The Writings of Bret Harte :: :: University of Virginia Library

The last long knell of the tolling bell
Dies out of the belfry's pile,
And the rustling skirt and the crinoline's swell
Is gone from the echoing aisle,
And on saint and on sinner a silence fell,
Unbroken by whisper or smile.

I cannot pray, for my thoughts still stray
From my book, though I seem to con it;
She's not over there 'midst beauty's array,
For I know the style of her bonnet,
Just from Madame Chassez's, with its trimming so gay;
And the loveliest roses upon it.

She comes! “She is like to the merchant ships,”
For she bringeth her silks “from afar”;
She comes! She is here! and my heart's at my lips,
And my nerves, how they tremble and jar!
For the flounces that catch in the pews and the slips,
Her way to salvation doth bar.

Oh, let not your judgment, ye saints, be severe,
Impute not the fault to her pride,

281

For when angels awhile on the earth reappear,
Their limits are not circumscribed;
And when woman extendeth the bounds of her sphere,
Her influence can't be too wide!

LOVE AND PHYSIC

A clever man was Dr. Digg;
Misfortunes well he bore;
He never lost his patience till
He had no patients more;
And though his practice once was large,
It did not swell his gains;
The pains he labored for were but
The labor for his pains.

The “art is long,” his cash got short,
And well might Galen dread it,
For who will trust a name unknown
When merit gets no credit?
To marry seemed the only way
To ease his mind of trouble;
Misfortunes never singly come,
And misery made him double.

He had a patient, rich and fair,
That hearts by scores was breaking,
And as he once had felt her wrist,
He thought her hand of taking;
But what the law makes strangers do,
Did strike his comprehension;
Who live in these United States,
Do first declare intention.

282

And so he called. His beating heart
With anxious fears was swelling,
And half in habit took her hand
And on her tongue was dwelling;
But thrice tho' he essayed to speak,
He stopp'd, and stuck, and blundered;
For say, what mortal could be cool
Whose pulse was most a hundred?

“Madam,” at last he faltered out,—
His love had grown courageous,—
“I have discerned a new complaint,
I hope to prove contagious;
And when the symptoms I relate,
And show its diagnosis,
Ah, let me hope from those dear lips,
Some favorable prognosis.

“This done,” he cries, “let's tie those ties
Which none but death can sever;
Since ‘like cures like,’ I do infer
That love cures love, forever.”
He paused—she blushed; however strange
It seems on first perusal,
Altho' there was no promise made,
She gave him a refusal.

Says she, “If well I understand
The sentiments you 're saying,
You do propose to take a hand—
A game that two are playing—
At whist; one's partner ought to be
As silent as a mummy,
But in the game of love, I think,
I shall not take a dummy.

283

“I cannot marry one who lives
By other folks' distresses;
The man I marry, I must love,
Nor fear his fond caresses;
For who, whatever be their sex,
However strange the case is,
Would like to have a doctor's bill
Stuck up into their faces?”

Perhaps you think, 'twixt love and rage,
He took some deadly potion,
Or with his lancet breathed a vein
To ease his pulse's motion.
To guess the vent of his despair,
The wisest one might miss it;
He reached his office—then and there
He charged her for the visit!

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

(After Longfellow)

Staring sunlight on the lawn,
Chequered shadows in the wood;
Summer's odors, idly borne,
Linger by the trickling flood.

Lingering, waiting, long delayed,
Till the pure and limpid pool
Mirrors, with night's coming shade,
Childhood tripping home from school.

Tripping down the well-worn track,
Zephyrs greet the coming girl,
Press the little bonnet back,
Nestle in the dewy curl.

284

Robins twittering thro' the leaves,
Chirping wren and chattering jay
Carol 'neath the verdant eaves;
Carols she as sweet as they.

Satchel swinging on her arm,
On her cheek health's glowing flush,
Stands, in all of girlhood's charms,
Youth beside the alder-bush.

Summers nine had o'er her fled,
Left their violets in her eyes,
On her cheeks their roses spread,
On her lips their balmy sighs.

On the grass her bonnet lies,
On the grass her satchel flung;
Who its secrets may surmise?
Rosy fingers grope among

Remnants of her dinner there—
Dinner past, but not forgot;
Dimpled hand with tender care
Draws the bread and butter out.

White and bare that arm and hand,
And beneath the rippling stream,
Like two pebbles on the strand,
White the little ankles gleam.

Leaning o'er the waters clear,
Looking in the limpid spring
Sees she there her cheeks appear—
Sees her blue eyes glistening?

285

Crimson clouds and skies of blue,
Morn and eve had mirror'd there;
But those eyes and cheeks to view
With their tints, might well compare.

Breathless lie her lips apart,
Motionless her arms incline,
Wildly beats that little heart—
Ah! the child was feminine.

Yes, the curse of Eve the mother—
Woman's vanity—the spell
On her falls, and eke another,
Down the bread and butter fell.

On the waters had she cast it:
By and by it might be found.
Foolish hand forgot to clasp it—
Let it fall upon the ground.

Such is fate; and though we mutter,
Why and wherefore? none decide.
Ever falls one's bread and butter,
Always on the buttered side?

With her sorrows let us leave her—
Great her fault, let justice own;
Great her punishment—nor grieve her
With the chastening to come.

Learning well this moral lesson:
Though our visions still are fair,
Humblest things in our possession
Greater than illusions are.

286

THE STUDENT'S DREAM

“KNOWLEDGE IS POWER”

A student sat in his easy-chair;
Around him many a pond'rous tome
Of antiquarian lore was there,
And the classic wealth of Greece and Rome.
The light that swings 'twixt the oaken beams,
Around and about him fitfully gleams
In a pale prophetic shower;
And the line on which he ponders and dreams,
Is written—“Knowledge is Power.”

He dreams—his vision expansive grows,
And on either side the wall recedes,
And from out that misty chaos rose
A pile of mortgages, bonds, and deeds,
And gold in glittering columns heaped.
A nation's debt might be reclaimed,
A nation's honor be sustained,
Or countries might in blood be steeped
At the pen-and-ink stroke of this mighty lord
Of Mammon, who sat by his treasured hoard.

But the vision fled as he raised his head;
He shrugged his shoulders, and, muttering, said:
“Riches will change—they flee in an hour;
To know, is eternal—‘Knowledge is Power.’”

He bow'd his head in his book again,
And sighed, but it was not a sigh of pain.
Was it an echo that, lingering nigh,
Caught and repeated that long-drawn sigh?

287

Or was it the lady sitting by?
Oh, she was fair!—her presence there
Suddenly, sweetly filled the air
Like the scent of some opening flower rare,
And Heaven was in her eye;
Or such a glimpse as might have slid
From under the tenderly guarded lid,
Had none been there to spy.
In the lap of her satin robe, she bore
Of gems and jewels a precious store,
For all that lavish wealth might spare,
At beauty's shrine but offerings were.

But the vision fled as he raised his head;
He watched her departing, and sighing, said:
“Beauty is bought—it fades like a flower;
Who can buy knowledge?—‘Knowledge is Power.’”

In a robe antique, and of mien profound,
Came a well-known face his own to greet,
And he knew the pale brow that the laurel bound
Was the sacred symbol of knowledge meet.
In her eyes the ray of a soul divine
Glowed like a gem in the pale moonshine
With a radiance constant, quiet, and sweet.
Her stature was slight, majestic and tall,
Yet proudly erect she towered, withal,
To homage used, for she knew that all
The world was at her feet;
Yet a silence kept as the student slept,
And nearer she drew; by his side she stept;
She spoke, and as clear her accents rung
As a silver bell or an angel's tongue.
He woke with a start, for his secret heart
Felt that which bade all his dreams depart.

288

“Neophyte, dreamer, slumberer, fool!
Wouldst measure my power by musty rule?
Or, say, dost thou seek what thou 'lt hardly own,
The Alchemist's prize, or Philosopher's stone?
For 't is not in sophist's or sage's thought,
Is the mighty power of knowledge wrought;
It is seen in the practiced deed,
Not of musty scrolls, but of living men;
The hearts, the passions, the motives ye ken,
Should thy knowledge be, and its ‘power’ then
Can turn them to thy need;
For money is mighty, money is power,
And beauty is strong in camp and bower;
But money's the proof that knowledge is power,
And beauty its slave, indeed;
And, remember, that knowledge all alone
May still be a fatal dower,
And the strongest lever the world has known
Is where beauty's the might that's to be shown
And gold 's the prop that all may own,
And ‘knowledge is the power!’”

THE HOMESTEAD BARN

Past dreams of bliss our lives contain,
And slight the chords that still retain
A heart estranged to joys again,
To scenes by memory's silver chain
Close-linked, and ever yet apart,
That like the vine, whose tendrils young
Around some fostering branch have clung,
Grown with its growth, as tho' it sprung
From one united heart.

289

I think of days long gone before,
When, by a spreading sycamore,
Stood, in the happy days of yore,
Low-roofed, broad-gabled, crannied door,
The homestead barn, where free from harm,
In shadowy eaves the swallow built,
In darkened loft the owlet dwelt;
Secure lived innocence and guilt
Within its sacred charm.

By cobwebbed beams and rafters high
I 've sat and watched the April sky,
And saw the fleecy cirrus fly,
Sunlight and shadow hurrying by,
Chased by the glittering rain;
Then shrunk to hear the pattering tread
Of unseen feet above my head,
Filled with a strange and wondering dread,
Till sunlight smiled again.

And, oh! those long, those summer days,
The morning's glow, the noontide's blaze,
Or when the just declining rays,
Half shorn, mixed with the mellowing haze,
And distant hills were veiled in gray;
From newmown hay, with odors sweet,
I 've watched the lowly bending wheat
Droop lower in the yellow heat
The lazy, livelong day.

Those summer days too quickly fled,
And my youth's summers early sped;
Yet when my “sere” of life is shed,
I would were mine such harvest spread
Within that barn of autumn born,

290

That many a tale of summer told,
Where golden corn and pumpkins rolled,
And apples, that might scarcely hold
The goddess' fabled horn;

When springtime brought each feathered pair,
When summer came with scented air,
When autumn's fruits rolled fresh and fair,
Or winter's store brought back the year,
The treasured sweets it multiplies;
And now at home, at eve appear
The homestead barn, to me so dear;
I would I read my right as clear
“To mansions in the skies.”

TRYSTING

“Down at the turn of the road
Wait for me, dearest, at eight!”
Here, at the turn of the road,
I loiter, and linger, and wait.

I was here when the flickering day
Went out in a lingering flame;
I was here in the twilight gray,
And the stars have come since I came.

From the wooded crest of the hill
Orion looks over the lea,
And Cetus is glimmering still
In a purple and crimson sea.

And the Pleiads—all but the one,
Withdrawn in her maidenly shame

291

For the love that a mortal won—
Are here, and you should be the same.

She comes not! I turn to the right,
And the white road dips in the gloom;
She comes not! the left to my sight
Is silent and dark as the tomb.

Those tender palms on my eyes?
Those slender arms round me thrown?
Cupid, you cannot disguise
Those rosy lips at my own!

Here, at the turn of the road!
“Forgive me, my love, if I'm late!”
Down at the turn of the road,
Cupid, oh! who would n't wait?

“THE FOG BELL”

A deep bell is knolling
Over the sea,
Rolling and tolling
Over the sea;
Lazily swinging,
Steadily bringing
Tidings of terror,
Danger is bringing,
All the while solemnly,
Mournfully singing:

“Fogs on the sand-bank,”
Fogs on the deep,

292

Fogs round the gallant ship
Stealthily creep;
Fogs on the forecastle,
Quarter and waist,
Fog in the binnacle,
Fog in each place;

Fog in the country,
Fog on the moor,
On the green upland,
On the white shore;
Fog in the marshes,
Fog in the brake,
Upon the river,
Over the lake.

Fog in the city,
In the broad street—
There want and luxury
Heedlessly meet;
Fog in the narrow lane,
In the dark way—
There shines the light of truth
Never a ray.

Fog in the haunts of crime—
Vice and despair;
Fog in the Justice seat
Denser than there;
Fog in the capitol,
Where in the hall
Grave legislators meet—
Fogs over all.

Fog in the miser's heart,
Dark'ning and drear;

293

Fog that, in pity's eye,
Melts to a tear;
Things that delusively
In the fogs loom,
Men still unceasingly
Grope for in gloom.

Fog in the country,
Fog on the deep,
Fogs in the city
Stealthily creep;
Darkness around us,
Darker, in sooth,
Were there no heavenly
Sunlight and truth.

“JESSIE”

She is tripping, she is tripping
Down the green and shady lane,
And each footstep's like the dripping
Of the early April rain.
As she passes, fragrant grasses,
Blooming flowers spring up again
Where her dainty footprint presses,
As from early April rain.

Oh, the blessed, oft caressed,
Flowing, glowing, auburn tresses,
Or the fairy shape impressed
In the gracefullest of dresses;
To behold her, is to fold her
To your heart in puzzled bliss,

294

Whether still to wish her older
Or that she were always this.

Gentle Jessie! Heaven bless ye,
From your slipper's dainty toe
To the jaunty, canty, dressy
Little flat's most killing bow!
Would kind Heaven power had given
Me the proper path to show
Those retreating footsteps, even
Guiding them the way to go.

“DOLORES”

Seville's towers are worn and old;
Seville's towers are gray and gold:
Saffron, purple, and orange dyes,
Meet at the edge of her sunset skies:
Bright are Seville's maidens' eyes,
Gay the cavalier's guitar:
Music, laughter, low replies,
Intermingling; and afar,
Over the hill, over the dell,
Soft and low: Adagio!
Comes the knell of the vesper-bell,
Solemnly and slow.

Hooded nun, at the convent wall,
Where the purple vines their tendrils throw,
Lingering, looking, wouldst recall
Aught of this giddy scene below?
Turn that pensive glance on high:
Seest thou the floods in yon blessed sky,

295

The shores of those isles of the good and blest,
Meeting, mingling, down the west?
E'en as thou gazest, lo! they fade:
So doth the world from these walls surveyed;
Fleeting, false, delusive show;
Beauty's form, but hectic's glow.
[OMITTED]

“The convent-walls are steep and high:
Dolores! why are your cheeks so pale?
Why do those lashes silent lie
Over the orbs they scarce can veil,
E'en as the storm-cloud, dim and dark,
Shrouding the faint electric spark?
Canst thou those languid fires conceal,
Which scorched the youth of fair Castile?
That tender half-distracted air—
Can that be faith; or is 't despair?
That step, now feeble, faltering, slow;
Is that the lightly tripping toe
That gayly beat the throbbing floor,
Or woke the echoing corridor,
By purple Tagus' rippling shore,
A summer month ago?”

