad of Mr. Cooke</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_27">Legends of the Rhine</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_28">Mrs. Judge Jenkins: Sequel to Maud Muller</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_29">Avitor</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_30">A White Pine Ballad</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_31">Little Red Riding-Hood</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_32">The Ritualist</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_33">A Moral Vindicator</a></li> +<li><a href="#ch_34">Songs without Sense</a></li> +</ul> + +<h2>Part I.</h2> + +<h2><a name="ch_01" id="ch_01"></a>A Greyport Legend.</h2> + +<h3>(1797.)</h3> + +<p>They ran through the streets of the seaport town;<br /> +They peered from the decks of the ships that lay:<br /> +The cold sea-fog that came whitening down<br /> +Was never as cold or white as they.<br /> + "Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden!<br /> + Run for your shallops, gather your men,<br /> + Scatter your boats on the lower bay."</p> + +<p>Good cause for fear! In the thick midday<br /> +The hulk that lay by the rotting pier,<br /> +Filled with the children in happy play,<br /> +Parted its moorings, and drifted clear,—<br /> + Drifted clear beyond the reach or call,—<br /> + Thirteen children they were in all,—<br /> + All adrift in the lower bay!</p> + +<p>Said a hard-faced skipper, "God help us all!<br /> +She will not float till the turning tide!"<br /> +Said his wife, "My darling will hear <i>my</i> call,<br /> +Whether in sea or heaven she bide:"<br /> + And she lifted a quavering voice and high,<br /> + Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry,<br /> + Till they shuddered and wondered at her side.</p> + +<p>The fog drove down on each laboring crew,<br /> +Veiled each from each and the sky and shore:<br /> +There was not a sound but the breath they drew,<br /> +And the lap of water and creak of oar;<br /> + And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown<br /> + O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone,<br /> + But not from the lips that had gone before.</p> + +<p>They come no more. But they tell the tale,<br /> +That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef,<br /> +The mackerel fishers shorten sail;<br /> +For the signal they know will bring relief:<br /> + For the voices of children, still at play<br /> + In a phantom hulk that drifts alway<br /> + Through channels whose waters never fail.</p> + +<p>It is but a foolish shipman's tale,<br /> +A theme for a poet's idle page;<br /> +But still, when the mists of doubt prevail,<br /> +And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age,<br /> + We hear from the misty troubled shore<br /> + The voice of the children gone before,<br /> + Drawing the soul to its anchorage.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_02" id="ch_02"></a>A Newport Romance.</h2> + +<p>They say that she died of a broken heart<br /> + (I tell the tale as 'twas told to me);<br /> +But her spirit lives, and her soul is part<br /> + Of this sad old house by the sea.</p> + +<p>Her lover was fickle and fine and French:<br /> + It was nearly a hundred years ago<br /> +When he sailed away from her arms—poor wench—<br /> + With the Admiral Rochambeau.</p> + +<p>I marvel much what periwigged phrase<br /> + Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker,<br /> +At what golden-laced speech of those modish days<br /> + She listened—the mischief take her!</p> + +<p>But she kept the posies of mignonette<br /> + That he gave; and ever as their bloom failed<br /> +And faded (though with her tears still wet)<br /> + Her youth with their own exhaled.</p> + +<p>Till one night, when the sea-fog wrapped a shroud<br /> + Round spar and spire and tarn and tree,<br /> +Her soul went up on that lifted cloud<br /> + From this sad old house by the sea.</p> + +<p>And ever since then, when the clock strikes two,<br /> + She walks unbidden from room to room,<br /> +And the air is filled that she passes through<br /> + With a subtle, sad perfume.</p> + +<p>The delicate odor of mignonette,<br /> + The ghost of a dead and gone bouquet,<br /> +Is all that tells of her story; yet<br /> + Could she think of a sweeter way?</p> + +<p class="tb">* * *</p> + +<p>I sit in the sad old house to-night,—<br /> + Myself a ghost from a farther sea;<br /> +And I trust that this Quaker woman might,<br /> + In courtesy, visit me.</p> + +<p>For the laugh is fled from porch and lawn,<br /> + And the bugle died from the fort on the hill,<br /> +And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone,<br /> + And the grand piano is still.</p> + +<p>Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two;<br /> + And there is no sound in the sad old house,<br /> +But the long veranda dripping with dew,<br /> + And in the wainscot a mouse.</p> + +<p>The light of my study-lamp streams out<br /> + From the library door, but has gone astray<br /> +In the depths of the darkened hall. Small doubt<br /> + But the Quakeress knows the way.</p> + +<p>Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought<br /> + With outward watching and inward fret?<br /> +But I swear that the air just now was fraught<br /> + With the odor of mignonette!</p> + +<p>I open the window, and seem almost—<br /> + So still lies the ocean—to hear the beat<br /> +Of its Great Gulf artery off the coast,<br /> + And to bask in its tropic heat.</p> + +<p>In my neighbor's windows the gas-lights flare,<br /> + As the dancers swing in a waltz of Strauss;<br /> +And I wonder now could I fit that air<br /> + To the song of this sad old house.</p> + +<p>And no odor of mignonette there is<br /> + But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn;<br /> +And mayhap from causes as slight as this<br /> + The quaint old legend is born.</p> + +<p>But the soul of that subtle, sad perfume,<br /> + As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast<br /> +The mummy laid in his rocky tomb,<br /> + Awakens my buried past.</p> + +<p>And I think of the passion that shook my youth,<br /> + Of its aimless loves and its idle pains,<br /> +And am thankful now for the certain truth<br /> + That only the sweet remains.</p> + +<p>And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade,<br /> + And I see no face at my library door;<br /> +For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid,<br /> + She is viewless forevermore.</p> + +<p>But whether she came as a faint perfume,<br /> + Or whether a spirit in stole of white,<br /> +I feel, as I pass from the darkened room,<br /> + She has been with my soul to-night!</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_03" id="ch_03"></a>The Hawk's Nest.</h2> + +<h3>(Sierras.)</h3> + +<p>We checked our pace,—the red road sharply rounding;<br /> + We heard the troubled flow<br /> +Of the dark olive depths of pines, resounding<br /> + A thousand feet below.</p> + +<p>Above the tumult of the cañon lifted,<br /> + The gray hawk breathless hung;<br /> +Or on the hill a wingèd shadow drifted<br /> + Where furze and thorn-bush clung;</p> + +<p>Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed<br /> + With many a seam and scar;<br /> +Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed,—<br /> + A mole-hill seen so far.</p> + +<p>We looked in silence down across the distant<br /> + Unfathomable reach:<br /> +A silence broken by the guide's consistent<br /> + And realistic speech.</p> + +<p>"Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters<br /> + For telling him he lied;<br /> +Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos<br /> + Across the long Divide.</p> + +<p>"We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden,<br /> + And 'cross the ford below;<br /> +And up this cañon (Peters' brother leadin'),<br /> + And me and Clark and Joe.</p> + +<p>"He fou't us game: somehow, I disremember<br /> + Jest how the thing kem round;<br /> +Some say 'twas wadding, some a scattered ember<br /> + From fires on the ground.</p> + +<p>"But in one minute all the hill below him<br /> + Was just one sheet of flame;<br /> +Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him.<br /> + And,—well, the dog was game!</p> + +<p>"He made no sign: the fires of hell were round him,<br /> + The pit of hell below.<br /> +We sat and waited, but never found him;<br /> + And then we turned to go.</p> + +<p>"And then—you see that rock that's grown so bristly<br /> + With chaparral and tan—<br /> +Suthin' crep' out: it might hev been a grizzly,<br /> + It might hev been a man;</p> + +<p>"Suthin' that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and shouted<br /> + In smoke and dust and flame;<br /> +Suthin' that sprang into the depths about it,<br /> + Grizzly or man,—but game!</p> + +<p>"That's all. Well, yes, it does look rather risky,<br /> + And kinder makes one queer<br /> +And dizzy looking down. A drop of whiskey<br /> + Ain't a bad thing right here!"</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_04" id="ch_04"></a>In the Mission Garden.</h2> + +<h3>(1865.)</h3> + +<p align="center" class="smallcaps">Father Felipe.</p> + +<p>I speak not the English well, but Pachita<br /> +She speak for me; is it not so, my Pancha?<br /> +Eh, little rogue? Come, salute me the stranger<br /> + Americano.</p> + +<p>Sir, in my country we say, "Where the heart is,<br /> +There live the speech." Ah! you not understand? So!<br /> +Pardon an old man,—what you call "ol fogy,"—<br /> + Padre Felipe!</p> + +<p>Old, Señor, old! just so old as the Mission.<br /> +You see that pear-tree? How old you think, Señor?<br /> +Fifteen year? Twenty? Ah, Señor, just <i>Fifty</i><br /> + Gone since I plant him!</p> + +<p>You like the wine? It is some at the Mission,<br /> +Made from the grape of the year Eighteen Hundred;<br /> +All the same time when the earthquake he come to<br /> + San Juan Bautista.</p> + +<p>But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree;<br /> +And I am the olive, and this is the garden:<br /> +And Pancha we say; but her name is Francisca,<br /> + Same like her mother.</p> + +<p>Eh, you knew <i>her</i>? No? Ah! it is a story;<br /> +But I speak not, like Pachita, the English:<br /> +So? If I try, you will sit here beside me,<br /> + And shall not laugh, eh?</p> + +<p>When the American come to the Mission,<br /> +Many arrive at the house of Francisca:<br /> +One,—he was fine man,—he buy the cattle<br /> + Of José Castro.</p> + +<p>So! he came much, and Francisca she saw him:<br /> +And it was Love,—and a very dry season;<br /> +And the pears bake on the tree,—and the rain come,<br /> + But not Francisca;</p> + +<p>Not for one year; and one night I have walk much<br /> +Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca:<br /> +Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca,—<br /> + Under the olive-tree.</p> + +<p>Sir, it was sad; ... but I speak not the English;<br /> +So! ... she stay here, and she wait for her husband<br /> +He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside;<br /> + There stands Pachita.</p> + +<p>Ah! there's the Angelus. Will you not enter?<br /> +Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha?<br /> +Go, little rogue—stt—attend to the stranger.<br /> + Adios, Señor.