Sister, listen, nearer, higher!
Voices sweet in the distant choir:
“Salve! salve! ave Maria!
Virgin, blest with Jesus' love,
Turn our thoughts to thee above!”
[OMITTED]

“Dolores!” Mark ye that dying fall?
“Dolores!” Ho there! within the wall:
Fly ye! the Ladye Superior call:
A nun has fled from the convent wall!

296

ELISE

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM; CIRCA 1858

A rose—thrown on the drifting tide
That laughs along the tinkling brook,—
Tho' here and there it idly glide,
Finds rest within some sheltered nook:

And thus some heart tossed on the stream
Of time—impelled by passion's breeze
And folly's breath—may find a dream
Of hope—upon thy breast,—Elise!

THE BAILIE O' PERTH

(Bret Harte's first dialect poem)

The Bailie o' Perth was a blithesome mon,
And a blithesome mon was he,
And his gude wife lov'd him well and true,
And the bailie he lov'd she;
Yet mickle or muckle the cause or kind,
Whatever the pother be,
Be it simple sair or unco deep,
The twain could never agree.

Syne spake the bailie with blithesome mind,
Fair and soft spake he:
“Twal lang year hae we married been,
Yet we can never agree.
Now, my ain sweet love, let us try for aye,
Forever and aye to see

297

If for ain blest time in all our life,
You and I can ever agree.

“Now listen to me: should it chance that ye
Were paidlint in the lane,
Ye should meet a bonnie buxom lass,
And a winsome laddie, twain,
Wha wad ye kiss, good dame?” he said,
“Wha wad ye kiss?” said he;
“Wad ye kiss the bonnie buxom lass,
Or the winsome gay laddie?”

“Hoot awa, mon! are ye ganging daft?
Are ye ganging daft?” said she;
“Twal lang year hae we married been,
And I have been true to ye;
Mon hae never my twa lips touched,
Nae mon hae glinted at me.”
“But wha wad ye kiss, good dame?” said he;
“I wad kiss the lass,” said she.

Out laughed the bailie with muckle glee,
For a blithesome mon was he;
“Twal lang year hae we married been,
And now for ainst we agree;
If ye met a lad and a buxom lass
Down in the gowans fine,
To kiss the lass wad be your choice,
And I ken it wad be mine!”

QUESTION

When I meet her little figure,
Simple, guileless little figure,

298

With its graceful crest that tosses
Up and down the flowing sea,
Does she dream that all above her—
All around her—still must love her,
Just as I do? Does she ever
Look at me?

When the sunset's flush is on her,
Do her fancies ever wander,
Do her girlish fancies ever
Mingle with the flowing sea?
In her tender meditation,
In her mystic speculation,
Is there any lonely figure
Just like me?

When she took the flowers I sent her—
Sent in secret—sent in longing;
And all, all, except the daisy,
Tossed them on the flowing sea;
When she placed that happy flower
On her bosom's trembling dower,
Now I wonder did she ever
Think of me?

Hush, my heart. She 's coming, coming;
Loud above the city's humming,
I can hear her footfall's beating,
With the ever flowing sea.
Rosy red—a flush is on her,
As she passes—have I won her?
Eros! help me—I am sinking
In the ever flowing sea.

299

LETHE

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

I

Love once sat by a willow shade,
That grew by a fabled river;
His bow unstrung, by his side he laid,
And hung up his classic quiver.
Love then cried;
“Ye who 've sighed,
For passion unrequited—
In this flood
Love's young bud,
Plunged—is ever blighted!”

II

There came a maid to the willow shade,
Her heart with passion swelling;
A hopeless love on her sweet cheek preyed,
In her breast a deep grief dwelling.
But, oh, think!
On the brink,
Lingered that sad daughter;
While her fair
Graces rare,
Mirrored back the water.

III

From her cheeks she parts each tress,
Proudly back she threw them;
Crimson tints her cheeks confess,
As she paused to view them.

300

“Is it meet
One so sweet,
In that gloomy river—
Plunge for love?
Saints above!
Ugh! It makes me shiver!”

MIDAS' WOOING

Midas woos with coach and pair,
Midas woos with princely air,
Midas sits within in state,
But another 's at the gate.

What cares Midas who waits there,
Kate 's within and Kate is fair,
Young and lively: that is well,
Has she got a heart to sell?

Kate can sing if she but try,
She might, were another by;
Katie sings a lover's air,
Will she find an echo there?

Kate plays best of all the girls,
Katie plays the “Shower of Pearls,”
Some one in that witching hour,
Thinks of Jove, and Danaë's shower.

From above the hawthorn bush,
Peeps the moon and wakes the thrush,
Bird and moon and music grate,
Like the hinges on the gate.

301

Midas rises—takes his cane,
“Will be proud to call again.”
Off goes Midas. Off goes Kate;
Two stand at the garden gate.

THE WRECKER

(From a Painting)

“Ho, Mark and Will! What, shirking men!
Why do ye loiter along the sand,—
Twiddling your thumbs and idling, when
So brave a cargo bestrews the land?
Lend a hand to this bale of spice
Fragrant as breezes from India's shore,
And this oaken chest that buried lies
I warrant, with dollars a precious store.

“You tell me she was a noble ship!
And a noble cargo she cast away;
And the Captain thought of a lucky trip—
And the crew—they all were lost, you say?
'T is a blessed wreck, for I dreamt this night
That my daughter Nan, with her looks of grace,
She that fled from her father's sight,
Stood by my hammock, face to face.

“And I knew that I yet might hoard and save
Enough to follow her some fair day;
It was God who sent a barque so brave—
May he shrive the souls that were cast away,
Then haste ye, men—why do ye stare?
Why do ye turn your eyes from mine?
Why do you gaze at the open air?
At the land, at the beacon and flashing brine!”

302

“Master! The waves were wild to-night
And ran like wolves on the smooth white beach,
And broke with a roar on the rocky bight,
And swept to the cliffs in their length'ning reach.
And she struck, d' ye see, upon ‘Devils Back,’
And in less than the turn of a glass was gone
And I heard her spars and timbers crack
Over the sea and the whistling storm.

“And we saw,—'twas Bill and I stood here—
A great wave come to the lab'ring ship
As she thumped and struggled as though in fear—
But it caught her up like a cooper's chip
And then there was naught but the boiling surge,
And the hissing water—but soon to view
A speck seemed borne to the glimmery verge
Of the rocky bight—and Bill saw it too.

“So we ran—Bill and I—and Bill dashed out
With a line that I held, slung around his waist,
And thrice he rolled over and bobbed about
And thrice he brought up at the selfsame place.
He'll tell you so, Master,—'t was not his fault,
If after he struggled an hour there,
He only caught something—'t was damp and salt,
And dragged it out by its long fair hair.

“But we laid it afterward on the sand,
Take my arm, Master, I'll show you what.”
They led him down on the cold white sand
And up to a quiet and sheltered spot,
And there by the billows, and beacon's light,
Again he was standing face to face,
As he stood in a dream on that stormy night,
With his daughter Nan and her look of grace.

303

BY THE SAD SEA WAVES

I was walking down on the sands one night
With the girl of my choice—the woman I loved;
And I picked up a shell on the pebbly strand,
And thought even thus shall my love be prov'd:

“Take this, dearest girl, for 't is like to me,”
Said I with a gesture of fond entreat;
“'Tis a stranger come from the changing sea
To languish and die at thy own dear feet!”

She looked in my face in her scornful glee,
While her dainty foot beat the cold white sand,
“I will take the shell, but not you,” said she;
“He offers his house, you only your hand!”

EFFIE

Effie is both young and fair,
Dewy eyes and sunny hair;
Sunny hair and dewy eyes
Are not where her beauty lies.

Effie is both fond and true,
Heart of gold and will of yew;
Will of yew and heart of gold—
Still her charms are scarcely told.

304

If she yet remain unsung,
Pretty, constant, docile, young,
What remains not here compiled?
Effie is a little child!

This poem originally appeared in the Golden Era. It was later published in St. Nicholas Magazine, with the name changed to Jessie, and afterward set to music under that title by Leopold Damrosch, and also by N. H. Allen.

MY SOUL TO THINE

A TRANSCENDENTAL VALENTINE

Antithesis of Light, which is but gloom,
Myself in darkness shrouds; I know not why
Thy glances re-illumine—yet of them, One
Is ever in my eye!

Perchance 't is why I hold this thought most dear—
What is, may still be, what is fixed won't change:
The Future and the Past are not as clear
As things that are less strange.

Who knows what's What, yet says not which is Which—
He is reticent and precise in speech;
The same should tune his thoughts to concert pitch
By some deep sounding beach.

But he who knoweth Which and what is Which—
He is not simple nor perchance is dull—
Shall occupy himself a vacant niche
In some stupendous Whole.

SERENADE

(ADAPTED TO THE LATITUDE OF SAN FRANCISCO)

“O list, lady, list! while thy lover outside
Pours forth those fond accents that thrill thee;

305

O list! both thy doors and thy windows beside
For fear that some thorough draught chill thee.
The ‘sweet summer morn's’ hanging low in the sky,
And the fog 's drifting wildly around me;
There is damp in my throat, there is sand in my eye,
And my old friend Neuralgia has found me.

“O list, lady, list! ere this thin searching mist
Subdues all my amorous frenzy;
The Pleiads' ‘soft influence’ here is, I wist,
Replaced by the harsh influenza;
And now, lady sweet, I must bid thee ‘good-night,’
A night that would quench Hymen's torch, love,
For a lute by the fire is much more polite,
Than a song and catarrh in the porch, love.”

THE PRIZE-FIGHTER TO HIS MISTRESS

O, believe not the party who says love is bought,
Nor lend thy fond “lug” when his tale he'd begin;
But bid him behold thy dear “mug” on this breast,
This “bunch of fives” clasping thy own lovely “fin.”

Or show him the “home-brewed” that flushes thy “nob,”
When in thy “jug-handle” my love I recite,
And then if his “goggles” are not Cupid's own,
He'll reel to his corner at that “draft at sight.”

What “punishment” waits on the cove that deceives,
How “soggy” the “smasher” that gets him so prime,
When he “throws up the sponge” at the ultimate round,
And Eternity calls—and he can't “come to Time.”

306

Yet, Mary, dear Mary, such love is not mine,
But “mawley” in “mawley” together we'll tread;
The “belt” for the cestus of Venus I'll change,
And know but one “Ring”—in the ring we are wed.

MARY'S ALBUM

WRITTEN IN 1863, IN AN ALBUM BELONGING TO CHARLES WARREN STODDARD

Sweet Mary, maid of San Andreas,
Upon her natal day,
Procured an album, double-gilt,
Entitled, “The Bouquet.”

But what its purpose was beyond
Its name, she could not guess;
And so between its gilded leaves
The flowers he gave she'd press.

Yet blame her not, poetic youth!
Nor deem too great the wrong;
She knew not Hawthorne's bloom, nor loved
Macaulay-flowers of song.

Her hymn-book was the total sum
Of her poetic lore,
And, having read through Dr. Watts,
She did not ask for Moore.

But when she ope'd her book again,
How great was her surprise
To find the leaves on either side
Stained deep with crimson dyes.

307

And in that rose—his latest gift—
A shapeless form she views;
Its fragrance sped, its beauty fled,
And vanished all its dews.

O Mary, maid of San Andreas!
Too sad was your mistake—
Yet one, methinks, that wiser folk
Are very apt to make.

Who 'twixt these leaves would fix the shapes
That love and truth assume,
Will find they keep, like Mary's rose,
The stain, and not the bloom.

THE REJECTED STOCKHOLDER

A LOCAL MONOLOGUE

I thought that I had won her heart,
Before assessments came
To chill the fever of her blood
And check her youthful flame;
But ah! 't was not for me, but mine,
She spread her female snares—
I asked for one to share my love,
And not to love my shares!

I wooed her when the young May moon
And tranquil patient stars
Their lustre spread, and all the earth
Seemed strewn with silver bars;

308

Her praise I whispered to the sky,
The free winds spoke her fame,
And one location—all in vain—
I took—in her sweet name!

But now another's offering lies
Before that fickle shrine;
Another claims her hand—his claim
Is worth much more than mine;
But though he offers all I lack
To make her joy complete—
I would not stand in that man's shoes
Unless I had his feet!

O, tell me not of golden legs
That Kilmanseggs have known;
They 're nothing to the silver feet
My fickle fair would own.
The dream is past; but in these fond
Certificates I view—
Observe, ye credulous, what faith
And printers' ink may do.

My loving verses she returns
Though once she thought them fine—
She 's grown so critical in feet
She scans each faulty line.
And yet my fate I meekly bear
And find relief in sighs;
For oh, no Savage rules this breast,
Nor Chollar that may rise!

Oh, youth, who seekest Fortune's smile,
Shun, if thou canst, alway,

309

The woman's wile, the broker's guile,
That gild but to betray.
So use this world that in the next,
When here thy days shall end,
Thy last six feet of earth shall yield
To thee a dividend!

ON A NAUGHTY LITTLE BOY, SLEEPING

Just now I missed from hall and stair
A joyful treble that had grown
As dear to me as that grave tone
That tells the world my older care.

And little footsteps on the floor
Were stayed. I laid aside my pen,
Forgot my theme, and listened—then
Stole softly to the library door.

No sight! no sound!—a moment's freak
Of fancy thrilled my pulses through:
“If—no”—and yet, that fancy drew
A father's blood from heart and cheek.

And then—I found him! There he lay,
Surprised by sleep, caught in the act,
The rosy vandal who had sacked
His little town, and thought it play:

The shattered vase; the broken jar;
A match still smouldering on the floor;
The inkstand's purple pool of gore;
The chessmen scattered near and far.

310

Strewn leaves of albums lightly pressed
This wicked “Baby of the Woods”;
In fact, of half the household goods
This son and heir was seized—possessed.

Yet all in vain, for sleep had caught
The hand that reached, the feet that strayed;
And fallen in that ambuscade
The victor was himself o'erwrought.

What though torn leaves and tattered book
Still testified his deep disgrace!
I stopped and kissed the inky face,
With its demure and calm outlook.

Then back I stole, and half beguiled
My guilt, in trust that when my sleep
Should come, there might be One who'd keep
An equal mercy for His child.

AT THE SEPULCHRE

(Thomas Starr King)

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 9, 1864

Here in God's sunshine, peaceful lie,
Though not beneath yon arches' swell;
One springing roof alone—the sky—
Can hold the flock that loved thee well.

Yon sacred gates are free to all,
Who join in Sabbath praise and prayer;

311

Thy pulpit grave, beside shall call
A week-day fold from street and square.

Though o'er thy tomb no anthems rise,
The world its labor-hymn shall sing,
And sliding footsteps drown the sighs
Of small-tongued grasses, whispering.

And greener yet that spot shall grow,
For thy dear dust within it laid,
And brighter yet the sunlight glow—
And dim and grateful seem the shade.

For when the sun slopes down the west,
The shadow of yon sacred wall,
Like God's right arm across thy breast
Near and protectingly shall fall.

And all night long above thy urn
The patient stars shall pierce the gloom,
Like those eternal lamps that burn
And circle round a royal tomb.

And those who deemed they knew the best
Shall find how foolish was their claim—
And fear thy liberal bounty, lest
It clip their dividend of fame.

And some of humbler faith shall stand
Before thy tomb, and watch its door,
Expectant that some angel's hand
May roll the stone that lies before.

312

ARCADIA REVISITED

Ah, here's the spot—the very tree
Where once I carved an L. and E.,
Symbolical of her and me
Bound in Love's rosy fetters;
Since then five weary years are spent,
And yet I think we 're both content
That in Love's Book we never went
Beyond our simple letters.

For, looking through the rustling leaves,
I see the humble cottage eaves
Where now my Em. no longer weaves
Her mystic maiden fancies,
But milks her cows—she called 'em kine
In the brave days when she was mine—
But now she 's dropped those phrases fine
She borrowed from romances.

But here 's the place—the very tree
Where once I fell on bended knee
And breathed my burning vows—while she
Stood by in pale pink muslin.
I kissed her hand—but why revamp
Old feelings now?—the grass is damp,
And what with this rheumatic cramp
To kneel now would be puzzling.

She walks no more 'neath starlit skies,
She calls the evening mists that rise
Miasma, and the dew that lies
Is damp and cold and shocking.

313

She now wears boots. Five years ago
Her skirts she gathered up below;
'T was not from dampness, but to show
Her slippers and white stocking.

Beneath this shade we used to read
“Maud Muller,” and we both agreed
The Judge was wrong—but why proceed?
She's married to another!
She has not pined—that form is stout
That once this arm was clasped about,
She has two girls; they 're both, no doubt,
The image of their mother!

She said she loved not “wealth or state,”
But most adored the “wise and great,”
And gave a look to intimate
That this was my complexion;
“Her husband should be eyed like Mars,”
That's he, there, letting down the bars,
In cowhide boots. No doubt her Pa's,
But O, not her selection!

And yet, am I her young love's dream:
The pensive lover that did seem
The rightful Prince who should redeem
The promise of her fancies?
And I that same dyspeptic youth
Who rang the chimes on “sooth” and “truth,’
Minus that cuspidate tooth
Whose presence kills romances?

O Love, behind yon leafy screen!
Why can't all trees be evergreen?

314

Why can't all girls be sweet sixteen,
All men but one-and-twenty?
Why are the scars that hearts must wear
Deeper than those yon tree may bear?
And why are lovers now so rare,
And married folk so plenty?

THE SABBATH BELLS

Sunday, July 30, 1865

Ring, Sabbath bells, O softly ring,
And with your peaceful accents bring
To loving ears a welcome tale
Of flowing seas and gentle gale—
Ring!

Peal, all ye Sabbath bells—O peal,
And tell the few who watch and kneel
Of hidden snares and sunken rocks,
Of surges white and sudden shocks—
Peal!

Toll, O ye Sabbath bells, and toll
Each passing and heroic soul:
Toll for the sacrifices sweet,
For duty done and work complete—
Toll!

Chime, O ye Sabbath bells, O chime!
Each man has his appointed time;
The worst is but a glad release;
Chime, Sabbath bells, a song of Peace—
Chime!

315

IMPORTANT MEXICAN CORRESPONDENCE

AN INTERCEPTED LETTER

Dear Trem:—

From “orange groves and fields of balm”
These loving lines I send,
But first you really ought to know
The feelings of your friend.

For when it 's winter where you live,
The weather here 's like June;
The “Season's Choir” Thomson sings,
In fact, is out of tune.

All day at ninety-eight degrees
The mercury has stood,
Without a figure I may say,
I'm “in a melting mood.”

The fields are parched and so 's my lips—
I quaff at every spring;
So dry a “summer,” Trem, my dear,
“Two swallows” could not bring.

You know “two swallows do not make
It summer”—but methinks
The summer in this latitude
Is made of many drinks.

The politics, I grieve to say,
I find in great confusion—
For like the earth the people have
A daily revolution.

316

Their manners to a stranger here,
Is stranger yet to see;
Last night in going to a ball
A ball went into me.

I 'm fond of reading, as you know,
But then it was a sin
To be obliged against my will,
To take a Bullet-in.

They cried, “DIOS Y LIBERTAD!”
And then pitched into me;
I hate to hear a sacred name
Used with such “liberty.”

I should have said to you before,
But every method fails,
For since they have impressed the men,
Of course, they 've stopped the males.

319

“MAD RIVER”

Where the Redwood spires together
Pierce the mists in stormy weather,
Where the willow's topmost feather
Waves the limpid waters o'er;
Where the long and sweeping surges
Sing their melancholy dirges,
There the river just emerges
On the sad Pacific's shore.

From the headland, high and hoary,
From the western promontory,
Where the sunset seas of glory
Sparkle with an emerald sheen,
You may see it slowly twining,
In the valley low reclining,
Like a fringe of silver shining—
Edging on a mantle green.

You can see its gleaming traces
In the vale—the pleasant places
Where, amidst the alder's mazes,
There the salmon berries grow,
Until faint and fianter growing,
In the upland dimly flowing,
Where the serried hills are showing,
And the shadows come and go.

In those days, long gone and over,
Ere the restless pale-faced rover
Sought the quiet Indian cover,
Many, many moons ago,

320

Warrior braves met one another,
Not as ally, friend or brother,
But the fires of hate to smother
In the placid water's flow.

All the day they fierce contended,
And the battle scarce had ended
When the bloody sun descended,
And the river bore away
All the remnants of that slaughter
In a crimson tide, the water,
And they call it Patawata,
Ever since the fatal day.

Patawat, a tribe of North American Indians living on lower Mad River, California.

THE PONY EXPRESS
[_]

(The Pony Express was, at one time, the sole dependence of the Pacific Coast for the latest news from the Atlantic)

In times of adventure, of battle and song,
When the heralds of victory galloped along,
They spurred their faint steeds, lest the tidings too late
Might change a day's fortune, a throne, or a state.
Though theirs was all honor and glory—no less
Is his, the bold Knight of the Pony Express.

No corselet, no vizor, nor helmet he wears,
No war-stirring trumpet or banner he bears,
But pressing the sinewy flanks of his steed,
Behold the fond missives that bid him “God-speed.”
Some ride for ambition, for glory, or less,
“Five dollars an ounce” asks the Pony Express.

321

Trip lightly, trip lightly, just out of the town,
Then canter and canter, o'er upland and down,
Then trot, pony, trot, over upland and hill,
Then gallop, boy, gallop, and galloping still,
Till the ring of each horse-hoof, as forward ye press,
Is lost in the track of the Pony Express.

By marshes and meadow, by river and lake,
By upland and lowland, by forest and brake,
By dell and by cañon, by bog and by fen,
By dingle and hollow, by cliff and by glen,
By prairie and desert, and vast wilderness,
At morn, noon, and evening, God speed the Express.

THE ARGUMENT OE LURLINE

Air: “The Tall Young Oysterman”

Count Rudolph was a noble gent, as lived upon the Rhine,
Who spent his money very free in Lager Beer and Wine;
The Baron Truenfels, likewise, was neighbor of the same,
Which had a rather uppish girl—G. Truenfels by name.

Rudolph would wed Miss Truenfels, but was n't it a go?
Each thought that t'other had the tin (you know how lovers blow),
But when old T. says, “Pungle down,” Count Rudolph he says, “Stuff;
I 've youth and rank, that's more than gold”; says G., “It ain't enough.

322

“I wants a diamond thingamy—likewise a nice trossoo,
I wants a kerridge of me own, and so, young man, adoo”;
The Baron also cuts up rough—but Rudolph is content,
And merely takes a stiffer horn, observing, “Let her went.”

Now just before this jolly row, a gal they called Lurline
Was living down at Lurlineburgh, of which she was the Queen;
She was a Lady Dashaway—when water was on hand—
But had some spirits of her own she likewise could command.

This girl close by a whirlpool sat—this female named Lurline—
And played with most exquisite taste upon the tamborine;
The way the sailors steered into them whirlpools was a sin—
Young men, beware of sich sirens who thus take fellers in.

Now Count Rudolph was wide awake, beyond the power of suction;
Which caused Lurline to fall in love and seek an introduction.
And when he 's tight, one day, she slips a ring upon his finger;
And thus Count Rudolph is bewitched by that bewitching singer.

Then straightway in his boat he jumps, which soon begins to sink,
While all his brave com-pan-i-ons are yelling on the brink,
“You're half-seas-over now, you fool,—come back, you'll surely drown”;
Down goes the gallant German gent, a whistling “Derry Down.”

323

Down, down among the oyster-beds, he finds the sweet Lurline,
A cutting such a heavy swell—a gorgeous submarine;
Her father Rhineberg's very rich, and fellers said, who punned,
“He took deposits from the tars and kept a sinking fund.”

Count Rudolph did consent to stay at Rhineberg's flash hotel,
And half-made up his mind that with Lurline he 'd ever dwell;
“I'm partial to the water-cure and fond of clams,” says he,
“But such as you, Miss Rhineberg, are a subject quite per se.”

But suddenly he hears a noise, which made him weaken some
The howling of his friends above—says he, “I must go home,
Good-bye, Miss R.” “Hold up!” says she, we'll do the handsome thing,
Pa gives this massy chunk of gold. You keep my magic ring.”

So Rudolph takes the ring and gold, and comes home with a rush,
And very glad his neighbors was to see him come so flush.
And even old Miss Truenfels to welcome him began,
And says, “I always thought you was a very nice young man.”

Likewise she says, “My eye,”, and makes believe to faint away,
And sich-like gammon. But the Count says, “Come, now, that won't pay!

324

I loves another!” “Cruel man! That ring I now diskiver—
Say whose?” “My gal's!” She snatches it and chucks it in the river.

Now one of Lurline's father's help had caught the ring and ran
To her and says, “You see what comes of loving that young man.”
Poor Lurline feels somewhat cut up—and to assuage her pain
She takes her father's oyster sloop and comes ashore again.

'T was lucky that she did come up, for Rudolph's friends were bent
On sharing Rudolph's golden store, without Rudolph's consent;
And him they would assassinate, but Lurline she says, “Hold!”
And waves a wand until they stand like statoos, stiff and cold.

They stood like statoos on the bridge—it was a bridge of sighs;
For straightway most unpleasantly the tide began to rise;
It rose, but when the river swept away the bridge at last,
They found, although the tide was flood, their chances ebbing fast.

It rose until the wicked all had found a watery grave—
And then it sank and left Rudolph and neighbors in a cave.
Rudolph then marries Miss Lurline; is happy, rich, and able
To take the lowest bid to lay the next Atlantic Cable.

325

THE YERBA BUENA

When from the distant lands, and burning South,
Came Junipero—through the plains of drouth,—
Bringing God's promise by the word of mouth,

With blistered feet and fever-stricken brain,
He sank one night upon the arid plain,—
If God so willed it—not to rise again;

A heathen convert stood in wonder by;
“If God is God—the Father shall not die,”
He said. The dying priest made no reply.

“This in His name!” the savage cried, and drew
From the parched brook an herb that thereby grew,
And rubbed its leaves his dusky fingers through;

Then with the bruisèd stalks he bound straightway
The Padre's feet and temples where he lay,
And sat him down in faith, to wait till day;

When rose the Padre—as the dead may rise—
Reading the story in the convert's eyes,
“A miracle! God's herb”—the savage cries.

“Not so,” replies the ever humble priest;
“God's loving goodness showeth in the least,
Not God's but good be known the herb thou seest!”

Then rising up he wandered forth alone;
And ever since, where'er its seed be sown,
As Yerba Buena is the good herb known.

326

TREASURER A---Y

Air: “A Frog He would A-wooing Go”

Our A---y would a-brokering go,
Heigh ho, for A---y!
Whether the people would let him or no,
Whether they fancied his practices low,
Or the economical-comical show
Of their State Treasurer A---y.

The Federal tax he collected in gold,
Heigh ho, for A---y,
But straightway the coin and the taxpayers sold,
By buying up Treasury notes, so we 're told,
At a nice little discount—O, that was a bold
Speculation of Treasurer A---y's.

Let poor Uncle Samuel do what he may,
Heigh ho, for A---y.
What does he care what the newspapers say?
Let Volunteers starve upon half of their pay,
Lord bless us—it 's the economical way
Of great State Treasurer A---y.

What shall we do with our great financier?
Heigh ho, for A---y.
He 's rather expensive to keep by the year,
As a business transaction 't is certainly clear
To get ourselves rid of him no discount 's dear,
That exchanges State Treasurer A---y.

State Treasurer Ashley, of California, in 1863 paid the State's tax to the Government in legal tender notes. Gold, of course, at this time was at a premium, and Ashley had received this Federal tax in gold. The press severely criticized him for the transaction, and upon an attempt to repeat the offense the notes were refused by the United States Treasurer.

327

COLENSO RHYMES FOR ORTHODOX CHILDREN

A smart man was Bishop Colenso—
'T were better he never had been so—
He said, “A queer book
Is that same Pentateuch!”
Said the clergy, “You musn't tell men so.”

There once was a Bishop of Natal
Who made this admission most fatal;
He said: “Between us
I fear Exodus
Is a pretty tough yarn for Port Natal.”

Shall I believe that Noah's Ark
Rode on the waters blue?
Or must I, with Colenso, say
The story is untrue?

What then becomes of all my joys—
That ark I loved so well—
Those tigers—dear to little boys—
Shall they this error swell?

There once was a Bishop, and what do you think!
He talked with a Zulu, who says with a wink,
“Folks say that the Pentateuch 's true.—I deny it.”
And never since then has this Bishop been quiet.

328

POEM

DELIVERED AT THE PATRIOTIC EXERCISES IN THE METROPOLITAN THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JULY 4, 1863.

(Written for the event by the poet of the day, Bret Harte, and read by the Reverend Thomas Sir King.)

It's hard, on Independence Day, to find, with Thomas Moore,
Your “Minstrel boy,” his harp and song has taken to the war—
To ask some sober citizen to seize the passing time
And turn from scanning “silver feet” to cesuras of rhyme!

But then we need no poet's aid to lift our eyes and look
Beyond our Ledger's narrow rim, and post the nation's book—
To strike our country's balance-sheet, nor shrink in foolish pride
Because the ink is black that brings a balance to our side!