</p> + +<p align="center"><span class="smallcaps">Pachita</span> (<i>briskly</i>).</p> + +<p>So, he's been telling that yarn about mother!<br /> +Bless you, he tells it to every stranger:<br /> +Folks about yer say the old man's my father;<br /> + What's your opinion?</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_05" id="ch_05"></a>The Old Major Explains.</h2> + +<h3>(Re-Union Army of the Potomac, 12th May, 1871.)</h3> + +<p>"Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can come:<br /> +For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at home;<br /> +And my leg is getting troublesome,—it laid me up last fall,<br /> +And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never found the ball.</p> + +<p>"And then, for an old man like me, it's not exactly right,<br /> +This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight.<br /> +'The Union,'—that was well enough way up to '66;<br /> +But this 'Re-Union,'—maybe now it's mixed with politics?</p> + +<p>"No? Well, you understand it best; but then, you see, my lad,<br /> +I'm deacon now, and some might think that the example's bad.<br /> +And week from next is Conference.... You said the 12th of May?<br /> +Why, that's the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a!</p> + +<p>"Hot work; eh, Colonel, wasn't it? Ye mind that narrow front:<br /> +They called it the 'Death-Angle!' Well, well, my lad, we won't<br /> +Fight that old battle over now: I only meant to say<br /> +I really can't engage to come upon the 12th of May.</p> + +<p>"How's Thompson? What! will he be there? Well, now, I want to know!<br /> +The first man in the rebel works! they called him 'Swearing Joe:'<br /> +A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was; but then—<br /> +Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead his men.</p> + +<p>"And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy? ah! it's true<br /> +We buried him at Gettysburg: I mind the spot; do you?<br /> +A little field below the hill,—it must be green this May;<br /> +Perhaps that's why the fields about bring him to me to-day.</p> + +<p>"Well, well, excuse me, Colonel! but there are some things that drop<br /> +The tail-board out one's feelings; and the only way's to stop.<br /> +So they want to see the old man; ah, the rascals! do they, eh?<br /> +Well, I've business down in Boston about the 12th of May."</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_06" id="ch_06"></a>"Seventy-Nine"</h2> + +<h3>Mr. Interviewer Interviewed.</h3> + +<p>Know me next time when you see me, won't you, old smarty?<br /> +Oh, I mean you, old figger-head,—just the same party!<br /> +Take out your pensivil, d—n you; sharpen it, do!<br /> +Any complaints to make? Lots of 'em—one of 'em's <i>you</i>.</p> + +<p>You! who are you, anyhow, goin' round in that sneakin' way?<br /> +Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say?<br /> +Look at it; don't it look pooty? Oh, grin, and be d—d to you, do!<br /> +But, if I had you this side o' that gratin', I'd just make it lively<br /> + for you.</p> + +<p>How did I get in here? Well, what 'ud you give to know?<br /> +'Twasn't by sneakin' round where I hadn't no call to go.<br /> +'Twasn't by hangin' round a spyin' unfortnet men.<br /> +Grin! but I'll stop your jaw if ever you do that agen.</p> + +<p>Why don't you say suthin', blast you? Speak your mind if you dare.<br /> +Ain't I a bad lot, sonny? Say it, and call it square.<br /> +Hain't got no tongue, hey, hev ye. O guard! here's a little swell,<br /> +A cussin' and swearin' and yellin', and bribin' me not to tell.</p> + +<p>There, I thought that 'ud fetch ye. And you want to know my name?<br /> +"Seventy-Nine" they call me; but that is their little game.<br /> +For I'm werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can understand;<br /> +And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in the land.</p> + +<p>For 'twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like me;<br /> +And the jury was bribed a puppos, and aftdrst they couldn't agree.<br /> +And I sed to the judge, sez I,—Oh, grin! it's all right my son!<br /> +But you're a werry lively young pup, and you ain't to be played upon!</p> + +<p>Wot's that you got—tobacco? I'm cussed but I thought 'twas a tract.<br /> +Thank ye. A chap t'other day—now, look'ee, this is a fact,<br /> +Slings me a tract on the evils o' keepin' bad company,<br /> +As if all the saints was howlin' to stay here along's we.</p> + +<p>No: I hain't no complaints. Stop, yes; do you see that chap,—<br /> +Him standin' over there,—a hidin' his eves in his cap?<br /> +Well, that man's stumick is weak, and he can't stand the pris'n fare;<br /> +For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar ain't no where.</p> + +<p>Perhaps it's his bringin' up; but he sickens day by day,<br /> +And he doesn't take no food, and I'm seein' him waste away.<br /> +And it isn't the thing to see; for, whatever he's been and done,<br /> +Starvation isn't the plan as he's to be saved upon.</p> + +<p>For he cannot rough it like me; and he hasn't the stamps, I guess,<br /> +To buy him his extry grub outside o' the pris'n mess.<br /> +And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I've been sorter free,<br /> +Would—thank you! But, say, look here! Oh, blast it, don't give it to ME!</p> + +<p>Don't you give it to me; now, don't ye, don't ye, don't!<br /> +You think it's a put-up job; so I'll thank ye, sir, if you won't.<br /> +But hand him the stamps yourself: why, he isn't even my pal;<br /> +And if it's a comfort to you, why, I don't intend that he shall.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_07" id="ch_07"></a>His Answer to "Her Letter."</h2> + +<h3>Reported by Truthful James.</h3> + +<p>Being asked by an intimate party,—<br /> + Which the same I would term as a friend,—<br /> +Which his health it were vain to call hearty,<br /> + Since the mind to deceit it might lend;<br /> +For his arm it was broken quite recent,<br /> + And has something gone wrong with his lung,—<br /> +Which is why it is proper and decent<br /> + I should write what he runs off his tongue:</p> + +<p>First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter<br /> + To the end,—and the end came too soon;<br /> +That a slight illness kept him your debtor<br /> + (Which for weeks he was wild as a loon);<br /> +That his spirits are buoyant as yours is;<br /> + That with you, Miss, he challenges Fate<br /> +(Which the language that invalid uses<br /> + At times it were vain to relate).</p> + +<p>And he says that the mountains are fairer<br /> + For once being held in your thought;<br /> +That each rock holds a wealth that is rarer<br /> + Than ever by gold-seeker sought<br /> +(Which are words he would put in these pages,<br /> + By a party not given to guile;<br /> +Which the same not, at date, paying wages,<br /> + Might produce in the sinful a smile).</p> + +<p>He remembers the ball at the Ferry,<br /> + And the ride, and the gate, and the vow,<br /> +And the rose that you gave him,—that very<br /> + Same rose he is treasuring now<br /> +(Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk, Miss,<br /> + And insists on his legs being free;<br /> +And his language to me from his bunk, Miss,<br /> + Is frequent and painful and free);</p> + +<p>He hopes you are wearing no willows,<br /> + But are happy and gay all the while;<br /> +That he knows (which this dodging of pillows<br /> + Imparts but small ease to the style,<br /> +And the same you will pardon),—he knows, Miss,<br /> + That, though parted by many a mile,<br /> +Yet were he lying under the snows, Miss,<br /> + They'd melt into tears at your smile.</p> + +<p>And you'll still think of him in your pleasures,<br /> + In your brief twilight dreams of the past;<br /> +In this green laurel-spray that he treasures,<br /> + It was plucked where your parting was last;<br /> +In this specimen,—but a small trifle,—<br /> + It will do for a pin for your shawl<br /> +(Which the truth not to wickedly stifle<br /> + Was his last week's "clean up,"—and <i>his all</i>).</p> + +<p>He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss,<br /> + Were it not that I scorn to deny<br /> +That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss,<br /> + In view that his fever was high;<br /> +But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive.<br /> + And now, my respects, Miss, to you;<br /> +Which my language, although comprehensive,<br /> + Might seem to be freedom,—it's true.</p> + +<p>Which I have a small favor to ask you,<br /> + As concerns a bull-pup, which the same,—<br /> +If the duty would not overtask you,—<br /> + You would please to procure for me, <i>game</i>;<br /> +And send per express to the Flat, Miss,<br /> + Which they say York is famed for the breed,<br /> +Which though words of deceit may be that, Miss,<br /> + I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.</p> + +<p><i>P.S.</i>—Which this same interfering<br /> + Into other folks' way I despise;<br /> +Yet if it so be I was hearing<br /> + That it's just empty pockets as lies<br /> +Betwixt you and Joseph, it follers,<br /> + That, having no family claims,<br /> +Here's my pile; which it's six hundred dollars,<br /> + As is yours, with respects,</p> + +<p> Truthful James.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_08" id="ch_08"></a>Further Language from Truthful James.</h2> + +<h3>(Nye's Ford, Stanislaus.)</h3> + +<h4>(1870.)</h4> + +<p>Do I sleep? do I dream?<br /> +Do I wonder and doubt?<br /> +Are things what they seem?<br /> +Or is visions about?<br /> +Is our civilization a failure?<br /> +Or is the Caucasian played out?</p> + +<p>Which expressions are strong;<br /> +Yet would feebly imply<br /> +Some account of a wrong—<br /> +Not to call it a lie—<br /> +As was worked off on William, my pardner,<br /> +And the same being W. Nye.</p> + +<p>He came down to the Ford<br /> +On the very same day<br /> +Of that lottery drawed<br /> +By those sharps at the Bay;<br /> +And he says to me, "Truthful, how goes it?"<br /> +I replied, "It is far, far from gay;</p> + +<p>"For the camp has gone wild<br /> +On this lottery game,<br /> +And has even beguiled<br /> +'Injin Dick' by the same."<br /> +Which said Nye to me, "Injins is pizen:<br /> +Do you know what his number is, James?"</p> + +<p>I replied "7,2,<br /> +9,8,4, is his hand;"<br /> +When he started, and drew<br /> +Out a list, which he scanned;<br /> +Then he softly went for his revolver<br /> +With language I cannot command.</p> + +<p>Then I said, "William Nye!"<br /> +But he turned upon me,<br /> +And the look in his eye<br /> +Was quite painful to see;<br /> +And he says, "You mistake: this poor Injin<br /> +I protects from such sharps as you be!"</p> + +<p>I was shocked and withdrew;<br /> +But I grieve to relate,<br /> +When he next met my view<br /> +Injin Dick was his mate,<br /> +And the two around town was a-lying<br /> +In a frightfully dissolute state.</p> + +<p>Which the war-dance they had<br /> +Round a tree at the Bend<br /> +Was a sight that was sad;<br /> +And it seemed that the end<br /> +Would not justify the proceedings,<br /> +As I quiet remarked to a friend.