We 've names enough of rhythmic swell our halting verse to fill,
There 's Bennington, and Concord Bridge, and Breed's or Bunker's Hill;
There 's Lexington and Valley Forge—whose anvils' ringing peal,
Beat out on dreary winter nights the Continental steel!

There 's Yorktown, Trenton, Stony Point, King's Mill and Brandywine
To end—in lieu of rebel's necks—some patriotic line;

329

There 's Saratoga—Monmouth too—who can our limit fix?
Enough—the total added up is known as Seventy-Six!

With themes like these to flush the cheek, and bid the pulses play
Amidst the glories of the Past, we gather here to-day—
The twig our Fathers planted then has grown a spreading tree,
Whose branches sift their blossoms white, to-day, on either sea!

We 've grown too large, some people think—our neighbor, 'cross the way—
Suggests Division, though—just now—substraction 's more his way—
(But he 's a Diplomatic friend we neither seek nor fear,
Who gives the North his public voice—the South his privateer!)

No, no, we stand alone to-day, as when, one fierce July,
The sinking lion saw new stars flash from the western sky—
To-day, old vows our hearts renew—these throes that shake the Earth
Are but the pangs that usher in the Nation's newer birth!

God keep us all—defend the right—draw nearer while we sing
The song our country asks to-day, till hills and valleys ring;
(But first we'll draw our metre's rein e'er we again begin,
As soldiers from their battle front when ranks are closing in.)

(The Song)

O, God of our country—if silent we come,
With wreaths that are old to thy altar to-day;

330

'T is but that elsewhere, to the beat of thy drum,
Our love pours its roses far redder than they!

If the ring of our silver and gold be untrue,
And chimes no accord to the clash of thy steel;
It changes, dissolving, to fall like the dew,
In silence to strengthen—in mercy to heal!

Shall the ties that we love by false hands be unbound?
Shall we turn away when our brothers appeal
To the youngest of all—who, like Benjamin, found
The silver cup hid in his measure of meal?

No, Lord, we are one—we must come to thy door,
As martyrs, together—together as free;
Though the tempest that lashes the rough Plymouth shore
Shall mingle its spray with the calm Western sea!

Far better the tempest than yon lurid glow
That lights, while it mocks, the deep gloom of the sky—
Far better the lightning that smites with one blow,
Than the Copperhead's crest as uplifted on high!

Let the foe tempt our youth in his treacherous haste,
Our blades shall defend the bright colors we bear;
As our Cactus protects in the desolate waste,
The one tint of Eden that God has left there!

Then one ringing cheer for the deed and the day—
One smile for the present—one tear for the past;
Lord! lend us thine ear when thy servants shall pray,
Our future may show how thy mercies still last!

331

SOUTH PARK

(SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, 1864)

(After Gray)

The foundry tolls the knell of parting day,
The weary clerk goes slowly home to tea,
The North Beach car rolls onward to the bay,
And leaves the world to solitude and me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And through the Park a solemn hush prevails,
Save, in the distance, where some school-boy wight
Rattles his hoop-stick on the iron rails;

Save, that from yonder jealous-guarded basement
Some servant-maid vehement doth complain,
Of wicked youths who, playing near her casement,
Project their footballs through her window-pane.

Can midnight lark or animated “bust”
To these grave scenes bring mirth without alloy?
Can shrill street-boys proclaim their vocal trust
In John, whose homeward march produces joy?

Alas! for them no organ-grinders play,
Nor sportive monkey move their blinds genteel;
Approach and read, if thou canst read, the lay,
Which these grave dwellings through their stones reveal;

“Here rests his fame, within yon ring of earth,
A soul who strove to benefit mankind—
Of private fortune and of public worth,
His trade—first man, then sugar he refined.

332

“Large was his bounty, and he made his mark;
Read here his record free from stains or blots:
He gave the public all he had—his Park;
He sold the public—all he asked—his lots!”

THE PLAZA

(SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, 1864)

(After Sir Walter Scott)

If thou wouldst view the Plaza aright,
Go visit it by the pale moonlight;
For the gay beams of lightsome day
Show that the fountain does not play.
When the broken benches are hid in shade,
With many a vagrant recumbent laid;
When the clock on the Monumental tower
Tolls to the night the passing hour;
When cabman and hackman alternately
Entreat and threaten—indulging free
In coarse yet forcible imagery;
When the scrolls that show thee the playhouse nigh,
In monstrous letters do feign and lie,
Of “Fun divest of Vulgarity”;
When Bella Union is heard to rave
O'er the last conundrum the minstrel gave;
When the street-boy pauses—intent upon
The band at Gilbert's Melodeon—
Then go—but go alone the while,
And view John Bensley's ruined pile,
And, home returning—do not swear
If thou hast seen some things more fair.

333

THE FIRST BROOM RANGER

AN OLD STORY WITH A NEW MORAL

Once upon the Cornish strand
Rose a tide so vast and brimming,
That it overflowed the land,
And the hamlet set a-swimming.

Every cellar was submerged,
Yet the tide kept slowly swelling
Till the waters broke and surged
O'er the threshold of each dwelling.

Then it was an ancient crone
(True to what tradition taught her)
Seized her broom, and, all alone,
Set to sweeping out the water.

Through that ancient female's room
Rolled the mighty ocean past her—
Still the old girl with her broom
Only worked and swept the faster.

When the people gathered round
And in fear and terror sought her,
All of that poor dame they found
Was her BROOM upon the water.

Only with her latest breath
Had she ceased her work gigantic:
Fairly, squarely met her death,
Sweeping out the vast Atlantic.

[Part of the George B. McClellan torchlight procession in San Francisco, October 11, 1864, consisted of nearly a thousand men carrying brooms, called “Broom Rangers.” They were sympathizers with McClellan in his campaign for President against Abraham Lincoln.]

334

ANSWERING THE BELL

A STORY OF THE LATE EARTHQUAKE (SAN FRANCISCO, SUNDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1865)

At Number Four, had Dennis More
A decent situation—
A Celtic youth, who showed, in truth,
But little cultivation,
And “wore the green”—the kind, I mean,
Not reached by legislation.

His knowledge did not go beyond
The doorbell he attended,
The boots he blacked—the services
On which his place depended;
Yet with his humble duties he
A certain zeal had blended.

One Sunday morn—the folks were all
At church, and no doubt sleeping,
While Dennis More at Number Four
His household watch was keeping—
When all at once there came a ring
That set his pulses leaping.

He started to his feet, but ere
He took erect position,
A certain trembling in his knees
Betrayed their weak condition;
And looking round, poor Dennis found
This fearful exhibition:

335

The kitchen clock that ere the shock
The time of day was showing,
Had stopped its pendulum, although
The clock itself was going;
It fell—he thought the End of Time
Had come with no man's knowing.

The tumblers tumbled on the shelves,
Moved by mysterious forces,
The plates were shifted as they are
In dinners of twelve courses;
And knives went racing for the plate,
Just like St. Leger horses.

But high above the general crash
He heard the doorbell ringing,
And staggering to his feet he reached
The hall where he saw swinging
The study door, and down before
Its bookshelves he fell, clinging.

One hurried glance he gave—enough
For fatal confirmation—
The very globe upon its stand
Still rocked to its foundation,
And all the standard volumes seemed
In active circulation.

The fearful thrill, continuing still,
Had loosed “The Stones of Venice,”
The law-books just above his head
Ejectment seemed to menace—
Till down fell “Coke on Littleton,”
Followed by “Kent” on Dennis!

336

The very poets were disturbed—
The mild and peaceful Lakers,
As though they 'd caught from “Aspen Court”
Some power that made them Shakers;
Or, that the “Life of William Penn”
Had turned them all to Quakers.

The “Testimony of the Rocks,”
In rocking, was appalling—
Thermometer and weather-glass
Both side by side were falling;
Yet 'midst the jar—a Leyden jar—
He heard the doorbell calling.

Half dead, he reached the hall again,—
Sometimes on all-fours creeping,—
Wide swung the parlor's creaking door,
And, through the portals peeping,
He saw a Turkish ottoman
Like some wild dervish leaping;

Four high-backed chairs that waltzed in pairs,
Two easy-chairs coquetting;
And—like some dowager that found
A partner hard of getting—
The piano against the wall
Was right and left foot poussetting.

Yet, spite of giddy sights and scenes
Of books and portraits reeling,
To Dennis' brain one thing was plain—
The doorbell still was pealing;
He seized the knob expectant of
Some frightful form revealing!

337

The hinges swung—the door was flung
Wide open, but no spying
Disclosed the hand that rung the bell,
Nor anybody trying,
Save that a pale-faced man stood near,
The walls intently eyeing.

One bound gave Dennis to the ground
And seized the rash spectator—
With wicked fingers round his throat
He clutched his respirator:
“Is thim your Sunday thricks?” he cried,
“Ye haythen agitator!”

“The earthquake!” gasped the wretch. With scorn
Bold Dennis drew his brows down;
“The airthquake, is it?” Then he gave
A forcible but coarse noun—
“And that 's the wake excuse ye 'd give
For ringing master's house down!”

MIDSUMMER

A SAN FRANCISCO MADRIGAL

“The air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself
Unto our several senses.”

Macbeth.

Now Cancer holds the fiery sun,
And Sirius flames in yonder skies,
Midsummer's languid reign's begun—
Arise, my lady sweet, arise;
Come forth ere evening's shadows fall—
But, dearest, don't forget thy shawl.

338

For why, methinks these zephyrs bland
Are brisk and jocund in their play.
These tears, thou may'st not understand,
Spring but from joy at such a day;
And, dearest, what thou deem'st a frown
Is but to keep my beaver down.

Now generous Nature kindly sifts
Her blessings free from liberal hand:
How varied are her graceful gifts;
How soft—(yes, dearest, that was sand,
A trifle—and by Nature thrown
O'er this fresh signature—her own!)

Here let us sit and watch, till morn,
The fleecy fog that creeps afar,
And, like a poultice, soothes the torn
And wind-bruised face of cliff and scar;
Nor fear no chill from damp nor dew,
Nor—(really! bless my soul—a-tschu!)

A sneeze—'t is nothing—what of that?
Or if I choose, in youthful guise,
To chase this lightly flying hat,
Instead of painted butterflies—
'T is but the latitude, you know,
The season gives—well, well, we'll go.

And when once more within our cot,
Where sweetly streams the fragrant tea,
And buttered muffins crisp and hot,
Their welcome spread for you and me;
Then, love, by fires that glitter bright,
We'll sing Midsummer's soft delight.

339

POEM

DELIVERED ON THE OCCASION OF THE LAYING OF THE CORNER-STONE OF THE CALIFORNIA DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND ASYLUM, SEPTEMBER 26, 1867

Written for this event by Bret Harte and read by John Swett

Fair the terrace that o'erlooks
Curving bay and sheltered nooks;
Groves that break the western blasts,
Steepled distance fringed with masts,
And the gate that fronts our home
With its bars of cold sea-foam.

Here no flashing signal falls
Over darkened sea and sail;
Here no ruddy lighthouse calls
White-winged Commerce with its hail;
But above the peaceful vale
Watchful, silent, calm and pale,
Science lifts her beacon walls.

Love, alone, the lamp whose beam
Shines above the troubled stream;
Here shall patience, wise and sweet,
Gather round her waiting feet
God's unfinished few, whom fate
And their failings consecrate;
Haply that her skill create
What His will left incomplete.

Ah, Bethsaida's pool no more
Sees the miracles of yore;

340

Faith no more to blinded eyes
Brings the light that skill denies;
Not again shall part on earth
Lips that Nature sealed from birth.
Though His face the Master hides,
Love eternal still abides
Underneath the arching sky,
And his hand through Science guides
Speechless lip and sightless eye.

This is our Bethsaida's pool,
This our thaumaturgic school;
We, O Lord, more dumb than these—
Knowing but of bended knees
And the sign of claspèd hands—
Here upon our western sands,
By these broad Pacific seas,
Through these stones are eloquent,
And our feeble, faltering speech
Gains what once the pebbles lent
On the legendary beach
Unto old Demosthenes.

PORTALA'S CROSS

Pious Portala, journeying by land,
Reared high a cross upon the heathen strand,
Then far away
Dragged his slow caravan to Monterey.

The mountains whispered to the valleys, “Good!”
The sun, slow sinking in the western flood,
Baptized in blood
The holy standard of the Brotherhood.

341

The timid fog crept in across the sea,
Drew near, embraced it, and streamed far and free,
Saying: “O ye
Gentiles and Heathen, this is truly He!”

All this the Heathen saw; and when once more
The holy Fathers touched the lonely shore—
Then covered o'er
With shells and gifts—the cross their witness bore.

343

CIVIL WAR POEMS

1862–1865

345

A VOLUNTEER STOCKING

With fingers thoroughbred, rosy and fair,
She was knitting a stocking for soldiers to wear.

But I thought, as through intricate loop and braid
Those fingers so willfully flashed and played,
Not alone did they catch in their weaving play
A woolen thread nor a filament gray,
But some subtler fancies—as maidens best know
Were knit in that stocking from heel to toe.

Those sweet, tangled fancies, that women so long
Have cherished in sorrow, oppression, and wrong;
Those poetic impulses, waiting the warm
Grasp of Faith but to shapen and give them a form.
Thus Valor and Trust, from a chaos so full,
Here mixed with the gathering meshes of wool,
To be marshaled more firm, as with resolute chin
And half-pouting lip she knit them all in,
Till the flash of the needle's leaping light
Gleamed like those lances, when knight to knight,
In the olden joust of Chivalry's might
(Thought I), did battle for Love and Right.

So she sate, with a drooping head,
Knitting,—but not with a single thread,—
Till under the long lash something grew
Misty and faint as the mountain's blue,
Then dropped—
Like a flash it was gone
Caught and absorbed in the woven yarn,

346

A tear,—just to show that the stocking was done,—
And Pity had finished what Trust had begun.

THE CONSERVATIVE BRIDGE OF SIGHS

(After Hood)

Treat her with strategy,
Touch her with care,
Nor with rash energy
Harm one so fair!

Respect her sentiments,
So truly eloquent,
While still consistently
Drips from her clothing
Loyal blood—Look at it,
Loving not loathing.

Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny;
Rash and undutiful,
Past all dishonor,
Blight has left on her
Only the beautiful.

Still for these slips of hers,
One of Abe's family
Wipe those pale lips of hers,
Spitting so clammily;
Bring back her chattels,
Her fond valued chattels,
Where'er they may roam;
Hand-cuff 'em, chain 'em, and
Send 'em back home.

347

Seek not to damage
Her own institution;
Tenderly put back
The old Constitution.

Where the lights quiver,
So far down the river,
For many a night,
In ditches and trenches—
McClellan's defenses—
The conflict commences,
But never a fight!

Best they should tarry where
Dreadful malaria
Racks them with pain;
But let no contraband
Lend them a helping hand,
If you 've a care for
The Union again.

Perishing gloomily;
Spurred by old womanly,
Feeble loquacity,
Weak incapacity,
Gone to its rest.
Still pertinacity
Says it is best.

Should the North rigidly
Stiffen too frigidly,
Decently—kindly—
Smooth and compose them,
And their eyes close them,
Staring so blindly,

348

Dreadfully staring
Through muddy impurity,
As that glance of daring,
The soldier despairing,
Fixed on Futurity.

Thus with such strategy
Still the South spare,
Nor with rash energy
Harm one so fair.

Owning the weakness
Of her institution,
And saving her under
The old Constitution.

BANKS AND THE SLAVE GIRL

[_]

[General N. P. Banks, Major-General of Volunteers, Union Army, commanded at the battle of Cedar Mountain, August 9, 1862.]

Through shot and shell, one summer's day,
We stood the battle's rack,
With gaping files and shattered ranks
Our men were falling back;
When through our lines, a little child
Ran down the bloody track.

To know if she were bond or free
We had no time to spare,
Or scan with microscopic eye
The texture of her hair;
For lo, begrimed with battle smoke,
Our men looked scarce as fair.

349

Her name, her home, her master's claim,
We could not then decide,
Until our Iron Chief rode up
Ere we could cheer or chide,
And pointing to a howitzer,
He grimly bade her “ride.”

First glancing down that ghastly lane,
Where dead and dying lay,
Then back at us, and like a flash,
We saw his glances say:
“The child is free. Their batteries
Have opened her the way!”

Perhaps they had—I said before
We could not then decide;
For we were sorely pressed that day,
And driven back beside,
And mayhap in our chieftain's act,
Some moral then we spied.

THE BATTLE AUTUMN

The last high wain of toppling sheaves
Goes by—the farm gate swings to rest;
The yellow harvest, and the leaves
The red Fruit-Bearers' lips have pressed,
Lie trophies piled on Nature's breast!

But when the clouds hang dark and low,
And bird and bee no longer roam—
And long before the pitying snow
To bury the dead leaves shall come—
We'll call another Harvest Home!

350

We'll call that Harvest, last and best,
The Warrior-Reaper, reaps by chance,
The broken hope—the shattered crest—
The nerveless hand—the quenchèd glance
That heap the creeping ambulance!

Swing wide your gates—the car rolls on:
O Reaper, are your spoils like these?
Ah, no! when dragon's teeth are sown,
The incense breath of patriot fields
O'ertops the languid scents of Peace!

Then still keep keen your hooks and scythe,
Ye wielders of the peaceful flail,
Tho' wintry storms the tree-tops writhe,
And scattered leaves ride on the gale,
Let not the battle harvest fail.

SEMMES!

[_]

[Captain Raphael Semmes, the noted commander of the Confederate privateer Alabama, on the 7th of December, 1862, captured the steamer Ariel carrying passengers for San Francisco. He allowed the vessel and passengers to proceed unharmed, but compelled the captain to sign a bond to pay two hundred and sixty thousand dollars thirty days after the independence of the Confederate Government. On December 27, the passengers of the Ariel held a meeting in San Francisco and passed a vote of thanks for Semme's gentlemanly conduct while in possession of the vessel.]

Confederation
Of Free spoliation
With Exaltation,
I sing of thee!
And of thy later,
Sweet Peculator,
And Depredator
Of every sea.

351

When all abuse thee
And dare confuse thee,
I'll still excuse thee,
Though law condemns
Thy occupation,
This plain narration
Bears attestation
Of thee, O Semmes!

What legendary,
Incendiary
Accounts that vary
Of thee were told;
What strange tradition
Of man's condition,
Through inanition
Shut in thy hold.

Thy motions elfish,
Thy conduct selfish,
Like that strange shell-fish
who clouds with ink;
Yes, like the Cuttle,
I hide thy subtle
Attempts to scuttle
Our ships and sink.

Thy frequent dashes,
Thy waxed mustaches,
Their glory flashes
From pole to pole!
The British Nation,
At every station,
Sends invitation
For thee to coal.

352

With deprecation
And agitation,
And consternation,
Lest blood be spilt,
I view thy meeting,
—No courteous greeting—
Perchance a beating
From Vanderbilt!

Thy kind attention
I duly mention,
Though comprehension
Doth strangely show
That high-toned breeding
Tho' strange exceeding,
We find proceeding
From men termed “Low.

Then let us praise thee,
And still upraise thee,
Until we place thee
Beyond all harm,
In exaltation—
A-e-rostation
And high saltation,
From some yardarm.

A CAVALRY SONG

O, potent in patriot fields,
Is the union of swiftness and force;
In the uplifted steel,
And the prick of the heel,
And the long swinging tramp of the horse.

353

O, the Infantry make a brave show,
With the squares that no foeman dare cross;
But their long files go down,
When the rattling hoofs drown
Their roulade with the tramp of the horse.

O, the Cannoneer's lintstocks are bright,
And the throats of their engines are hoarse;
But their thunder is dumb
When the Cavalry come,
With the lightnings that leap from the horse.

Then, up in the stirrup and ride!
No obstacles checking our course,
Till the continent's length
Is filled with the strength
Of the charging of Liberty's horse!

THE WRATH OF McDAWDLE

A CONSERVATIVE LEGEND

[_]

[General George B. McClellan, in 1862, was severely criticized for his tardiness and hesitation. It was claimed that he was over-cautious, that he spent too much time in preparation, and thus gave the enemy the advantage and an opportunity to escape.]

McDawdle brooked no spoiler's wrong,
Famous in border raid and song,

But hearing the tale of outrage told,
His heart waxed hot and his eye grew cold,

And said, “Now, by my ancestral hall,
This day shall McDawdle's vengeance fall!”

354

So he bade them bring him his barbèd steed,
And rode from his castle gate with speed.

The high portcullis he paused beside,
And said, “With me shall a Squire ride

“With a fresher lance, lest this should bend
To some traitor's breast—which saints forfend!”

So his Squire beside him armed did go,
With an extra lance at his saddle-bow.

But when the heavy drawbridge dropped,
McDawdle tightened his rein and stopped,

And said, “Those spared in the fight, I wist,
With gyves should be manacled each wrist.”

So they brought him gyves and again he sped
While his henchmen held their breath with dread.

But when he had passed the castle moat,
He checked his steed, and his brow he smote,

And said: “By'r Lady, methinks 'twere well
That with me should ride a priest and bell

“To shrive the souls of the men I slay,
And mine own, should I fall in this deadly fray.”

So they brought him a priest with a bell and book,
And again the earth with his gallop shook.

When he reached the spot where the caitiffs lay,
Lo, the coward knaves had stolen away,

355

Taking the spoil of his goodly land,
Dreading the might of his strong right hand.

'T were well for the caitiff knaves that they
Had wisely gone from McDawdle's way,

Lest he fall upon them with certain death;
And psalms went up from each caitiff's breath.

And psalms went up from McDawdle's hall,
When they saw him ride to the outer wall.

And the bard made a song of McDawdle's wrath,
And this is the song which that minstrel hath:

“Ye bold intent doth ye deed surpasse
Of ye braggart childe with ee of glasse.”

THE COPPERHEAD CONVENTION

SACRAMENTO, JULY 8, 1863

There were footprints of blood on the soil of the Free;
There were foes in the land where no foeman should be;
There were fields devastated and homesteads in flame;
And each loyal cheek caught the hue of its shame;
War's roses sprang red where each rebel heel set—
When, lo! a convention of Democrats met!

And how did they sing the brave song of their clan—
“Of rights that were equal—of freedom for man?”
What epithets burned through their pitiless scorn
Of “governing classes that masters are born?”

356

What epithets! Listen, ye gods, to yon mouth
That writhes, as it whispers, “the glorious South!”

But came they in peace—those meek lovers of Right,
With pistols and bowie-knives tucked out of sight,
With real jars of oil for the sore Commonweal
That no Ali-Baba assassins conceal—
Was it Peace—or war—whose fond mercies are such
As pluck the weak straw from a drowning man's clutch?

We know not their motives. The quick ebbing tide
That stranded their chieftain left them at his side;
As the wave that retreats from the Seventy-four
Leaves the cockle-shells groping their way on the shore—
So their knell was the boom of the welcoming gun
That thundered the tidings that Vicksburg was won!

SCHALK!

[_]

[Emil Schalk, a resident of the United States, was born at Mayence, Germany, 1834, and educated at Paris. He wrote Summary of the Art of War, 1862, Campaigns of 1862, 1863, etc.]

What do our successes balk!
“Want of simple rules,” says Schalk,
“Daily I am shocked to see
Utter lack of strategy;
While the skill that art combines
(Shown in my interior lines)
And success that ever dwells
In all perfect parallels,
Prove to me, beyond a doubt,
That you 're twisted right about,
And through ignorance of art,
Yours is the defensive part;

357

Or, to make my sense complete,
In advancing, you retreat.
Don't you see—it 's plain as day—
That thus far you 've run away,
And your siege of New Orleans
Simply was defensive means,
While your Washington, my friend,
You must conquer to defend—
Thus your whole campaign is naught
When not logically fought!”

Right and Might at times prevail,
Lines and figures never fail!
So if you'd your battles win—
And would properly begin—
Choose your scientific man,
Fight the European plan,
And to stop all further talk,
Win 'em by the longest Schalk.

THE YREKA SERPENT

A RHYTHMICAL DIALOGUE

[_]

[Yreka, July 15, 1863. Two men in coming out of their drift on Cottonwood Creek, some twenty miles from here, a few days ago, saw on the mountain-side a snake, which they say was twenty-four feet long, and as large around as a man's body. They went toward it, when it ran up the mountain. A party is now out looking for the snake.—Telegram in city papers.]

STRANGER

O excavator of the soil, O miner bold and free!
Where is the snake—the fearful snake—that late appeared to thee?
Was it a bona-fide snake, or only some untruth
Exploding like that firework so popular with youth?

358

Was it a real Ophidian, or was it simply nil,
Of mania a potu born—Serpent of the Still?
Was it an Anaconda huge, or Boa of mighty strength,
Or was it but an Adder—in the details of its length?

Was it a Python—such an one as Pliny says for lunch
Would take a Roman Phalanx down, as we take Roman punch?
Or was it that more modern kind that Holmes' page displays,
Whose rattle was the favored toy of “Elsie's” baby days?

What manner of a snake was it? Speak, O mysterious man!
Proclaim the species of the snake that past thy tunnel ran—
Its length, its breadth, and whence it came, and whither did it flee;
And if extant on Tellus yet, oh, tell us where it be!

MINER

O stranger in the glossy hat, and eke in store-clothes drest!
Thy words a tunnel deep have picked within this flinty breast;
I may not rightly call those names thou dost so deftly term,
But this I know—I never yet beheld so gross a worm!

My tale begins upon a day I never can forget,
The very time those Democrats in Sacramento met—
A July day—the heated pines their fragrant sap distilled,
When tidings of a victory the hills and valleys thrilled.

The mountains laughed to split their sides, the tunnels cracked their jaws;
The fir trees rattled down their cones in salvos of applause;

359

The blue-jay screamed till he was black—when lo! as if in pain,
A hideous serpent writhed this way from Sacramento's plain.

His tail was pointed to the South, his head toward the North,
As from the Sacramento's bank he wriggled slowly forth;
But when upon the right and left the cheers began to break,
And wider, wider spread the news—still faster flew the snake!

He reached the mountains—like a dream he passed before my eyes.
O stranger! then it was I knew the secret of his size,
It was no single snake I saw; but by yon blessed sun!
These eyes beheld two serpents joined and blended into one.

Two heads this fearful reptile had; one pointed to the South;
The other pointed to the North, a hissing tongue and mouth;
But that which pointed to the South was like a turtledove,
And dropped from time to time a text of universal love.

Its Northern head three sides displayed, and on the first of these
I read the legend “Slavery,” and on the second “Peace,”
And on the third—oh, fearful sight!—these eyes did plainly see,
Deep sunken on its copper front, the capitals “J. D.”

The snake is gone—the tale is told—I view in thy affright,

360

O stranger with the troubled brow! thou readst the tale aright;
This serpent of protracted length—this awful snake of dread—
Was of the same convention born—the Fusion Copperhead.

A FABLE FOR THE TIMES

I lay on my back in the scented grass,
Drowned in the odors that swept the plain,
Watching the reaper's sickle pass
Like summer lightning amidst the grain;

And I said, “'T is certain that Peace is sweet,
And War is cruel and useless toil—
And better the reaper of honest wheat
Than the soldier laden with sanguine spoil.”

But lo, as I spake, in the upper sky,
I heard the tumult of mimic war,
And a troop of swallows came whistling by,
In chase of a hawk that flew before—

Till with baffled wing and beaten crest,
That gray guerrilla of raid and wrong,
Flew off—and back to each ransomed nest,
The heroes came in exultant song.

But one, as he neared me, dropped his wing
With a weak, uncertain, tremulous beat,
As round and round in a narrowing ring,
His circuit he 'd double and then repeat—

361

Till at length he dropped, like lead, in the brake,
And I sprang to my feet, but found, alas,
He was charmed by a meditative snake
That lay near me in the scented grass.

THOMAS CARLYLE AND PETER OF THE NORTH

[_]

The English author, Thomas Carlyle, must have his say upon the civil war in this country. It is very brief, and appears in the August number of Macmillan's Magazine. Here it is:—

“ILIA AMERICANA IN NUCE”
Peter of the North
(to Paul of the South).

—“Paul, you unaccountable scoundrel, I find you hire your servants for life, not by the month or year, as I do! You are going straight to hell, you—!”

Paul.

—“Good words, Peter! The risk is my own; I am willing to take the risk. Hire your servants by the month or day, and get straight to Heaven, leave me to my own method.”

Peter.

—“No, I won't. I will beat your brains out first! (And is trying dreadfully ever since, but cannot yet manage it.”)

T. C. May, 1863.

“PETER OF THE NORTH” TO THOMAS CARLYLE

It's true that I hire my servant per day,
Per month, or per year—as he chooses;
While “Paul of the South” takes his bondman for life,
Without asking if he refuses,
T. C.,
Without asking if he refuses!

362

But if you are judge of the merits alone,
We surely have right to inquire
The date of your service with “Paul of the South,”
And what is the length of your hire,
T. C.,
And what is the length of your hire!

F. B. H.

CALIFORNIA TO THE SANITARY COMMISSION

WITH A DRAFT FOR “FIFTY THOUSAND,” DECEMBER, 1863

Throughout the long summer our hearts shrank in doubt,
As sterile and parched as our plains with the drought,
Till your voice on the wings of the winter's first rain
Awoke heart and meadow to bounty again.