</p> + +<p>For that Injin he fled<br /> +The next day to his band;<br /> +And we found William spread<br /> +Very loose on the strand,<br /> +With a peaceful-like smile on his features,<br /> +And a dollar greenback in his hand;</p> + +<p>Which, the same when rolled out,<br /> +We observed with surprise,<br /> +That that Injin, no doubt,<br /> +Had believed was the prize,—<br /> +Them figures in red in the corner,<br /> +Which the number of notes specifies.</p> + +<p>Was it guile, or a dream?<br /> +Is it Nye that I doubt?<br /> +Are things what they seem?<br /> +Or is visions about?<br /> +Is our civilization a failure?<br /> +Or is the Caucasian played out?</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_09" id="ch_09"></a>The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin.</h2> + +<p>Of all the fountains that poets sing,—<br /> +Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring;<br /> +Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth;<br /> +Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth;<br /> +In short, of all the springs of Time<br /> +That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme,<br /> +That ever were tasted, felt, or seen,—<br /> +There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin.</p> + +<p><i>Anno Domini</i> Eighteen-Seven,<br /> +Father Dominguez (now in heaven,—<br /> +<i>Obiit</i>, Eighteen twenty-seven)<br /> +Found the spring, and found it, too,<br /> +By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe;<br /> +For his beast—a descendant of Balaam's ass—<br /> +Stopped on the instant, and would not pass.</p> + +<p>The Padre thought the omen good,<br /> +And bent his lips to the trickling flood;<br /> +Then—as the chronicles declare,<br /> +On the honest faith of a true believer—<br /> +His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare,<br /> +Filled like a withered russet-pear<br /> +In the vacuum of a glass receiver,<br /> +And the snows that seventy winters bring<br /> +Melted away in that magic spring.</p> + +<p>Such, at least, was the wondrous news<br /> +The Padre brought into Santa Cruz.<br /> +The Church, of course, had its own views<br /> +Of who were worthiest to use<br /> +The magic spring; but the prior claim<br /> +Fell to the aged, sick, and lame.<br /> +Far and wide the people came:<br /> +Some from the healthful Aptos creek<br /> +Hastened to bring their helpless sick;<br /> +Even the fishers of rude Soquel<br /> +Suddenly found they were far from well;<br /> +The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo<br /> +Said, in fact, they had never been so:<br /> +And all were-ailing,—strange to say,—<br /> +From Pescadero to Monterey.</p> + +<p>Over the mountain they poured in<br /> +With leathern bottles, and bags of skin;<br /> +Through the cañons a motley throng<br /> +Trotted, hobbled, and limped along.<br /> +The fathers gazed at the moving scene<br /> +With pious joy and with souls serene;<br /> +And then—a result perhaps foreseen—<br /> +They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin.</p> + +<p>Not in the eyes of Faith alone<br /> +The good effects of the waters shone;<br /> +But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear,<br /> +Of rough vacquero and muleteer;<br /> +Angular forms were rounded out,<br /> +Limbs grew supple, and waists grew stout;<br /> +And as for the girls,—for miles about<br /> +They had no equal! To this day,<br /> +From Pescadero to Monterey,<br /> +You'll still find eyes in which are seen<br /> +The liquid graces of San Joaquin.</p> + +<p>There is a limit to human bliss,<br /> +And the Mission of San Joaquin had this;<br /> +None went abroad to roam or stay,<br /> +But they fell sick in the queerest way,—<br /> +A singular <i>maladie du pays</i>,<br /> +With gastric symptoms: so they spent<br /> +Their days in a sensuous content;<br /> +Caring little for things unseen<br /> +Beyond their bowers of living green,—<br /> +Beyond the mountains that lay between<br /> +The world and the Mission of San Joaquin.</p> + +<p>Winter passed, and the summer came:<br /> +The trunks of <i>madroño</i> all aflame,<br /> +Here and there through the underwood<br /> +Like pillars of fire starkly stood.<br /> +All of the breezy solitude<br /> + Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay<br /> +And resinous odors mixed and blended,<br /> + And dim and ghost-like far away<br /> +The smoke of the burning woods ascended.<br /> +Then of a sudden the mountains swam,<br /> +The rivers piled their floods in a dam.</p> + +<p>The ridge above Los Gatos creek<br /> + Arched its spine in a feline fashion;<br /> +The forests waltzed till they grew sick,<br /> + And Nature shook in a speechless passion;<br /> +And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen,<br /> +The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin<br /> +Vanished, and never more was seen!</p> + +<p>Two days passed: the Mission folk<br /> +Out of their rosy dream awoke.<br /> +Some of them looked a trifle white;<br /> +But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright.<br /> +Three days: there was sore distress,<br /> +Headache, nausea, giddiness.<br /> +Four days: faintings, tenderness<br /> +Of the mouth and fauces; and in less<br /> +Than one week,—here the story closes;<br /> +We won't continue the prognosis,—<br /> +Enough that now no trace is seen<br /> +Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin.</p> + +<p align="center" class="smallcaps">Moral.</p> + +<p>You see the point? Don't be too quick<br /> +To break bad habits: better stick,<br /> +Like the Mission folk, to your <i>arsenic</i>.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_10" id="ch_10"></a>On a Cone of the Big Trees.</h2> + +<h3><i>Sequoia Gigantea</i>.</h3> + +<p>Brown foundling of the Western wood,<br /> + Babe of primeval wildernesses!<br /> +Long on my table thou hast stood<br /> + Encounters strange and rude caresses;<br /> +Perchance contented with thy lot,<br /> + Surroundings new and curious faces,<br /> +As though ten centuries were not<br /> + Imprisoned in thy shining cases!</p> + +<p>Thou bring'st me back the halcyon days<br /> + Of grateful rest; the week of leisure,<br /> +The journey lapped in autumn haze,<br /> + The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure,<br /> +The morning ride, the noonday halt,<br /> + The blazing slopes, the red dust rising,<br /> +And then—the dim, brown, columned vault,<br /> + With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing.</p> + +<p>Once more I see the rocking masts<br /> + That scrape the sky, their only tenant<br /> +The jay-bird that in frolic casts<br /> + From some high yard his broad blue pennant.<br /> +I see the Indian files that keep<br /> + Their places in the dusty heather,<br /> +Their red trunks standing ankle deep<br /> + In moccasins of rusty leather.</p> + +<p>I see all this, and marvel much<br /> + That thou, sweet woodland waif, art able<br /> +To keep the company of such<br /> + As throng thy friend's—the poet's—table:<br /> +The latest spawn the press hath cast,—<br /> + The "modern Pope's," "the later Byron's,"—<br /> +Why e'en the best may not outlast<br /> + Thy poor relation,—<i>Sempervirens</i>.</p> + +<p>Thy sire saw the light that shone<br /> + On Mohammed's uplifted crescent,<br /> +On many a royal gilded throne<br /> + And deed forgotten in the present;<br /> +He saw the age of sacred trees<br /> + And Druid groves and mystic larches;<br /> +And saw from forest domes like these<br /> + The builder bring his Gothic arches.</p> + +<p>And must thou, foundling, still forego<br /> + Thy heritage and high ambition,<br /> +To lie full lowly and full low,<br /> + Adjusted to thy new condition?<br /> +Not hidden in the drifted snows,<br /> + But under ink-drops idly spattered,<br /> +And leaves ephemeral as those<br /> + That on thy woodland tomb were scattered.</p> + +<p>Yet lie thou there, O friend! and speak<br /> + The moral of thy simple story:<br /> +Though life is all that thou dost seek,<br /> + And age alone thy crown of glory,—<br /> +Not thine the only germs that fail<br /> + The purpose of their high creation,<br /> +If their poor tenements avail<br /> + For worldly show and ostentation.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_11" id="ch_11"></a>A Sanitary Message.</h2> + +<p>Last night, above the whistling wind,<br /> + I heard the welcome rain,—<br /> +A fusillade upon the roof,<br /> + A tattoo on the pane:<br /> +The key-hole piped; the chimney-top<br /> + A warlike trumpet blew;<br /> +Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife,<br /> + A softer voice stole through.</p> + +<p>"Give thanks, O brothers!" said the voice,<br /> + "That He who sent the rains<br /> +Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew<br /> + That drips from patriot veins:<br /> +I've seen the grass on Eastern graves<br /> + In brighter verdure rise;<br /> +But, oh! the rain that gave it life<br /> + Sprang first from human eyes.</p> + +<p>"I come to wash away no stain<br /> + Upon your wasted lea;<br /> +I raise no banners, save the ones<br /> + The forest wave to me:<br /> +Upon the mountain side, where Spring<br /> + Her farthest picket sets,<br /> +My reveille awakes a host<br /> + Of grassy bayonets.</p> + +<p> "I visit every humble roof;<br /> + I mingle with the low:<br /> +Only upon the highest peaks<br /> + My blessings fall in snow;<br /> +Until, in tricklings of the stream<br /> + And drainings of the lea,<br /> +My unspent bounty comes at last<br /> + To mingle with the sea."</p> + +<p>And thus all night, above the wind,<br /> + I heard the welcome rain,—<br /> +A fusillade upon the roof,<br /> + A tattoo on the pane:<br /> +The key-hole piped; the chimney-top<br /> + A warlike trumpet blew;<br /> +But, mingling with these sounds of strife,<br /> + This hymn of peace stole through.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_12" id="ch_12"></a>The Copperhead.</h2> + +<h3>(1864.)</h3> + +<p>There is peace in the swamp where the Copper head sleeps,<br /> +Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps,<br /> +Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air,<br /> +And the lilies' phylacteries broaden in prayer;<br /> +There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is Death,<br /> +Though the mist is miasm, the Upas tree's breath,<br /> +Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves,—<br /> +There is peace: yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves!</p> + +<p>Go seek him: he coils in the ooze and the drip<br /> +Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver's whip;<br /> +But beware the false footstep,—the stumble that brings<br /> +A deadlier lash than the overseer swings.<br /> +Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread,<br /> +As the straight steady stroke of that hammershaped head;<br /> +Whether slave, or proud planter, who braves that dull crest,<br /> +Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead's rest!</p> + +<p>Then why waste your labors, brave hearts and strong men,<br /> +In tracking a trail to the Copperhead's den?<br /> +Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade<br /> +To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made;<br /> +Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapors away,<br /> +Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play;<br /> +And then to your heel can you righteously doom<br /> +The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom!</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_13" id="ch_13"></a>On a Pen of Thomas Starr King.</h2> + +<p>This is the reed the dead musician dropped,<br /> + With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden;<br /> +The prompt allegro of its music stopped,<br /> + Its melodies unbidden.</p> + +<p>But who shall finish the unfinished strain,<br /> + Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder,<br /> +And bid the slender barrel breathe again,—<br /> + An organ-pipe of thunder?</p> + +<p>His pen! what humbler memories cling about<br /> + Its golden curves! what shapes and laughing graces<br /> +Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out<br /> + In smiles and courtly phrases!</p> + +<p>The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung;<br /> + The word of cheer, with recognition in it;<br /> +The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung<br /> + The golden gift within it.</p> + +<p>But all in vain the enchanter's wand we wave:<br /> + No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision;<br /> +The incantation that its power gave<br /> + Sleeps with the dead magician.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_14" id="ch_14"></a>Lone Mountain.</h2> + +<h3>(Cemetery, San Francisco.)</h3> + +<p>This is that hill of awe<br /> +That Persian Sindbad saw,—<br /> + The mount magnetic;<br /> +And on its seaward face,<br /> +Scattered along its base,<br /> + The wrecks prophetic.</p> + +<p>Here come the argosies<br /> +Blown by each idle breeze,<br /> + To and fro shifting;<br /> +Yet to the hill of Fate<br /> +All drawing, soon or late,—<br /> + Day by day drifting;—</p> + +<p>Drifting forever here<br /> +Barks that for many a year<br /> + Braved wind and weather;<br /> +Shallops but yesterday<br /> +Launched on yon shining bay,—<br /> + Drawn all together.</p> + +<p>This is the end of all:<br /> +Sun thyself by the wall,<br /> + O poorer Hindbad!<br /> +Envy not Sindbad's fame:<br /> +Here come alike the same,<br /> + Hindbad and Sindbad.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_15" id="ch_15"></a>California's Greeting to Seward.</h2> + +<h3>(1869.)</h3> + +<p>We know him well: no need of praise<br /> + Or bonfire from the windy hill<br /> +To light to softer paths and ways<br /> + The world-worn man we honor still;</p> + +<p>No need to quote those truths he spoke<br /> + That burned through years of war and shame.<br /> +While History carves with surer stroke<br /> + Across our map his noon-day fame;</p> + +<p>No need to bid him show the scars<br /> + Of blows dealt by the Scaean gate,<br /> +Who lived to pass its shattered bars,<br /> + And see the foe capitulate;</p> + +<p>Who lived to turn his slower feet<br /> + Toward the western setting sun,<br /> +To see his harvest all complete,<br /> + His dream fulfilled, his duty done,—</p> + +<p>The one flag streaming from the pole,<br /> + The one faith borne from sea to sea,—<br /> +For such a triumph, and such goal,<br /> + Poor must our human greeting be.</p> + +<p>Ah! rather that the conscious land<br /> + In simpler ways salute the Man,—<br /> +The tall pines bowing where they stand,<br /> + The bared head of El Capitan,</p> + +<p>The tumult of the waterfalls,<br /> + Pohono's kerchief in the breeze,<br /> +The waving from the rocky walls,<br /> + The stir and rustle of the trees;</p> + +<p>Till lapped in sunset skies of hope,<br /> + In sunset lands by sunset seas,<br /> +The Young World's Premier treads the slope<br /> + Of sunset years in calm and peace.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_16" id="ch_16"></a>The Two Ships.</h2> + +<p>As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest,<br /> + Looking over the ultimate sea,<br /> +In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest,<br /> + And one sails away from the lea:<br /> +One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track,<br /> + With pennant and sheet flowing free;<br /> +One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,—<br /> + The ship that is waiting for me!</p> + +<p>But lo, in the distance the clouds break away!<br /> + The Gate's glowing portals I see;<br /> +And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay<br /> + The song of the sailors in glee:<br /> +So I think of the luminous footprints that bore<br /> + The comfort o'er dark Galilee,<br /> +And wait for the signal to go to the shore,<br /> + To the ship that is waiting for me.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_17" id="ch_17"></a>The Goddess.</h2> + +<h3>For the Sanitary Fair.</h3> + +<p>"Who comes?" The sentry's warning cry<br /> + Rings sharply on the evening air:<br /> +Who comes? The challenge: no reply,<br /> + Yet something motions there.</p> + +<p>A woman, by those graceful folds;<br /> + A soldier, by that martial tread:<br /> +"Advance three paces. Halt! until<br /> + Thy name and rank be said."</p> + +<p>"My name? Her name, in ancient song,<br /> + Who fearless from Olympus came:<br /> +Look on me! Mortals know me best<br /> + In battle and in flame."</p> + +<p>"Enough! I know that clarion voice;<br /> + I know that gleaming eye and helm;<br /> +Those crimson lips,—and in their dew<br /> + The best blood of the realm.</p> + +<p>"The young, the brave, the good and wise,<br /> + Have fallen in thy curst embrace:<br /> +The juices of the grapes of wrath<br /> + Still stain thy guilty face.</p> + +<p>"My brother lies in yonder field,<br /> + Face downward to the quiet grass:<br /> +Go back! he cannot see thee now;<br /> + But here thou shalt not pass."</p> + +<p>A crack upon the evening air,<br /> + A wakened echo from the hill:<br /> +The watch-dog on the distant shore<br /> + Gives mouth, and all is still.</p> + +<p>The sentry with his brother lies<br /> + Face downward on the quiet grass;<br /> +And by him, in the pale moonshine,<br /> + A shadow seems to pass.</p> + +<p>No lance or warlike shield it bears:<br /> + A helmet in its pitying hands<br /> +Brings water from the nearest brook,<br /> + To meet his last demands.</p> + +<p>Can this be she of haughty mien,<br /> + The goddess of the sword and shield?<br /> +Ah, yes! The Grecian poet's myth<br /> + Sways still each battle-field.</p> + +<p>For not alone that rugged war<br /> + Some grace or charm from beauty gains;<br /> +But, when the goddess' work is done,<br /> + The woman's still remains.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_18" id="ch_18"></a>Address.</h2> + +<h3>Opening of the California Theatre, San Francisco, Jan. 19, 1870</h3> + +<p>Brief words, when actions wait, are well<br /> +The prompter's hand is on his bell;<br /> +The coming heroes, lovers, kings,<br /> +Are idly lounging at the wings;<br /> +Behind the curtain's mystic fold<br /> +The glowing future lies unrolled,—<br /> +And yet, one moment for the Past;<br /> +One retrospect,—the first and last.</p> + +<p>"The world's a stage," the master said.<br /> +To-night a mightier truth is read:<br /> +Not in the shifting canvas screen,<br /> +The flash of gas, or tinsel sheen;<br /> +Not in the skill whose signal calls<br /> +From empty boards baronial halls;<br /> +But, fronting sea and curving bay,<br /> +Behold the players and the play.</p> + +<p>Ah, friends! beneath your real skies<br /> +The actor's short-lived triumph dies:<br /> +On that broad stage, of empire won<br /> +Whose footlights were the setting sun,<br /> +Whose flats a distant background rose<br /> +In trackless peaks of endless snows;<br /> +Here genius bows, and talent waits<br /> +To copy that but One creates.</p> + +<p>Your shifting scenes: the league of sand,<br /> +An avenue by ocean spanned;<br /> +The narrow beach of straggling tents,<br /> +A mile of stately monuments;<br /> +Your standard, lo! a flag unfurled,<br /> +Whose clinging folds clasp half the world,—<br /> +This is your drama, built on facts,<br /> +With "twenty years between the acts."</p> + +<p>One moment more: if here we raise<br /> +The oft-sung hymn of local praise,<br /> +Before the curtain facts must sway;<br /> +<i>Here</i> waits the moral of your play.<br /> +Glassed in the poet's thought, you view<br /> +What <i>money</i> can, yet cannot do;<br /> +The faith that soars, the deeds that shine,<br /> +Above the gold that builds the shrine.</p> + +<p>And oh! when others take our place,<br /> +And Earth's green curtain hides our face,<br /> +Ere on the stage, so silent now,<br /> +The last new hero makes his bow:<br /> +So may our deeds, recalled once more<br /> +In Memory's sweet but brief encore,<br /> +Down all the circling ages run,<br /> +With the world's plaudit of "Well done!"</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_19" id="ch_19"></a>The Lost Galleon.</h2> + +<p>In sixteen hundred and forty-one,<br /> +The regular yearly galleon,<br /> +Laden with odorous gums and spice,<br /> +India cottons and India rice,<br /> +And the richest silks of far Cathay,<br /> +Was due at Acapulco Bay.</p> + +<p>Due she was, and over-due,—<br /> +Galleon, merchandise, and crew,<br /> +Creeping along through rain and shine,<br /> +Through the tropics, under the line.</p> + +<p>The trains were waiting outside the walls,<br /> +The wives of sailors thronged the town,<br /> +The traders sat by their empty stalls,<br /> +And the viceroy himself came down;<br /> +The bells in the tower were all a-trip,<br /> +<i>Te Deums</i> were on each father's lip,<br /> +The limes were ripening in the sun<br /> +For the sick of the coming galleon.</p> + +<p>All in vain. Weeks passed away,<br /> +And yet no galleon saw the bay:<br /> +India goods advanced in price;<br /> +The governor missed his favorite spice;<br /> +The señoritas mourned for sandal,<br /> +And the famous cottons of Coromandel;</p> + +<p>And some for an absent lover lost,<br /> +And one for a husband,—Donna Julia,<br /> +Wife of the captain, tempest-tossed,<br /> +In circumstances so peculiar:<br /> +Even the fathers, unawares,<br /> +Grumbled a little at their prayers;<br /> +And all along the coast that year<br /> +Votive candles were scarce and dear.</p> + +<p>Never a tear bedims the eye<br /> +That time and patience will not dry;<br /> +Never a lip is curved with pain<br /> +That can't be kissed into smiles again:<br /> +And these same truths, as far as I know,<br /> +Obtained on the coast of Mexico<br /> +More than two hundred years ago,</p> + +<p>In sixteen hundred and fifty-one,—<br /> +Ten years after the deed was done,—<br /> +And folks had forgotten the galleon:<br /> +The divers plunged in the Gulf for pearls,<br /> +White as the teeth of the Indian girls;<br /> +The traders sat by their full bazaars;<br /> +The mules with many a weary load,<br /> +And oxen, dragging their creaking cars,<br /> +Came and went on the mountain road.</p> + +<p>Where was the galleon all this while:<br /> +Wrecked on some lonely coral isle?<br /> +Burnt by the roving sea-marauders,<br /> +Or sailing north under secret orders?<br /> +Had she found the Anian passage famed,<br /> +By lying Moldonado claimed,<br /> +And sailed through the sixty-fifth degree<br /> +Direct to the North Atlantic sea?<br /> +Or had she found the "River of Kings,"<br /> +Of which De Fonté told such strange things<br /> +In sixteen forty? Never a sign,<br /> +East or West or under the line,<br /> +They saw of the missing galleon;<br /> +Never a sail or plank or chip,<br /> +They found of the long-lost treasure-ship,<br /> +Or enough to build a tale upon.