'T is yours in its freshness—the first gift that springs
From the soil overarched by these merciful wings,
As pure and less cold than the snowflake that flies
Over fields that are crimson with War's autumn dyes.

We speak not of Glory, we talk not of Fame,
We gauge not our bounty to honor or blame;
You ride with the battery wrapped in the dun;
We creep with the ambulance steadily on.

Yet stay but a moment. Our faith is the same,
Though warmed in the sunshine, or tried in the flame;
Would you say that we shrink, while your courage endures—
That we offer our draft as an exchange for yours?

No, perish the thought! whether sunshine or storm,
Though the matrix is broken that moulded our form;

363

When our mills shall run dry, in the stamps that remain,
That Strength which bred Mercy shall conquer again!

SONG OF THE “CAMANCHE”

O stranger, o'er this sunken wreck
Behold no risen glory;
No fragments of a battle-deck
Invite the poet's story;
Fame cannot write my name above
With Freedom's fearless fighters;
For why? this little lay of mine
Belongs to Underwriters.

You tell me that by Sumter's walls
The monitors are swinging,
And harmless from their armor falls
The thunderbolts yet ringing;
Yet, peaceful here in mud I lie
Like any sailor drunken,
Dead as a coffin-nail, or as
—My rivet-heads-die-sunken!

You say the pirate's stealthy prow
This way is slowly turning,
From tropic seas, where even now
Some luckless prize is burning.

364

Above them gleams the Southern Cross
And constellations blinking,
While I beneath a Northern sky
With Aquila am sinking.

O, had I dropped in some deep well
Of ocean vast and mighty,
Old Neptune might have tolled my bell
Along with Amphitrite;
Or mermaids from their coral stores
Have decked my turret gayly,
Instead of filth your city pours
From sewers round me daily.

Then, stranger, rather let me hide
Where river ooze still smothers,
If locked in my disgrace abide
Some meaner faults of others!
Thou hast a paper—tell me quick
The worst—though nothing worse is;
I'm libeled—in the Circuit Court,
Thank God!—and not in verses.

A LAY OF THE LAUNCH

(After Tennyson)

My heart is wasted with my woe,
Camanche;
In vain I strove to see the show,
Camanche;

365

Divorced from shore—from libels free—
I came to view thy charms per se;
It was no maiden plunge to thee,
Camanche.

I did not see thee launched at all,
Camanche;
The crowd was large—the gate was small,
Camanche.
I stood without and cursed my fate,
The time, the tide that would not wait,
With others who had come too late,
Camanche.

Why did they send thee off so soon,
Camanche?
They should have waited until noon,
Camanche.
O cruel fate, that from my gaze
Hid wedges, props, and broken stays,
And made thy ways as “secret ways,”
Camanche.

I was thine own invited guest,
Camanche;
I missed the feast, with all the rest,
Camanche.
I missed the cold tongue, and the flow
Of eloquence and Veuve Clicquot;
I missed my watch and chain, also,
Camanche.

For when I strove to reach thy deck,
Camanche;

366

A hand was passed around my neck,
Camanche;
A false, false hand my beaver pressed
Upon mine eyes, and from my vest
Unhooked my chain—why tell the rest?
Camanche.

My coat was torn—the best I had,
Camanche;
I wished I, too, were ironclad,
Camanche.
They tore my coat and vest of silk,
They groaned and cried, “a bilk, a bilk!”
Rude boys and others of that ilk,
Camanche.

Thy yard was full of stumbling blocks,
Camanche;
That told a sudden fall in stocks,
Camanche.
I stood where late thy keel had slid—
I did not heed as I was bid,
Hence what thy keel had done, I did,
Camanche.

It was a bitter, frightful fall,
Camanche;
I slid some thirty feet in all,
Camanche.
Some thirty feet upon my back
I slipped along the slimy track;
They cried, “Another launch—alack!”
Camanche.

367

My heart was wasted with my woe,
Camanche;
I thought that I would homeward go,
Camanche.
In vain I hailed a crowded car;
They answered not my signs afar;
O day, cursed by my evil star,
Camanche.

THE FLAG-STAFF ON SHACKLEFORD ISLAND

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR

[_]

[The following incident was related in a recent lecture by the Rev. A. L. Stone, Pastor, Park Street Church, Boston: “In the early part of the war there stood on Shackleford Island, North Carolina, a high flag-staff from which floated the national banner. Of course, the secessionists soon tore this down. But there still surmounted the staff the national eagle. This was too loyal for the traitors, and after a time they succeeded in getting it down or breaking it off. Their work was hardly finished, when lo! the air quivered with the rush of lordly wings, and a majestic eagle swept down and lighted on the staff. In a few minutes the marksmen sent bullet after bullet at the royal mark. In vain. His piercing eye looked at them defiant; he rose, circled round a few feet, and settled again on his perch.”]

Piercing the blue of a southern sky,
On Shackleford Island a flagstaff rose,
And a flag that flew,
Loyal and true,
Over the heads of disloyal foes.

Fluttered the flag in the breezy air;
Sullen they gazed, but did not speak,
Till the flap of each fold,
Like a buffet bold,
Crimsoned with shame each traitor's cheek.

368

“Down with the Abolition rag!”
Was the cry their hatred found at last;
And they tore it down
And over the town
Trailed the flag they had stripped from the mast.

“Down with the Eagle—the Yankee bird;
False in one thing, false in the whole”;
So they battered down
The flag-staff's crown—
The Eagle crest of the liberty pole.

Lo! as it dropped, from the upper air
Came the rush of wings, and around the base
Of the flag-staff played
A circling shade,
And the real bird swooped to the emblem's place.

Vainly, below from the angry mob
The curse and the rifle shot went up.
Not a feather stirred
Of the royal bird
In his lonely perch on the flag-staff top.

Since that day, on Shackleford Isle,
Clothed in beauty the staff is set;
Since that day
The bird alway
Guards the spot that is sacred yet.

So, when the Nation's symbols lie
Broken, we look through our despair
To the sky that brings
The rush of wings
And the Truth that dwells in the upper air.

369

OF ONE WHO FELL IN BATTLE

(H. A. G., JUNE 3, 1864)

By smoke-encumbered field and tangled lane,
Down roads whose dust was laid with scarlet dew,
Past guns dismounted, ragged heaps of slain,
Dark moving files, and bright blades glancing through,
All day the waves of battle swept the plain
Up to the ramparts, where they broke and cast
Thy young life quivering down, like foam before the blast.

Then sank the tumult. Like an angel's wing,
Soft fingers swept thy pulses. The west wind
Whispered fond voices, mingling with the ring
Of Sabbath bells of Peace—such peace as brave men find,
And only look for till the months shall bring
Surcease of Wrong, and fail from out the land
Bondage and shame, and Freedom's altars stand.

THE HERO OF SUGAR PINE

“Oh, tell me, Sergeant of Battery B,
Oh, hero of Sugar Pine!
Some glorious deed of the battle-field,
Some wonderful feat of thine.

“Some skillful move, when the fearful game
Of battle and life was played
On yon grimy field, whose broken squares
In scarlet and black are laid.”

370

“Ah, stranger, here at my gun all day,
I fought till my final round
Was spent, and I had but powder left,
And never a shot to be found;

“So I trained my gun on a rebel piece:
So true was my range and aim,
A shot from his cannon entered mine
And finished the load of the same!”

“Enough! Oh, Sergeant of Battery B,
Oh, hero of Sugar Pine!
Alas! I fear that thy cannon's throat
Can swallow much more than mine!”

ST. VALENTINE IN CAMP

We had borne the wintry sieges in our swamp-encircled camp,
When a step surprised the sentry in his measured tread and tramp,

And across the broad abatis swarmed the skirmishes of spring,
And the ivy's scaling ladders on the scarp hung quivering;

Till the bold invader's colors shook on every rocky wall,
And the buds with wedding carols drowned the bugle's warning call.

Then a sudden vision thrilled me, and I seemed to stand again
With my hand upon the ploughshare on the far New England plain.

371

Blithely sang the lark above me, and among the gathered kine
Sang the milkmaid in the farmyard, sang the song of Valentine;

Or across the distant meadow, as of old she seemed to glide—
She whose troth with mine was plighted when we wandered side by side.

Where the wanton winds of summer stirred the maple's leafy crown,
Or the gusty breath of Autumn shook the rugged walnuts down.

But between me and my vision rise the graves upon the hill
Where my comrades lie together, and the winds are hushed and still.

They to whom the lark's blithe carol, and the songs of love are dead;
Vain to them the white encampment of the crocus o'er their head;

And my cheek is flushed with crimson—better that a stranger's hand
Guide the coulter in the furrow, if mine own shall wield the brand!

What to me the rattling walnuts in Love's consecrated shade,
Who have heard the bullets dropping in the dusky ambuscade?

372

What to me if greenly flourish newer life within the wood,
If the baby leaves are nourished in the dew of brothers' blood?

Blithely lift your tuneful voices, blithely sing and merrily
Chant your marriage morning pæans, O ye birds, but not for me!

Till the Nation's dreary winter shall have passed, and time shall bring
Through the Autumn's smoke of battle glimpses of the Nation's Spring;

Till a people's benediction mingle with the songs above,
That shall hail the glad espousals of a long estrangèd love;

Then a symbol of that Union shall my darling fitly wear,
Hickory leaves and orange blossoms wreathed together in her hair.

SCHEMMELFENNIG

[_]

[General Alexander Schemmelfennig commanded the forces that first entered Charleston upon its evacuation by the Confederates in 1865.]

Brave Teuton, though thy awful name
Is one no common rhyme can mimic,
Though in despair the trump of Fame
Evades thy painful patronymic—
Though orators forego thy praise,
And timid bards by tongue or pen ig-
Nore thee—thus alone I raise
Thy name in song, my Schemmelfennig!

What though no hecatombs may swell
With mangled forms thy path victorious;

373

Though Charleston to thee bloodless fell,
Wert thou less valiant or less glorious?
Thou took'st tobacco—cotton—grain—
And slaves—they say a hundred and ten nig-
Gers were captives in thy train
And swelled thy pomp, my Schemmelfennig!

Let Asboth mourn his name unsung,
And Schurz his still unwritten story;
Let Blenker grieve the silent tongue,
And Zagonyi forego his glory;
Ye are but paltry farthing lamps,
Your lights the fickle marsh or fen ig-
Nus fatuus of Southern swamps,
Beside the sun of Schemmelfennig!

THE VENDUE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS

THE CAUSE

Of all the tyrants whose actions swell
The pages of history, and tell
How well they fought, and how brave they fell
In battle assault or siege, pell-mell,
Or blew up their foes and themselves as well,
By way of a general ridding,
Commend us to Jefferson D. who spread
On the “outer wall” a flag of red,
And called to an auction sale instead
The wretches who did his bidding.

And yet, so fickle's the human mind,
In fact or fiction you'll always find

374

The popular taste is most inclined
To the traitor that 's most consistent,
And the standard drama declares the fact
That he ought to die with his weapon hack't,
Or fall on his sword in the final act,
As Brutus once did in his tent.

Laugh at the principle if you will,
One feels a kind of indefinite thrill
For the hunted pirate who cowers still
O'er his magazine with an iron will
And a pistol cocked and loaded,
And knows that capture will bring the flash,
The swift upheaval, and awful crash,
The blinding smoke, and the sullen splash,
But never dreamed of selling for cash,
As certain people we know did;
Alas! that the theory and the rash
Example are both exploded.

No doubt that Samson essayed to crown
In some such manner his life's renown
In that final act which they say brought down
The house on his last appearance;
Or, if further illustrations you lack,
I 've been keeping the scorpion figure back,
Who, girdled with fire, is never slack
In effecting his mortal clearance.

But there are skeptical folk who doubt
If Jefferson Davis really sold out,
On the eve of his final defeat and rout,
Such trifles as pots and kettles;
Or ever his proud soul stooped so low,
While girding his loins for a final blow,

375

To lend himself to a Yankee show,
Whose very detail belittles,
And call the tale a canard—as near
What really is genuine and sincere
As the duck of Vaucauson might appear
To the one that digests its victuals.

But ah! the poet, whose prophet eyes
Can look through the battle-clouds that rise,
Sees not the traders who sacrifice
Such homely trifles as housewives prize,
But a symbol of something greater—
The selling out of a mansion built
On the soil where a Nation's blood is spilt,
With Fate for an auctioneer, and Guilt
Close by, an amazed spectator.

To such there comes a terrible awe,
To think that the people who gathered saw
The mighty arm of some Northern Thor
Uplifting the auction hammer,
And knocking down with each terrible blow
Some things that the catalogue did n't show,
In words that the reader will find below
Mixed up with the vendor's clamor:

THE SALE

“Going, gentlemen!—going, gone!
The entire furniture, slightly worn,
And the family portraits these walls adorn,
Well worthy of any man's—hanging;
And some English carpets as good as new,
A little down-trodden, but then they'll do

376

If you let Grant shake 'em and put 'em through
The usual beating and banging!

“Who bids for a genealogical tree—
A beautiful piece of embroidery,
A very first family's pedigree?
What a chance for our youthful scions!
Who bids? As the article 's useless now
I'll take—‘five dollars!’—too bad, I vow!
Well, put it in greenbacks! What name? eh, how?
Ah, beg your pardon!—‘Lord Lyons!’

“A family Bible I offer next,
Which opens itself at a certain text
About Onesimus that once vext
The church as a casus belli;
And all those passages stricken out
Which provoke research in this age of doubt:
How much?—Ah, thank you?—'t is yours, my stout
Old Cardinal—Antonelli!

“Now here 's an article one might skip,
But the lot goes together—a driver's whip,
And, barring some stains on the thong and tip,
It 's still in complete preservation:
Who bids? where 's the man who 's afraid to speak loud?
What, you, little white-coat, just back in the crowd,
With the yellow mustachios and bearing so proud!
Going, gone!—to the Austrian Legation!

“Going, gentlemen—going, gone!
The household gods of a man forlorn,
For the benefit of the wives that mourn,
And of children's children, yet unborn,
And of bonds that none shall sever;

377

The house, and all that the house contains,
The wandering ghosts and their vengeful manes,
The naked walls and their blots and stains,
And even the title that now obtains
With an U. S. Grant forever!”

IN MEMORIAM

JEFFERSON DAVIS

Repudiator, Speculator, Dictator;
Who enjoyed the distinction of being the first
And last
President of the Southern Confederacy.
A Christian and Chivalrous Gentleman,
He starved Union Captives in his Prisons,
And sanctioned the Massacre of Fort Pillow.
But his manners were courtly and elegant,
And his State papers models of excellence.
He was remarkable for his executive wisdom:
To provide material for his forces,
He ordered corn to be planted instead of cotton,
Which enabled Sherman to march through Georgia.
He perpetuated a Slave Empire,
Whose bondsmen were guides to the Union Armies.
Consistent in his inconsistencies,
He connived at the assassination of the only man
Who could have saved him from the gallows.
The incarnation of dignity and heroism,
He was taken disguised in his wife's petticoats,
Claiming exemption from capture
On the grounds of his femininity.
As such, friends, respect his weakness,
And that of the few who still admire him.

378

THE LAMENT OF THE BALLAD-WRITER

Air: “Just Before the Battle, Mother”

Now the battle's over, Mother,
And your tears no longer start,
Really, it is my opinion
You and I had better part.
Farewell, Mother, if forever,
Your affection I resign,
Gone the days when just your blessing
Brought me fifty cents a line.

Farewell, O Maternal Fiction!
Thou whose far-parental sigh
Home has brought the youthful soldier,
Time and time again to die.
Farewell, Mother, you may never
In the future, peaceful years,
Bring a sob from private boxes—
Steep a dress-circle in tears.

Farewell, O thou gentle sister!
Thou, who in my cunning hand,
Didst deliver pious sermons,
Mild, innocuous, and bland;
Never more from thee I'll borrow
Moral sentiments to preach,
Nor shall “morrow” rhyme with “sorrow”
In thy bitter parting speech.

Farewell, O devoted Maiden!
Thou who for the country, true,
Sacrificed not only lover
But thy Lindley Murray, too;

379

Incoherent was my logic,
Wild and vague thy words I fear,
Yet the pit would still encore thee,
And the galleries would cheer.

Farewell, all ye facile phrases,
Gags and sentimental cant!
Names that took the place of ideas—
Sherman, Sheridan, and Grant;
Gone the days when schoolboy jingles
Took the place of manly talk,
When the “thought that breathed” was puffy,
And the word that burned—burnt cork.

Just before the battle, Mother,
Then my cheapest figure told;
While the rebel stood before us,
Then my glitter looked like gold.
Now this “cruel war is over,”
All inflated thought must fall;
Mother, dear, your boy must henceforth
Write sound sense, or not at all.

A THANKSGIVING RETROSPECT

Well! Charge your glasses!—Softly, friends,
The toast we drink to-night:
“The vacant chair,” that holds the post
Of honor on our right.
“The vacant chair”—why now so grave
Your looks once bright with love?
What though our circle narrows here,
It widens still above.

380

We drink to him who joins the host
That left our hearth before—
Dear hands that once have clasped our own
Shall touch his on that shore;
The grandsire whose unflinching soul
Went up from Concord fight,
Shall welcome him whose youthful arm
Last year struck home for Right!

That though he lived where barren hills
Were white with winter snows,
Where man through stubborn toil alone
To higher nature rose:
He sleeps where never click of hail
Or ice their changes ring,
But consonants of Winter yield
To open-vowels of Spring.

Above him drifts the cotton-bloom
Knee-deep above his grave;
The shroud that veils his southern bed
The north-wind never gave.
His sable mourners tread a shore
Enfranchised from their toil—
Thank God! (through valor such as his)
Our own—no foreign soil!

Then charge your glasses full, and pour
A stream as red and free
As that which from his youthful veins
Was poured for Liberty.
To-night no sorrow drown our thanks—
To-morrow tears may fall
For him who fills the vacant chair,
Yet sleeps near Tybee's wall.

381

LATER POEMS

1871–1902

383

CHICAGO

(THE GREAT CONFLAGRATION OF OCTOBER 8–10, 1871)

Blackened and bleeding, helpless, panting, prone,
On the charred fragments of her shattered throne
Lies she who stood but yesterday alone.

Queen of the West! by some enchanter taught
To lift the glory of Aladdin's court,
Then lose the spell that all that wonder wrought.

Like her own prairies by some chance seed sown,
Like her own prairies in one brief day grown,
Like her own prairies in one fierce night mown.

She lifts her voice, and in her pleading call
We hear the cry of Macedon to Paul—
The cry for help that makes her kin to all.

But haply with wan fingers may she feel
The silver cup hid in the proffered meal—
The gifts her kinship and our loves reveal.

BILL MASON'S BRIDE

Half an hour till train time, sir,
An' a fearful dark time, too;
Take a look at the switch lights, Tom,
Fetch in a stick when you 're through.

384

“On time?” well, yes, I guess so—
Left the last station all right—
She'll come round the curve a-flyin';
Bill Mason comes up to-night.

You know Bill? No! He 's engineer,
Been on the road all his life—
I'll never forget the mornin'
He married his chuck of a wife.
'T was the summer the mill hands struck—
Just off work, every one;
They kicked up a row in the village
And killed old Donovan's son.

Bill had n't been married mor'n an hour,
Up comes a message from Kress,
Orderin' Bill to go up there,
And bring down the night express.
He left his gal in a hurry,
And went up on number one,
Thinking of nothing but Mary,
And the train he had to run.

And Mary sat down by the window
To wait for the night express;
And, sir, if she had n't, 'a' done so,
She 'd been a widow, I guess.
For it must 'a' been nigh midnight
When the mill hands left the Ridge—
They come down—the drunken devils!—
Tore up a rail from the bridge.
But Mary heard 'em a-workin'
And guessed there was somethin' wrong—
And in less than fifteen minutes,
Bill's train it would be along!

385

She could n't come here to tell us:
A mile—it would n't 'a' done—
So she jest grabbed up a lantern,
And made for the bridge alone.
Then down came the night express, sir,
And Bill was makin' her climb!
But Mary held the lantern,
A-swingin' it all the time.

Well! by Jove! Bill saw the signal,
And he stopped the night express,
And he found his Mary cryin'
On the track, in her weddin' dress;
Cryin' an' laughin' for joy, sir,
An' holdin' on to the light—
Hello! here 's the train—good-bye, sir,
Bill Mason 's on time to-night.

DEACON JONES'S EXPERIENCE

(ARKANSAS CONFERENCE) 1874

Ye're right when you lays it down, Parson,
Thet the flesh is weak and a snare;
And to keep yer plow in the furrow—
When yer cattle begins to rare—
Ain't no sure thing. And, between us,
The same may be said of prayer.

Why, I stood the jokes, on the river,
Of the boys, when the critters found
Thet I 'd jined the Church, and the snicker
Thet, maybe ye mind, went round,
The day I set down with the mourners,
In the old camp-meetin' ground!

386

I stood all that, and I reckon
I might at a pinch stood more—
For the boys, they represents Bael,
And I stands as the Rock of the Law;
And it seemed like a moral scrimmage,
In holdin' agin their jaw.

But thar 's crosses a Christian suffers,
As hez n't got that pretense—
Things with no moral purpose,
Things ez hez got no sense;
Things ez, somehow, no profit
Will cover their first expense.

Ez how! I was jest last evenin'
Addressin' the Throne of Grace,
And mother knelt in the corner,
And each of the boys in his place—
When that sneakin' pup of Keziah's
To Jonathan's cat giv chase!

I never let on to mind 'em,
I never let on to hear;
But driv that prayer down the furrow
With the cat hidin' under my cheer,
And Keziah a-whisperin', “Sic her!”
And mother a-sayin', “You dare!”

I asked fer a light fer the heathen,
To guide on his narrer track,
With that dog and that cat jest walzin',
And Jonathan's face jest black,
When the pup made a rush and the kitten—
Dropped down on the small of my back.

387

Yes, I think, with the Lud's assistance,
I might have continered then,
If, gettin' her holt, that kitten
Hed n't dropped her claws in me—when
It somehow reached the “Old Adam,”
And I jumped to my feet with “Amen.”

So, ye 're right when you say it, Parson,
Thet the flesh is weak and a snare;
And to keep yer plow in the furrow—
When yer cattle begins to rare—
Ain't no sure thing. And, between us,
I say it 's jest so with prayer.

THE MAY QUEEN

(ADAPTED TO A BACKWARD SEASON)

If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
And see that my room is warm, mother, and the fire is burning clear;
And tallow my nose once more, mother, once more ere you go away,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

It froze so hard last night, mother, that really I could n't break
The ice in my little pitcher, mother, till I thought the poker to take;
You'll find it there on the hearth, mother—but oh, let that hot brick stay,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

388

I shall put on my aqua scutem outside of my sealskin coat,
And two or three yards of flannel, dear, will go around my throat;
And you'll see that the boneset-tea, mother, is drawn while your child 's away,
For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May.

Little Effie shall go with me, if her nose is fit to be seen;
And you shall be there, too, dear mother, to see me made the Queen,
Provided the doctor'll let you; and, if it don't rain instead,
Little Johnny is to take me a part of the way on his sled.

So, if you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For to-morrow may be the chilliest day of all the glad New-Year;
For to-day is the thirtieth, mother, and bless'd if your child can say
If she ain't an April Fool, mother, instead of a Queen o' the May.

OF WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT

DEAD AT PITTSFIELD, MASSACHUSETTS, 1876

O Poor Romancer,—thou whose printed page,
Filled with rude speech and ruder forms of strife,
Was given to heroes in whose vulgar rage
No trace appears of gentler ways and life!—

Thou, who wast wont of commoner clay to build
Some rough Achilles or some Ajax tall;
Thou, whose free brush too oft was wont to gild
Some single virtue till it dazzled all;—

389

What right hast thou beside this laureled bier
Whereon all manhood lies—whereon the wreath
Of Harvard rests, the civic crown, and here
The starry flag, and sword and jeweled sheath?

Seest thou these hatchments? Knowest thou this blood
Nourished the heroes of Colonial days;—
Sent to the dim and savage-haunted wood
Those sad-eyed Puritans with hymns of praise?

Look round thee! Everywhere is classic ground.
There Greylock rears. Beside yon silver “Bowl”
Great Hawthorne dwelt, and in its mirror found
Those quaint, strange shapes that filled his poet's soul.

Still silent, Stranger? Thou, who now and then
Touched the too credulous ear with pathos, canst not speak?
Hast lost thy ready skill of tongue and pen?
What, Jester! Tears upon that painted cheek?

Pardon, good friends! I am not here to mar
His laureled wreaths with this poor tinseled crown,—
This man who taught me how 't was better far
To be the poem than to write it down.

I bring no lesson. Well have others preached
This sword that dealt full many a gallant blow;
I come once more to touch the hand that reached
Its knightly gauntlet to the vanquished foe.

O pale Aristocrat, that liest there,
So cold, so silent! Couldst thou not in grace
Have borne with us still longer, and so spare
The scorn we see in that proud, placid face?

390

“Hail and farewell!” So the proud Roman cried
O'er his dead hero. “Hail,” but not “farewell.”
With each high thought thou walkest side by side;
We feel thee, touch thee, know who wrought the spell!

THE WANDERINGS OF ULYSSES

AS REPORTED BY MARY JONES, MAID TO MRS. GRANT

We're here, dear, and what with our glories
And honor, you'll know by that sign
Why we have n't met Mrs. Sartoris
And I have n't written a line;
Why, what with Dukes giving receptions,
And going in state to Guildhall,
You ain't got the faintest conceptions
Of what we are doing at all!

I 've just took the card of a Countess,
I 've said “Not-at-home” to an Earl;
As for Viscounts and Lords the amount is
Too absurd. Why there is n't a girl
In Galena who would n't be hating
Your friend Mary Jones, who now writes,
While behind her this moment, in waiting,
Stands the gorgeousest critter in tights.

He 's the valet of Viscount Fitz Doosem;
He wears eppylets and all that;
Has an awful nosegay in his bosom;
His legs are uncommonly fat.
He called our Ulysses “My Master,”
Just think of it!—but I stopped that.
He tried to be halfway familiar,
But I busted the crown of his hat!

391

We're to dine out at Windsor on Friday;
We take tea with the Princess next week;
Of course I shall make myself tidy
And fix myself up, so to speak.
“I presume I'm addressing the daughter
Of America's late President?”
Said a Duke to me last night; you oughter
Have seen how he stammered and—went.

The fact is the “help” of this city
Ain't got no style, nohow; why, dear,
Though I should n't say it, I pity
These Grants, for they do act so queer.
Why, Grant smoked and drinked with a Marshal,
Like a Senator, and Missus G.,
Well!—though I'm inclined to be partial,
She yawned through a royal levee.

Why, only last night, at a supper,
He sat there so simple and still,
That, had I the pen of a—Tupper,
I could n't express my shame—till
An Earl, he rose up and says, winking,
“You 're recalling your battles, no doubt?”
Says Ulysses, “I only was thinking
Of the Stanislaus and the dug-out.

“And the scow that I ran at Knight's Ferry,
And the tolls that I once used to take.”
Imagine it, dear! Them 's the very
Expression he used. Why, I quake
As I think of it—till a great Duchess
Holds out her white hand and says “shake”;
Or words of that meaning; for such is
Them English to folks whom they take.

392

There 's dear Mr. Pierrepont; yet think, love,
In spite of his arms and his crest,
And his liveries—all he may prink, love,
Don't bring him no nearer the best;
For they 're tired of shamming and that thing
They 've had for some eight hundred year,
And really perhaps it 's a blessing
These Grants are uncommonly queer.

As for me, dear,—don't let it go further,—
But—umph!—there 's the son of a peer
Who 's waiting for me till his father
Shall give him a thousand a year;
Tha castle we'll live in, as I know,
Is the size of the White House, my dear,
And you'll just tell them folks from Ohio
That I think we will settle down here.

THAT EBREW JEW

There once was a tradesman renowned as a screw
Who sold pins and needles and calicoes too,
Till he built up a fortune—the which as it grew
Just ruined small traders the whole city through—
Yet one thing he knew,
Between me and you,
There was a distinction
'Twixt Christian and Jew.

Till he died in his mansion—a great millionaire—
The owner of thousands; but nothing to spare
For the needy and poor who from hunger might drop,
And only a pittance to clerks in his shop.

393

But left it all to
A Lawyer, who knew
A subtile distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

This man was no trader, but simply a friend
Of this Gent who kept shop and who, nearing his end,
Handed over a million—'t was only his due,
Who discovered this contrast 'twixt Ebrew and Jew.
For he said, “If you view
This case as I do,
There is a distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

“For the Jew is a man who will make money through
His skill, his finesse, and his capital too,
And an Ebrew 's a man that we Gentiles can ‘do,’
So you see there 's a contrast 'twixt Ebrew and Jew.
Ebrew and Jew,
Jew and Ebrew,
There 's a subtile distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.”

So he kept up his business of needles and pins,
But always one day he atoned for his sins,
But never the same day (for that would n't do),
That the Jew faced his God with the awful Ebrew.
For this man he knew,
Between me and you,
There was a distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

So he sold soda-water and shut up the fount
Of a druggist whose creed was the Speech on the Mount;
And he trafficked in gaiters and ruined the trade
Of a German whose creed was by great Luther made.