<br /> +But when she was lost, and where and how,<br /> +Are the facts we're coming to just now.</p> + +<p>Take, if you please, the chart of that day<br /> +Published at Madrid,—<i>por el Rey</i>;<br /> +Look for a spot in the old South Sea,<br /> +The hundred and eightieth degree<br /> +Longitude, west of Madrid: there,<br /> +Under the equatorial glare,<br /> +Just where the East and West are one,<br /> +You'll find the missing galleon,—<br /> +You'll find the "San Gregorio," yet<br /> +Riding the seas, with sails all set,<br /> +Fresh as upon the very day<br /> +She sailed from Acapulco Bay.</p> + +<p>How did she get there? What strange spell<br /> +Kept her two hundred years so well,<br /> +Free from decay and mortal taint?<br /> +What? but the prayers of a patron saint!<br /> +A hundred leagues from Manilla town,<br /> +The "San Gregorio's" helm came down;<br /> +Round she went on her heel, and not<br /> +A cable's length from a galliot<br /> +That rocked on the waters, just abreast<br /> +Of the galleon's course, which was west-sou-west.</p> + +<p>Then said the galleon's commandante,<br /> +General Pedro Sobriente<br /> +(That was his rank on land and main,<br /> +A regular custom of Old Spain),<br /> +"My pilot is dead of scurvy: may<br /> +I ask the longitude, time, and day?"<br /> +The first two given and compared;<br /> +The third,—the commandante stared!</p> + +<p>"The <i>first</i> of June? I make it second."<br /> +Said the stranger, "Then you've wrongly-reckoned;<br /> +I make it <i>first</i>: as you came this way,<br /> +You should have lost—d'ye see—a day;<br /> +Lost a day, as plainly see,<br /> +On the hundred and eightieth degree."<br /> +"Lost a day?" "Yes: if not rude,<br /> +When did you make east longitude?"<br /> +"On the ninth of May,—our patron's day."<br /> +"On the ninth?—<i>you had no ninth of May!</i><br /> +Eighth and tenth was there; but stay"—<br /> +Too late; for the galleon bore away.</p> + +<p>Lost was the day they should have kept,<br /> +Lost unheeded and lost unwept;<br /> +Lost in a way that made search vain,<br /> +Lost in the trackless and boundless main;<br /> +Lost like the day of Job's awful curse,<br /> +In his third chapter, third and fourth verse;<br /> +Wrecked was their patron's only day,—<br /> +What would the holy fathers say?</p> + +<p>Said the Fray Antonio Estavan,<br /> +The galleon's chaplain,—a learned man,—<br /> +"Nothing is lost that you can regain:<br /> +And the way to look for a thing is plain<br /> +To go where you lost it, back again.<br /> +Back with your galleon till you see<br /> +The hundred and eightieth degree.<br /> +Wait till the rolling year goes round,<br /> +And there will the missing day be found;<br /> +For you'll find—if computation's true—<br /> +That sailing <i>east</i> will give to you<br /> +Not only one ninth of May, but two,—<br /> +One for the good saint's present cheer,<br /> +And one for the day we lost last year."</p> + +<p>Back to the spot sailed the galleon;<br /> +Where, for a twelve-month, off and on<br /> +The hundred and eightieth degree,<br /> +She rose and fell on a tropic sea:<br /> +But lo! when it came to the ninth of May,<br /> +All of a sudden becalmed she lay<br /> +One degree from that fatal spot,<br /> +Without the power to move a knot;<br /> +And of course the moment she lost her way,<br /> +Gone was her chance to save that day.</p> + +<p>To cut a lengthening story short,<br /> +She never saved it. Made the sport<br /> +Of evil spirits and baffling wind,<br /> +She was always before or just behind,<br /> +One day too soon, or one day too late,<br /> +And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait:<br /> +She had two eighths, as she idly lay,<br /> +Two tenths, but never a <i>ninth</i> of May;<br /> +And there she rides through two hundred years<br /> +Of dreary penance and anxious fears:<br /> +Yet through the grace of the saint she served,<br /> +Captain and crew are still preserved.</p> + +<p>By a computation that still holds good,<br /> +Made by the Holy Brotherhood,<br /> +The "San Gregorio" will cross that line<br /> +In nineteen hundred and thirty-nine:<br /> +Just three hundred years to a day<br /> +From the time she lost the ninth of May.<br /> +And the folk in Acapulco town,<br /> +Over the waters, looking down,<br /> +Will see in the glow of the setting sun<br /> +The sails of the missing galleon,<br /> +And the royal standard of Philip <i>Rey</i>;<br /> +The gleaming mast and glistening spar,<br /> +As she nears the surf of the outer bar.<br /> +A <i>Te Deum</i> sung on her crowded deck,<br /> +An odor of spice along the shore,<br /> +A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck,—<br /> +And the yearly galleon sails no more,<br /> +In or out of the olden bay;<br /> +For the blessed patron has found his day.</p> + +<p class="tb">* * *</p> + +<p>Such is the legend. Hear this truth:<br /> +Over the trackless past, somewhere,<br /> +Lie the lost days of our tropic youth,<br /> +Only regained by faith and prayer,<br /> +Only recalled by prayer and plaint:<br /> +Each lost day has its patron saint!</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_20" id="ch_20"></a>A Second Review of the Grand Army.</h2> + +<p>I read last night of the Grand Review<br /> +In Washington's chiefest avenue,—<br /> +Two Hundred Thousand men in blue,<br /> + I think they said was the number,—<br /> +Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet,<br /> +The bugle blast and the drum's quick beat,<br /> +The clatter of hoofs in the stony street,<br /> +The cheers of people who came to greet,<br /> +And the thousand details that to repeat<br /> + Would only my verse encumber,—<br /> +Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet,<br /> + And then to a fitful slumber.</p> + +<p>When, lo! in a vision I seemed to stand<br /> +In the lonely Capitol. On each hand<br /> +Far stretched the portico, dim and grand<br /> +Its columns ranged like a martial band<br /> +Of sheeted spectres, whom some command<br /> + Had called to a last reviewing.<br /> +And the streets of the city were white and bare;<br /> +No footfall echoed across the square;<br /> +But out of the misty midnight air<br /> +I heard in the distance a trumpet blare,<br /> +And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear<br /> + The sound of a far tattooing.</p> + +<p>Then I held my breath with fear and dread;<br /> +For into the square, with a brazen tread,<br /> +There rode a figure whose stately head<br /> + O'erlooked the review that morning,<br /> +That never bowed from its firm-set seat<br /> +When the living column passed its feet,<br /> +Yet now rode steadily up the street<br /> + To the phantom bugle's warning:</p> + +<p>Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled,<br /> +And there in the moonlight stood revealed<br /> +A well-known form that in State and field<br /> + Had led our patriot sires;<br /> +Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp,<br /> +Afar through the river's fog and damp,<br /> +That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp,<br /> + Nor wasted bivouac fires.</p> + +<p>And I saw a phantom army come,<br /> +With never a sound of fife or drum,<br /> +But keeping time to a throbbing hum<br /> + Of wailing and lamentation:<br /> +The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill,<br /> +Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville,<br /> +The men whose wasted figures fill<br /> + The patriot graves of the nation.</p> + +<p>And there came the nameless dead,—the men<br /> +Who perished in fever swamp and fen,<br /> +The slowly-starved of the prison-pen;<br /> + And, marching beside the others,<br /> +Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow's fight,<br /> +With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright;<br /> +I thought—perhaps 'twas the pale moonlight—<br /> + They looked as white as their brothers!</p> + +<p>And so all night marched the Nation's dead<br /> +With never a banner above them spread,<br /> +Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished;<br /> +No mark—save the bare uncovered head<br /> + Of the silent bronze Reviewer;<br /> +With never an arch save the vaulted sky;<br /> +With never a flower save those that lie<br /> +On the distant graves—for love could buy<br /> + No gift that was purer or truer.</p> + +<p>So all night long swept the strange array,<br /> +So all night long till the morning gray<br /> +I watched for one who had passed away,<br /> + With a reverent awe and wonder,—<br /> +Till a blue cap waved in the lengthening line,<br /> +And I knew that one who was kin of mine<br /> +Had come; and I spake—and lo! that sign<br /> + Awakened me from my slumber.</p> + +<h2>Part II.</h2> + +<h2><a name="ch_21" id="ch_21"></a>Before the Curtain.</h2> + +<p>Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize,<br /> +A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze<br /> +Of flaring gas, and curious eyes that gaze.</p> + +<p>The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide,<br /> +And hardly fit for royal Richard's stride,<br /> +Or Falstaff's bulk, or Denmark's youthful pride.</p> + +<p>Ah, well! no passion walks its humble boards;<br /> +O'er it no king nor valiant Hector lords:<br /> +The simplest skill is all its space affords.</p> + +<p>The song and jest, the dance and trifling play,<br /> +The local hit at follies of the day,<br /> +The trick to pass an idle hour away,—</p> + +<p>For these, no trumpets that announce the Moor,<br /> +No blast that makes the hero's welcome sure,—<br /> +A single fiddle in the overture!</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_22" id="ch_22"></a>The Stage-Driver's Story.</h2> + +<p>It was the stage-driver's story, as he stood with his back to the wheelers,<br /> +Quietly flecking his whip, and turning his quid of tobacco;<br /> +While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the moonlight,<br /> +We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco descending.</p> + +<p>"Danger! Sir, I believe you,—indeed, I may say on that subject,<br /> +You your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a wager.<br /> +I have seen danger? Oh, no! not me, sir, indeed, I assure you:<br /> +'Twas only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in yon wagon.</p> + +<p>It was the Geiger Grade, a mile and a half from the summit:<br /> +Black as your hat was the night, and never a star in the heavens.<br /> +Thundering down the grade, the gravel and stones we sent flying<br /> +Over the precipice side,—a thousand feet plumb to the bottom.</p> + +<p>Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling and creaking,<br /> +Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank of the cañon;<br /> +Then, looking up the road, I saw, in the distance behind me,<br /> +The off hind wheel of the coach just loosed from its axle, and following.</p> + +<p>One glance alone I gave, then gathered together my ribbons,<br /> +Shouted, and flung them, outspread, on the straining necks of my cattle;<br /> +Screamed at the top of my voice, and lashed the air in my frenzy,<br /> +While down the Geiger Grade, on <i>three</i> wheels, the vehicle thundered.</p> + +<p>Speed was our only chance, when again came the ominous rattle:<br /> +Crack, and another wheel slipped away, and was lost in the darkness.<br /> +<i>Two</i> only now were left; yet such was our fearful momentum,<br /> +Upright, erect, and sustained on <i>two</i> wheels, the vehicle thundered.</p> + +<p>As some huge boulder, unloosed from its rocky shelf on the mountain,<br /> +Drives before it the hare and the timorous squirrel, far-leaping,<br /> +So down the Geiger Grade rushed the Pioneer coach, and before it<br /> +Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance of the danger impending.</p> + +<p>But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to the level,<br /> +Slipped from its axle a wheel; so that, to be plain in my statement,<br /> +A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the distance may be,<br /> +We travelled upon <i>one</i> wheel, until we drove up to the station.</p> + +<p>Then, sir, we sank in a heap; but, picking myself from the ruins,<br /> +I heard a noise up the grade; and looking, I saw in the distance<br /> +The three wheels following still, like moons on the horizon whirling,<br /> +Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at the side of the<br /> + station.</p> + +<p>This is my story, sir; a trifle, indeed, I assure you.<br /> +Much more, perchance, might be said; but I hold him, of all men, most + lightly<br /> +Who swerves from the truth in his tale—No, thank you—Well, since you + <i>are</i> pressing,<br /> +Perhaps I don't care if I do: you may give me the same, Jim,—no sugar."</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_23" id="ch_23"></a>Aspiring Miss de Laine.</h2> + +<h3>A Chemical Narrative.</h3> + +<p>Certain facts which serve to explain<br /> +The physical charms of Miss Addie De Laine,<br /> +Who, as the common reports obtain,<br /> +Surpassed in complexion the lily and rose;<br /> +With a very sweet mouth and a <i>retroussé</i> nose;<br /> +A figure like Hebe's, or that which revolves<br /> +In a milliner's window, and partially solves<br /> +That question which mentor and moralist pains,<br /> +If grace may exist <i>minus</i> feeling or brains.</p> + +<p>Of course the young lady had beaux by the score,<br /> +All that she wanted,—what girl could ask more?<br /> +Lovers that sighed, and lovers that swore,<br /> +Lovers that danced, and lovers that played,<br /> +Men of profession, of leisure, and trade;<br /> +But one, who was destined to take the high part<br /> +Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart,—<br /> +This lover—the wonder and envy of town—<br /> +Was a practising chemist,—a fellow called Brown.</p> + +<p>I might here remark that 'twas doubted by many,<br /> +In regard to the heart, if Miss Addie had any;<br /> +But no one could look in that eloquent face,<br /> +With its exquisite outline, and features of grace,<br /> +And mark, through the transparent skin, how the tide<br /> +Ebbed and flowed at the impulse of passion or pride,—<br /> +None could look, who believed in the blood's circulation<br /> +As argued by Harvey, but saw confirmation,<br /> +That here, at least, Nature had triumphed o'er art,<br /> +And, as far as complexion went, she had a heart.</p> + +<p>But this, <i>par parenthesis</i>. Brown was the man<br /> +Preferred of all others to carry her fan,<br /> +Hook her glove, drape her shawl, and do all that a belle<br /> +May demand of the lover she wants to treat well.<br /> +Folks wondered and stared that a fellow called Brown—<br /> +Abstracted and solemn, in manner a clown,<br /> +Ill dressed, with a lingering smell of the shop—<br /> +Should appear as her escort at party or hop.<br /> +Some swore he had cooked up some villanous charm,<br /> +Or love philter, not in the regular Pharm—<br /> +Acopea, and thus, from pure <i>malis prepense</i>,<br /> +Had bewitched and bamboozled the young lady's sense;<br /> +Others thought, with more reason, the secret to lie<br /> +In a magical wash or indelible dye;<br /> +While Society, with its censorious eye<br /> +And judgment impartial, stood ready to damn<br /> +What wasn't improper as being a sham.</p> + +<p>For a fortnight the townfolk had all been agog<br /> +With a party, the finest the season had seen,<br /> +To be given in honor of Miss Pollywog,<br /> +Who was just coming out as a belle of sixteen.<br /> +The guests were invited: but one night before,<br /> +A carriage drew up at the modest back-door<br /> +Of Brown's lab'ratory; and, full in the glare<br /> +Of a big purple bottle, some closely-veiled fair<br /> +Alighted and entered: to make matters plain,<br /> +Spite of veils and disguises,—'twas Addie De Laine.</p> + +<p>As a bower for true love, 'twas hardly the one<br /> +That a lady would choose to be wooed in or won:<br /> +No odor of rose or sweet jessamine's sigh<br /> +Breathed a fragrance to hallow their pledge of troth by,<br /> +Nor the balm that exhales from the odorous thyme;<br /> +But the gaseous effusions of chloride of lime,<br /> +And salts, which your chemist delights to explain<br /> +As the base of the smell of the rose and the drain.<br /> +Think of this, O ye lovers of sweetness! and know<br /> +What you smell, when you snuff up Lubin or Pinaud.</p> + +<p>I pass by the greetings, the transports and bliss,<br /> +Which, of course, duly followed a meeting like this,<br /> +And come down to business;—for such the intent<br /> +Of the lady who now o'er the crucible leant,<br /> +In the glow of a furnace of carbon and lime,<br /> +Like a fairy called up in the new pantomime;—<br /> +And give but her words as she coyly looked down,<br /> +In reply to the questioning glances of Brown:<br /> +"I am taking the drops, and am using the paste,<br /> +And the little, white powders that had a sweet taste,<br /> +Which you told me would brighten the glance of my eye,<br /> +And the depilatory, and also the dye,<br /> +And I'm charmed with the trial; and now, my dear Brown,<br /> +I have one other favor,—now, ducky, don't frown,—<br /> +Only one, for a chemist and genius like you<br /> +But a trifle, and one you can easily do.<br /> +Now listen: tomorrow, you know, is the night<br /> +Of the birthday <i>soiree</i> of that Pollywog fright;<br /> +And I'm to be there, and the dress I shall wear<br /> +Is <i>too</i> lovely; but"—"But what then, <i>ma chere</i>?"<br /> +Said Brown, as the lady came to a full stop,<br /> +And glanced round the shelves of the little back shop.<br /> +"Well, I want—I want something to fill out the skirt<br /> +To the proper dimension, without being girt<br /> +In a stiff crinoline, or caged in a hoop<br /> +That shows through one's skirt like the bars of a coop;<br /> +Something light, that a lady may waltz in, or polk,<br /> +With a freedom that none but you masculine folk<br /> +Ever know. For, however poor woman aspires,<br /> +She's always bound down to the earth by these wires.<br /> +Are you listening? nonsense! don't stare like a spoon,<br /> +Idiotic; some light thing, and spacious, and soon—<br /> +Something like—well, in fact—something like a balloon!"<br /> +Here she paused; and here Brown, overcome by surprise,<br /> +Gave a doubting assent with still wondering eyes,<br /> +And the lady departed. But just at the door<br /> +Something happened,—'tis true, it had happened before<br /> +In this sanctum of science,—a sibilant sound,<br /> +Like some element just from its trammels unbound,<br /> +Or two substances that their affinities found.</p> + +<p>The night of the anxiously looked-for <i>soirée</i><br /> +Had come, with its fair ones in gorgeous array;<br /> +With the rattle of wheels, and the tinkle of bells,<br /> +And the "How do ye dos," and the "Hope you are wells;"<br /> +And the crash in the passage, and last lingering look<br /> +You give as you hang your best hat on the hook;<br /> +The rush of hot air as the door opens wide;<br /> +And your entry,—that blending of self-possessed pride<br /> +And humility shown in your perfect-bred stare<br /> +At the folk, as if wondering how they got there;<br /> +With other tricks worthy of Vanity Fair.<br /> +Meanwhile that safe topic, the heat of the room,<br /> +Already was losing its freshness and bloom;<br /> +Young people were yawning, and wondering when<br /> +The dance would come off, and why didn't it then:<br /> +When a vague expectation was thrilling the crowd,<br /> +Lo, the door swung its hinges with utterance proud!<br /> +And Pompey announced, with a trumpet-like strain,<br /> +The entrance of Brown and Miss Addie De Laine.</p> + +<p>She entered: but oh, how imperfect the verb<br /> +To express to the senses her movement superb!<br /> +To say that she "sailed in" more clearly might tell<br /> +Her grace in its buoyant and billowy swell.<br /> +Her robe was a vague circumambient space,<br /> +With shadowy boundaries made of point-lace.<br /> +The rest was but guess-work, and well might defy<br /> +The power of critical feminine eye<br /> +To define or describe: 'twere as futile to try<br /> +The gossamer web of the cirrus to trace,<br /> +Floating far in the blue of a warm summer sky.</p> + +<p>'Midst the humming of praises and the glances of beaux,<br /> +That greet our fair maiden wherever she goes,<br /> +Brown slipped like a shadow, grim, silent, and black,<br /> +With a look of anxiety, close in her track.<br /> +Once he whispered aside in her delicate ear,<br /> +A sentence of warning,—it might be of fear:<br /> +"Don't stand in a draught, if you value your life."<br /> +(Nothing more,—such advice might be given your wife<br /> +Or your sweetheart, in times of bronchitis and cough,<br /> +Without mystery, romance, or frivolous scoff.)<br /> +But hark to the music: the dance has begun.<br /> +The closely-draped windows wide open are flung;<br /> +The notes of the piccolo, joyous and light,<br /> +Like bubbles burst forth on the warm summer night.<br /> +Round about go the dancers; in circles they fly;<br /> +Trip, trip, go their feet as their skirts eddy by;<br /> +And swifter and lighter, but somewhat too plain,<br /> +Whisks the fair circumvolving Miss Addie De Laine.</p> + +<p>Taglioni and Cerito well might have pined<br /> +For the vigor and ease that her movements combined;<br /> +E'en Rigelboche never flung higher her robe<br /> +In the naughtiest city that's known on the globe.<br /> +'Twas amazing, 'twas scandalous: lost in surprise,<br /> +Some opened their mouths, and a few shut their eyes.</p> + +<p>But hark! At the moment Miss Addie De Laine,<br /> +Circling round at the outer edge of an ellipse,<br /> +Which brought her fair form to the window again,<br /> +From the arms of her partner incautiously slips!<br /> +And a shriek fills the air, and the music is still,<br /> +And the crowd gather round where her partner forlorn<br /> +Still frenziedly points from the wide window-sill<br /> +Into space and the night; for Miss Addie was gone!</p> + +<p>Gone like the bubble that bursts in the sun;<br /> +Gone like the grain when the reaper is done;<br /> +Gone like the dew on the fresh morning grass;<br /> +Gone without parting farewell; and alas!<br /> +Gone with a flavor of Hydrogen Gas.</p> + +<p>When the weather is pleasant, you frequently meet<br /> +A white-headed man slowly pacing the street;<br /> +His trembling hand shading his lack-lustre eye,<br /> +Half blind with continually scanning the sky.</p> + +<p>Rumor points him as some astronomical sage,<br /> +Reperusing by day the celestial page;<br /> +But the reader, sagacious, will recognize Brown,<br /> +Trying vainly to conjure his lost sweetheart down,<br /> +And learn the stern moral this story must teach,<br /> +That Genius may lift its love out of its reach.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_24" id="ch_24"></a>California Madrigal.</h2> + +<h3>On the Approach of Spring.</h3> + +<p>Oh come, my beloved! from thy winter abode,<br /> +From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed;<br /> +For the waters have fallen, the winter has fled,<br /> +And the river once more has returned to its bed.</p> + +<p>Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near!<br /> +How the fences and tules once more re-appear!<br /> +How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon slough<br /> +By the hole in the levee the waters broke through!</p> + +<p>All Nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greet<br /> +The glance of your eye, and the tread of your feet;<br /> +For the trails are all open, the roads are all free,<br /> +And the highwayman's whistle is heard on the lea.</p> + +<p>Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail,<br /> +And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale;<br /> +The oath and the jest ringing high o'er the plain,<br /> +Where the smut is not always confined to the grain.</p> + +<p>Once more glares the sunlight on awning and roof,<br /> +Once more the red clay's pulverized by the hoof,<br /> +Once more the dust powders the "outsides" with red,<br /> +Once more at the station the whiskey is spread.</p> + +<p>Then fly with me, love, ere the summer's begun,<br /> +And the mercury mounts to one hundred and one;<br /> +Ere the grass now so green shall be withered and sear,<br /> +In the spring that obtains but one month in the year.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_25" id="ch_25"></a>St. Thomas.</h2> + +<h3>A Geographical Survey.</h3> + +<h4>(1868.)</h4> + +<p>Very fair and full of promise<br /> +Lay the island of St. Thomas:<br /> +Ocean o'er its reefs and bars<br /> +Hid its elemental scars;<br /> +Groves of cocoanut and guava<br /> +Grew above its fields of lava.<br /> +So the gem of the Antilles,—<br /> +"Isles of Eden," where no ill is,—<br /> +Like a great green turtle slumbered<br /> +On the sea that it encumbered.<br /> +Then said William Henry Seward,<br /> +As he cast his eye to leeward,<br /> +"Quite important to our commerce<br /> +Is this island of St. Thomas."</p> + +<p>Said the Mountain ranges, "Thank'ee,<br /> +But we cannot stand the Yankee<br /> +O'er our scars and fissures poring,<br /> +In our very vitals boring,<br /> +In our sacred caverns prying,<br /> +All our secret problems trying,—<br /> +Digging, blasting, with dynamit<br /> +Mocking all our thunders! Damn it!<br /> +Other lands may be more civil,<br /> +Bust our lava crust if we will."</p> + +<p>Said the Sea,—its white teeth gnashing<br /> +Through its coral-reef lips flashing,—<br /> +"Shall I let this scheming mortal<br /> +Shut with stone my shining portal,<br /> +Curb my tide, and check my play,<br /> +Fence with wharves my shining bay?<br /> +Rather let me be drawn out<br /> +In one awful water-spout!"</p> + +<p>Said the black-browed Hurricane,<br /> +Brooding down the Spanish main,<br /> +"Shall I see my forces, zounds!<br /> +Measured by square inch and pounds,<br /> +With detectives at my back<br /> +When I double on my track,<br /> +And my secret paths made clear,<br /> +Published o'er the hemisphere<br /> +To each gaping, prying crew?<br /> +Shall I? Blow me if I do!"</p> + +<p>So the Mountains shook and thundered,<br /> +And the Hurricane came sweeping,<br /> +And the people stared and wondered<br /> +As the Sea came on them leaping:<br /> +Each, according to his promise,<br /> +Made things lively at St. Thomas.</p> + +<p>Till one morn, when Mr. Seward<br /> +Cast his weather eye to leeward,<br /> +There was not an inch of dry land<br /> +Left to mark his recent island.</p> + +<p>Not a flagstaff or a sentry,<br /> +Not a wharf or port of entry,—<br /> +Only—to cut matters shorter—<br /> +Just a patch of muddy water<br /> +In the open ocean lying,<br /> +And a gull above it flying.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_26" id="ch_26"></a>The Ballad of Mr. Cooke.</h2> + +<h3>A Legend of the Cliff House, San Francisco.</h3> + +<p>Where the sturdy ocean breeze +Drives the spray of roaring seas +That the Cliff-House balconies + Overlook:</p> + +<p>There, in spite of rain that balked, +With his sandals duly chalked, +Once upon a tight-rope walked + Mr. Cooke.</p> + +<p>But the jester's lightsome mien, +And his spangles and his sheen, +All had vanished, when the scene + He forsook;——</p> + +<p>Yet in some delusive hope, +In some vague desire to cope, +One still came to view the rope + Walked by Cooke.</p> + +<p>Amid Beauty's bright array, +On that strange eventful day, +Partly hidden from the spray, + In a nook,</p> + +<p>Stood Florinda Vere de Vere; +Who with wind-dishevelled hair, +And a rapt, distracted air, + Gazed on Cooke.</p> + +<p>Then she turned, and quickly cried +To her lover at her side, +While her form with love and pride + Wildly shook,</p> + +<p>"Clifford Snook! oh, hear me now! +Here I break each plighted vow: +There's but one to whom I bow, + And that's Cooke!"</p> + +<p>Haughtily that young man spoke: +"I descend from noble folk. +'Seven Oaks,' and then 'Se'nnoak,' + Lastly Snook,</p> + +<p>Is the way my name I trace: +Shall a youth of noble race +In affairs of love give place + To a Cooke?"</p> + +<p>"Clifford Snook, I know thy claim +To that lineage and name, +And I think I've read the same + In Horne Tooke;</p> + +<p>But I swear, by all divine, +Never, never to be thine, +'Till thou canst upon yon line + Walk like Cooke."</p> + +<p>Though to that gymnastic feat +He no closer might compete +Than to strike a <i>balance</i>-sheet + In a book;</p> + +<p>Yet thenceforward, from that day, +He his figure would display +In some wild athletic way, + After Cooke.</p> + +<p>On some household eminence, +On a clothes-line or a fence, +Over ditches, drains, and thence + O'er a brook,</p> + +<p>He, by high ambition led, +Ever walked and balanced; +Till the people, wondering, said, + "How like Cooke!"</p> + +<p>Step by step did he proceed, +Nerved by valor, not by greed, +And at last the crowning deed + Undertook:</p> + +<p>Misty was the midnight air, +And the cliff was bleak and bare, +When he came to do and dare + Just like Cooke.</p> + +<p>Through the darkness, o'er the flow, +Stretched the line where he should go +Straight across, as flies the crow + Or the rook:</p> + +<p>One wild glance around he cast; +Then he faced the ocean blast, +And he strode the cable last + Touched by Cooke.</p> + +<p>Vainly roared the angry seas; +Vainly blew the ocean breeze; +But, alas! the walker's knees + Had a crook;</p> + +<p>And before he reached the rock +Did they both together knock, +And he stumbled with a shock— + Unlike Cooke!</p> + +<p>Downward dropping in the dark, +Like an arrow to its mark, +Or a fish-pole when a shark + Bites the hook,</p> + +<p>Dropped the pole he could not save, +Dropped the walker, and the wave +Swift ingulfed the rival brave + Of J. Cooke!</p> + +<p>Came a roar across the sea +Of sea-lions in their glee, +In a tongue remarkably + Like Chinnook;</p> + +<p>And the maddened sea-gull seemed +Still to utter, as he screamed, +"Perish thus the wretch who deemed + Himself Cooke!"</p> + +<p>But, on misty moonlit nights, +Comes a skeleton in tights, +Walks once more the giddy heights + He mistook;</p> + +<p>And unseen to mortal eyes, +Purged of grosser earthly ties, +Now at last in spirit guise + Outdoes Cooke.</p> + +<p>Still the sturdy ocean breeze +Sweeps the spray of roaring seas, +Where the Cliff-House balconies + Overlook;</p> + +<p>And the maidens in their prime,<br /> +Reading of this mournful rhyme,<br /> +Weep where, in the olden time,<br /> + Walked J. Cooke.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_27" id="ch_27"></a>The Legends of the Rhine.</h2> + +<p>Beetling walls with ivy grown,<br /> +Frowning heights of mossy stone;<br /> +Turret, with its flaunting flag<br /> +Flung from battlemented crag;<br /> +Dungeon-keep and fortalice<br /> +Looking down a precipice<br /> +O'er the darkly glancing wave<br /> +By the Lurline-haunted cave;<br /> +Robber haunt and maiden bower,<br /> +Home of Love and Crime and Power,—<br /> +That's the scenery, in fine,<br /> +Of the Legends of the Rhine.</p> + +<p>One bold baron, double-dyed<br /> +Bigamist and parricide,<br /> +And, as most the stories run,<br /> +Partner of the Evil One;<br /> +Injured innocence in white,<br /> +Fair but idiotic quite,<br /> +Wringing of her lily hands;<br /> +Valor fresh from Paynim lands,<br /> +Abbot ruddy, hermit pale,<br /> +Minstrel fraught with many a tale,—<br /> +Are the actors that combine<br /> +In the Legends of the Rhine.</p> + +<p>Bell-mouthed flagons round a board;<br /> +Suits of armor, shield, and sword;<br /> +Kerchief with its bloody stain;<br /> +Ghosts of the untimely slain;<br /> +Thunder-clap and clanking chain;<br /> +Headsman's block and shining axe;<br /> +Thumbscrews, crucifixes, racks;<br /> +Midnight-tolling chapel bell,<br /> +Heard across the gloomy fell,—<br /> +These, and other pleasant facts,<br /> +Are the properties that shine<br /> +In the Legends of the Rhine.</p> + +<p>Maledictions, whispered vows<br /> +Underneath the linden boughs;<br /> +Murder, bigamy, and theft;<br /> +Travellers of goods bereft;<br /> +Rapine, pillage, arson, spoil,—<br /> +Every thing but honest toil,<br /> +Are the deeds that best define<br /> +Every Legend of the Rhine.</p> + +<p>That Virtue always meets reward,<br /> +But quicker when it wears a sword;<br /> +That Providence has special care<br /> +Of gallant knight and lady fair;<br /> +That villains, as a thing of course,<br /> +Are always haunted by remorse,—<br /> +Is the moral, I opine,<br /> +Of the Legends of the Rhine.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_28" id="ch_28"></a>Mrs. Judge Jenkins.</h2> + +<h3>[Being the Only Genuine Sequel to "Maud Muller."]</h3> + +<p>Maud Muller, all that summer day,<br /> +Raked the meadow sweet with hay;</p> + +<p>Yet, looking down the distant lane,<br /> +She hoped the judge would come again.</p> + +<p>But when he came, with smile and bow,<br /> +Maud only blushed, and stammered, "Ha-ow?"</p> + +<p>And spoke of her "pa," and wondered whether<br /> +He'd give consent they should wed together.</p> + +<p>Old Muller burst in tears, and then<br /> +Begged that the judge would lend him "ten;"</p> + +<p>For trade was dull, and wages low,<br /> +And the "craps," this year, were somewhat slow.</p> + +<p>And ere the languid summer died,<br /> +Sweet Maud became the judge's bride.</p> + +<p>But, on the day that they were mated,<br /> +Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated;</p> + +<p>And Maud's relations, twelve in all,<br /> +Were very drunk at the judge's hall.</p> + +<p>And when the summer came again,<br /> +The young bride bore him babies twain.</p> + +<p>And the judge was blest, but thought it strange<br /> +That bearing children made such a change:</p> + +<p>For Maud grew broad and red and stout;<br /> +And the waist that his arm once clasped about</p> + +<p>Was more than he now could span. And he<br /> +Sighed as he pondered, ruefully,</p> + +<p>How that which in Maud was native grace<br /> +In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;</p> + +<p>And thought of the twins, and wished that they<br /> +Looked less like the man who raked the hay</p> + +<p>On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain<br /> +Of the day he wandered down the lane.</p> + +<p>And, looking down that dreary track,<br /> +He half regretted that he came back.</p> + +<p>For, had he waited, he might have wed<br /> +Some maiden fair and thoroughbred;</p> + +<p>For there be women fair as she,<br /> +Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.</p> + +<p>Alas for maiden! alas for judge!<br /> +And the sentimental,—that's one-half "fudge;"</p> + +<p>For Maud soon thought the judge a bore,<br /> +With all his learning and all his lore.</p> + +<p>And the judge would have bartered Maud's fair face<br /> +For more refinement and social grace.</p> + +<p>If, of all words of tongue and pen,<br /> +The saddest are, "It might have been,"</p> + +<p>More sad are these we daily see:<br /> +"It is, but hadn't ought to be."</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_29" id="ch_29"></a>Avitor.</h2> + +<h3>An Aerial Retrospect.</h3> + +<p>What was it filled my youthful dreams,<br /> +In place of Greek or Latin themes,<br /> +Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams?<br /> + Avitor?</p> + +<p>What visions and celestial scenes<br /> +I filled with aerial machines,—<br /> +Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's!<br /> + Avitor.</p> + +<p>What fairy tales seemed things of course!<br /> +The rock that brought Sindbad across,<br /> +The Calendar's own winged-horse!<br /> + Avitor!</p> + +<p>How many things I took for facts,—<br /> +Icarus and his conduct lax,<br /> +And how he sealed his fate with wax!<br /> + Avitor!</p> + +<p>The first balloons I sought to sail,<br /> +Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail,<br /> +Or kites,—but thereby hangs a tail.<br /> + Avitor!</p> + +<p>What made me launch from attic tall<br /> +A kitten and a parasol,<br /> +And watch their bitter, frightful fall?<br /> + Avitor?</p> + +<p>What youthful dreams of high renown<br /> +Bade me inflate the parson's gown,<br /> +That went not up, nor yet came down?<br /> + Avitor?</p> + +<p>My first ascent, I may not tell:<br /> +Enough to know that in that well<br /> +My first high aspirations fell,<br /> + Avitor!</p> + +<p>My other failures let me pass:<br /> +The dire explosions; and, alas!<br /> +The friends I choked with noxious gas,<br /> + Avitor!</p> + +<p>For lo! I see perfected rise<br /> +The vision of my boyish eyes,<br /> +The messenger of upper skies,<br /> + Avitor!</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_30" id="ch_30"></a>A White-Pine Ballad.</h2> + +<p>Recently with Samuel Johnson this occasion I improved,<br /> +Whereby certain gents of affluence I hear were greatly moved;<br /> +But not all of Johnson's folly, although multiplied by nine,<br /> +Could compare with Milton Perkins, late an owner in White Pine.</p> + +<p>Johnson's folly—to be candid—was a wild desire to treat<br /> +Every able male white citizen he met upon the street;<br /> +And there being several thousand—but this subject why pursue?<br /> +'Tis with Perkins, and not Johnson, that to-day we have to do.</p> + +<p>No: not wild promiscuous treating, not the winecup's ruby flow,<br /> +But the female of his species brought the noble Perkins low.<br /> +'Twas a wild poetic fervor, and excess of sentiment,<br /> +That left the noble Perkins in a week without a cent.</p> + +<p>"Milton Perkins," said the Siren, "not thy wealth do I admire,<br /> +But the intellect that flashes from those eyes of opal fire;<br /> +And methinks the name thou bearest surely cannot be misplaced,<br /> +And, embrace me, Mister Perkins!" Milton Perkins her embraced.</p> + +<p>But I grieve to state, that even then, as she was wiping dry<br /> +The tear of sensibility in Milton Perkins' eye,<br /> +She prigged his diamond bosom-pin, and that her wipe of lace<br /> +Did seem to have of chloroform a most suspicious trace.</p> + +<p>Enough that Milton Perkins later in the night was found<br /> +With his head in an ash-barrel, and his feet upon the ground;<br /> +And he murmured "Seraphina," and he kissed his hand, and smiled<br /> +On a party who went through him, like an unresisting child.</p> + +<p align="center" class="smallcaps">Moral.</p> + +<p>Now one word to Pogonippers, ere this subject I resign,<br /> +In this tale of Milton Perkins,—late an owner in White Pine,—<br /> +You shall see that wealth and women are deceitful, just the same;<br /> +And the tear of sensibility has salted many a claim.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_31" id="ch_31"></a>What the Wolf Really Said to Little Red Riding-Hood.</h2> + +<p>Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair,<br /> +Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare?<br /> +"Why are my eyelids so open and wild?"—<br /> +Only the better to see with, my child!<br /> +Only the better and clearer to view<br /> +Cheeks that are rosy, and eyes that are blue.</p> + +<p>Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms<br /> +Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms,<br /> +Swaying so wickedly?—are they misplaced,<br /> +Clasping or shielding some delicate waist:<br /> +Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear<br /> +Only the better protect you, my dear!</p> + +<p>Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street,<br /> +Why do I press your small hand when we meet?<br /> +Why, when you timidly offered your cheek,<br /> +Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak?<br /> +Why, well: you see—if the truth must appear—<br /> +I'm not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear!</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_32" id="ch_32"></a>The Ritualist.</h2> + +<h3>By a Communicant of "St. James's."</h3> + +<p>He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met;<br /> +A stole and snowy alb likewise: I recollect it yet.<br /> +He called me "daughter," as he raised his jewelled hand to bless;<br /> +And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, "Would I confess?"</p> + +<p>O mother, dear! blame not your child, if then on bended knees<br /> +I dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise;<br /> +Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx,<br /> +I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix.</p> + +<p>The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me weak,<br /> +And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct "cheek;"<br /> +And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes,<br /> +May term his mixèd chalice "grog," his vestments, "petticoats."</p> + +<p>But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I'll build a Christian's hope<br /> +On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope.<br /> +Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess:<br /> +"His can't be wrong" that's symbolized by such becoming dress.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_33" id="ch_33"></a>A Moral Vindicator.</h2> + +<p>If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B.,<br /> +Had one peculiar quality,<br /> +'Twas his severe advocacy<br /> +Of conjugal fidelity.</p> + +<p>His views of heaven were very free;<br /> +His views of life were painfully<br /> +Ridiculous; but fervently<br /> +He dwelt on marriage sanctity.</p> + +<p>He frequently went on a spree;<br /> +But in his wildest revelry,<br /> +On this especial subject he<br /> +Betrayed no ambiguity.</p> + +<p>And though at times Lycurgus B.<br /> +Did lay his hands not lovingly<br /> +Upon his wife, the sanctity<br /> +Of wedlock was his guaranty.</p> + +<p>But Mrs. Jones declined to see<br /> +Affairs in the same light as he,<br /> +And quietly got a decree<br /> +Divorcing her from that L. B.</p> + +<p>And what did Jones, Lycurgus B.,<br /> +With his known idiosyncrasy?<br /> +He smiled,—a bitter smile to see,—<br /> +And drew the weapon of Bowie.</p> + +<p>He did what Sickles did to Key,—<br /> +What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he;<br /> +In fact, on persons twenty-three<br /> +He proved the marriage sanctity.</p> + +<p>The counsellor who took the fee,<br /> +The witnesses and referee,<br /> +The judge who granted the decree,<br /> +Died in that wholesale butchery.</p> + +<p>And then when Jones, Lycurgus B.,<br /> +Had wiped the weapon of Bowie,<br /> +Twelve jurymen did instantly<br /> +Acquit and set Lycurgus free.</p> + +<h2><a name="ch_34" id="ch_34"></a>Songs Without Sense.</h2> + +<h3>For the Parlor and Piano.</h3> + +<h4>I.—The Personified Sentimental.</h4> + +<p>Affection's charm no longer gilds<br /> + The idol of the shrine;<br /> +But cold Oblivion seeks to fill<br /> + Regret's ambrosial wine.<br /> +Though Friendship's offering buried lies<br /> + 'Neath cold Aversion's snow,<br /> +Regard and Faith will ever bloom<br /> + Perpetually below.</p> + +<p>I see thee whirl in marble halls,<br /> + In Pleasure's giddy train;<br /> +Remorse is never on that brow,<br /> + Nor Sorrow's mark of pain.<br /> +Deceit has marked thee for her own;<br /> + Inconstancy the same;<br /> +And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam<br /> + Athwart thy path of shame.</p> + +<h4>II.—The Homely Pathetic.</h4> + +<p>The dews are heavy on my brow;<br /> + My breath comes hard and low;<br /> +Yet, mother, dear, grant one request,<br /> + Before your boy must go.<br /> +Oh! lift me ere my spirit sinks,<br /> + And ere my senses fail:<br /> +Place me once more, O mother dear!<br /> + Astride the old fence-rail.</p> + +<p>The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail!<br /> + How oft these youthful legs,<br /> +With Alice' and Ben Bolt's, were hung<br /> + Across those wooden pegs.<br /> +'Twas there the nauseating smoke<br /> + Of my first pipe arose:<br /> +O mother, dear! these agonies<br /> + Are far less keen than those.</p> + +<p>I know where lies the hazel dell,<br /> + Where simple Nellie sleeps;<br /> +I know the cot of Nettie Moore,<br /> + And where the willow weeps.<br /> +I know the brookside and the mill:<br /> + But all their pathos fails<br /> +Beside the days when once I sat<br /> + Astride the old fence-rails.</p> + +<h4>III.—Swiss Air.</h4> + +<p>I'm a gay tra, la, la,<br /> +With my fal, lal, la, la,<br /> +And my bright—<br /> +And my light—<br /> + Tra, la, le. [Repeat.]</p> + +<p>Then laugh, ha, ha, ha,<br /> +And ring, ting, ling, ling,<br /> +And sing fal, la, la,<br /> + La, la, le. [Repeat.]</p> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of East and West: Poems, by Bret Harte + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EAST AND WEST: POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 8402-h.htm or 8402-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/4/0/8402/ + +Produced by Curtis A. Weyant and The Online Distributed +Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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