394

But always he knew,
Between me and you,
A subtile distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

Then he kept a hotel—here his trouble began—
In a fashion unknown to his primitive plan;
For the rule of this house to his manager ran,
“Don't give entertainment to Israelite man.”
Yet the manager knew,
Between me and you,
No other distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

“You may give to John Morissey supper and wine,
And Madame N. N. to your care I'll resign;
You'll see that those Jenkins from Missouri Flat
Are properly cared for; but recollect that
Never a Jew
Who 's not an Ebrew
Shall take up his lodgings
Here at the Grand U.

“You'll allow Miss McFlimsey her diamonds to wear;
You'll permit the Van Dams at the waiters to swear;
You'll allow Miss Décolleté to flirt on the stair;
But as to an Israelite—pray have a care;
For, between me and you,
Though the doctrine is new,
There 's a business distinction
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.”

Now, how shall we know? Prophet, tell us, pray do,
Where the line of the Hebrew fades into the Jew?
Shall we keep out Disraeli and take Rothschild in?
Or snub Meyerbeer and think Verdi a sin?

395

What shall we do?
O, give us a few
Points to distinguish
'Twixt Ebrew and Jew.

There was One—Heaven help us!—who died in man's place,
With thorns on his forehead, but Love in his face:
And when “foxes had holes” and birds in the air
Had their nests in the trees, there was no spot to spare
For this “King of the Jews.”
Did the Romans refuse
This right to the Ebrews
Or only to Jews?

THE LEGEND OF GLEN HEAD

(RELATED BY A CAUTIOUS OBSERVER)

They say—though I know not what value to place
On the strength of mere local report—
That this was her home—though the tax list gives space,
I observe, to no fact of the sort.

But here she would sit; on that wheel spin her flax,—
I here may remark that her hair
Was compared to that staple,—yet as to the facts
There is no witness willing to swear.

Yet here she would sit, by that window reserved
For her vines—like a “bower of bloom,”
You'll remark I am quoting—the fact I 've observed
Is that plants attract flies to the room.

The house and the window, the wheel and the flax
Are still in their status preserved,—

396

And yet, what conclusion to draw from these facts,
I regret I have never observed.

Her parents were lowly, her lover was poor;
In brief it appears their sole plea
For turning Fitz-William away from her door
Was that he was still poorer than she.

Yet why worldly wisdom was so cruel then,
And perfectly proper to-day,
I am quite at a loss to conceive,—but my pen
Is digressing. They drove him away.

Yon bracket supported the light she would trim
Each night to attract by its gleam,
Moth-like, her Fitz-William, who fondly would swim
To her side—seven miles and upstream.

I know not how great was the length of his limb
Or how strong was her love-taper's glow;
But it seems an uncommon long distance to swim
And the light of a candle to show.

When her parents would send her quite early to bed
She would place on yon bench with great care
A sandwich, instead of the crumbs that she fed,
To her other wild pets that came there.

One night—though the date is not given, in view
Of the fact that no inquest was found—
A corpse was discovered—Fitz-William's?—a few
Have alleged—drifting out on the Sound.

At the news she fell speechless, and, day after day,
She sank without protest or moan;

397

Till at last, like a foam-flake, she melted away—
So 't is said, for her grave is unknown.

Twenty years from that day to the village again
Came a mariner portly and gray,
Who was married at Hempstead—the record is plain
Of the justice—on that fatal day.

He hired the house, and regretted the fate
Of the parties whose legend I 've told.
He made some repairs,—for 't is proper to state
That the house was exceedingly old.

His name was McCorkle—now, while there is naught
To suggest of Fitz-William in that,
You'll remember, if living, our Fitz-William ought
To have grown somewhat grayer and fat.

But this is conjecture. The fact still remains
Of the vines and the flax as before.
And knowing your weakness I 've taken some pains
To present them, my love, nothing more.

“KITTY HAWK”

A MARINE DIALOGUE

[_]

[Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, a small settlement and signal station, was, in November, 1877, the scene of the wreck of the United States man-of-war Huron, and the loss of almost all the crew. The fact that apparently no effort was made at rescue, and the finding for many miles along the shore of the bodies stripped of all valuables, led to considerable comment.]

Poet
Kitty

POET

Where the seas worn out with chasing, at thy white feet sink embracing, thou still sittest, coldly facing,
Kitty Hawk!

398

Facing, gazing seaward ever, on each weak or strong endeavor, but in grief, or pity, never,
Kitty Hawk!

Eagles, sea-gulls round thee flying, land birds spent with speed and dying, even Man to thee outcrying,
Kitty Hawk!

All thou seest, all thou hearest, yet thou carest naught nor fearest, flesh nor fowl to thee is dearest,
Kitty Hawk!

Art thou human? art thou woman? art thou dead to love and to man more than all relentless, ever?
Kitty Hawk!

Hast thou wrongs to right, O Kitty? wrongs that move the soul to pity? tell to me thy mournful ditty,
Kitty Hawk!

Tell me all! how some false lover, vagrant ship-boy, sailor rover, left, bereft thee, threw thee over,
Kitty Hawk!

For some Antipodean savage, left thy rage the shore to ravage (with a faint idea of salvage),
Kitty Hawk!

How thy vague but tragic story clothes the sandy promontory, calls in accents monitory,
Kitty Hawk!

How thy feline appellation, in accipitrine combination, most befits a rhymed narration,
Kitty Hawk!

399

KITTY

Festive tramp! around me prying—man with hair unkempt and flying—youth with neck and head retractile,
Like a clam.

Draw within thy soft inclosure, stop this cerebral exposure, for that 's not the kind of hairpin
That I am.

If you're me apostrophizing, with this attitudinizing, prithee, hasten your uprising,
And in time,

On this beach, which is the Station's, leave some certain indentations—“footprints” for some sailing brother,
Who might rhyme!

For my name is Jane Maria, and my father, Kezuriah, though he greatly might admire,
All your talk,

As one of the town officials, might prefer that his initials should appear, just as he writes them—
K. T. Hawk.

MISS EDITH HELPS THINGS ALONG

“My sister'll be down in a minute, and says you're to wait, if you please,
And says I might stay till she came, if I 'd promise her never to tease.
Nor speak till you spoke to me first. But that 's nonsense, for how would you know
What she told me to say, if I did n't? Don't you really and truly think so?

400

“And then you 'd feel strange here alone! And you would n't know just where to sit;
For that chair is n't strong on its legs, and we never use it a bit.
We keep it to match with the sofa. But Jack says it would be like you
To flop yourself right down upon it and knock out the very last screw.

“S'pose you try? I won't tell. You're afraid to! Oh! you 're afraid they would think it was mean!
Well, then, there 's the album—that 's pretty, if you 're sure that your fingers are clean.
For sister says sometimes I daub it; but she only says that when she 's cross.
There 's her picture. You know it? It 's like her; but she ain't as good-looking, of course!

“This is me. It 's the best of 'em all. Now, tell me, you'd never have thought
That once I was little as that? It 's the only one that could be bought—
For that was the message to Pa from the photograph man where I sat—
That he would n't print off any more till he first got his money for that.

“What? Maybe you 're tired of waiting. Why, often she 's longer than this.
There 's all her back hair to do up and all of her front curls to friz.
But it 's nice to be sitting here talking like grown people, just you and me.
Do you think you'll be coming here often? Oh, do! But don't come like Tom Lee.

401

“Tom Lee. Her last beau. Why, my goodness! He used to be here day and night,
Till the folks thought that he 'd be her husband; and Jack says that gave him a fright.
You won't run away, then, as he did? for you 're not a rich man, they say.
Pa says you are as poor as a church mouse. Now, are you? And how poor are they?

“Ain't you glad that you met me? Well, I am; for I know now your hair is n't red.
But what there is left of it 's mousy, and not what that naughty Jack said.
But there! I must go. Sister 's coming. But I wish I could wait, just to see
If she ran up to you and she kissed you in the way that she used to kiss Lee.”

THE DEAD POLITICIAN

FIFTH WARD

“‘Who's dead?’ Ye want to know
Whose is this funeral show—
This A 1 corteg'?
Well, it was Jim Adair,
And the remains's hair
Sported a short edge!

“When a man dies like Jim,
There 's no expense of him
We boys are sparing.
In life he hated fuss,
But—as he 's left to us—
Them plumes he 's wearing!

402

“All the boys here, you see,
Chock full each carriage!
Only one woman. She—
Cousin by marriage.

“Who was this Jim Adair?
Who? Well, you 've got me there!
Reckon one of them 'air
Fogy ‘old res'dents!’
Who? Why, that corpse you see
Ridin' so peacefully,
Head o' this jamboree—
'Lected three Pres'dents!

“Who was he? Ask the boys
Who made the biggest noise,
Rynders or Jimmy?
Who, when his hat he 'd fling,
Knew how the ‘Ayes’ would ring,
Oh, no! not Jimmy!

“Who was he? Ask the Ward
Who hed the rules aboard,
All parliament'ry?
Who ran the delegate,
That ran the Empire State,
And—just as sure as fate—
Ran the whole 'kentry?

“Who was he? S'pose you try
That chap as wipes his eye
In that hack's corner.
Ask him—the only man
That agin Jimmy ran—
Now his chief mourner!

403

“Well—that 's the last o' Jim.
Yes, we was proud o' him.”

OLD TIME AND NEW

(Contributed to the first number of the Time Magazine, April, 1879)

How well we know that figure limned
On every almanac's first page,
The beard unshorn, the hair untrimmed,
The gaunt limbs bowed and bent with age;
That well-known glass with sands run out,
That scythe that he was wont to wield
With shriveled arm, which made us doubt
His power in Life's harvest field!

Ah, him we know! But who comes here
Pranked with the fashion of the town?
This springald, who in jest or jeer,
Tries on old Time's well-frosted crown!
Vain is his paint! Youth's freshest down
Through penciled wrinkles shows too soon
The bright mischievous face of Clown,
Beneath the mask of Pantaloon!

A doubtful jest, howe'er well played,
To mock the show of fleeting breath
With youth's light laugh, and masquerade
This gaunt stepbrother of grim Death!
Is this a moralist to teach
The equal fate of small and large?
Peace! Yet—one moment—yield him speech
Before we give the scamp in charge!

“I crave no grace from those who dream
Time only was, and from the past

404

Still draw the wisdom that they deem
Will only live and only last.
Time is not old, as all who 've tried
To kill or cheat him must attest;
And outward symbols cannot hide
The same firm pulse that stirs your breast.

“The old stock properties you preach
To truer symbols must pay tithe;
M'Cormick's reapers better teach
My truths than your old-fashioned scythe.
The racing ‘Timer's’ slender vane
That marks the quarter seconds pass,
Marks, too, its moral quite as plain
As e'er was drawn in sand through glass.

“So if I bring in comelier dress
And newer methods, things less new,
I claim that honored name still less
To be consistent than be true.
If mine be not the face that 's cast
In every almanac and rhyme,
Look through them—all that there will last
You 'll find within these leaves of ‘Time!’”

UNDER THE GUNS

Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill
Daisies are blossoming, buttercups fill;
Up the gray ramparts the scaling vine flings
High its green ladders, and falters and clings
Under the guns,
Under the guns,
Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill.

405

Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill
Once shook the earth with the cannonade's thrill,
Once trod these buttercups feet that, now still,
Lie all at rest in their trench by the mill.
Under the guns,
Under the guns,
Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill.

Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill
Equal the rain falls on good and on ill.
Soft lies the sunshine, still the brook runs,
Still toils the Husbandman—under the guns,
Under the guns,
Under the guns,
Under the guns of the Fort on the Hill.

Under the guns of Thy Fort on the Hill
Lord! in Thy mercy we wait on Thy will;
Lord! is it War that Thy wisdom best knows,
Lord! is it Peace, that Thy goodness still shows,
Under the guns,
Under the guns,
Under the guns of Thy Fort on the Hill?

COMPENSATION

The Poet sings on the plain,
The Trader toils in the mart,
One envies the other's gain,
One stares at the other's art.

Yet each one reaches his goal,
And the Critic sneers as they pass,
And each of the three in his soul
Believes the other an ass.

406

OUR LAUREATE

[_]

(Contributed to the Holmes number of the Critic, issued on the twenty-ninth of August, 1884—the seventy-fifth anniversary of the birth of Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes.)

One day from groves of pine and palm,
The poets of the sky and cover
Had come to greet with song and psalm
The whip-poor-will—their woodland lover.
All sang their best, but one clear note
That fairly voiced their admiration
Was his—who only sang by rote—
The mock-bird's modest imitation.

So we, who 'd praise the bard who most
Is poet of each high occasion,
Who 'd laud our laureate, and toast
The blithe Toast-Master of the Nation,—
To celebrate his fête to-day,
In vain each bard his praise rehearses:
The best that we can sing or say
Is but an echo of his verses.

SCOTCH LINES TO A. S. B.

(FROM AN UNINTELLIGENT FOREIGNER)

We twa hae heard the gowans sing,
Sae saft and dour, sae fresh and gey;
And paidlet in the brae, in Spring,
To scent the new-mown “Scots wha hae.”

407

But maist we loo'ed at e'en to chase
The pibroch through each wynd and close,
Or climb the burn to greet an' face
The skeendhus gangin' wi' their Joes.

How aft we said“Eh, Sirs!” and “Mon!”
Likewise “Whateffer”—apropos
Of nothing. And pinned faith upon
“Aiblins”—though why we didna know.

We 've heard nae mon say “gowd” for “gold,”
And yet wi' all our tongues up-curled,
We—like the British drum-beat—rolled
Our “R's” round all the speaking worruld.

How like true Scots we didna care
A bawbee for the present tense,
But said “we will be” when we were,
'T was bonny—but it wasna sense.

And yet, “ma frien” and “trusty frere,”
We'll take a right gude “Willie Waught”
(Tho' what that may be is not clear,
Nor where it can be made or bought).

THE ENOCH OF CALAVERAS

Well, dog my cats! Say, stranger,
You must have traveled far!
Just flood your lower level
And light a fresh cigar.
Don't tell me in this weather,
You hoofed it all the way?
Well, slice my liver lengthways!
Why, stranger, what 's to pay?

408

Huntin' yer wife, you tell me;
Well, now, dog-gone my skin!
She thought you dead and buried,
And then bestowed her fin
Upon another fellow!
Just put it there, old pard!
Some fellows strike the soft things,
But you have hit it hard.

I'm right onto your feelin's,
I know how it would be,
If my own shrub slopped over
And got away from me.
Say, stranger, that old sage hen,
That 's cookin' thar inside,
Is warranted the finest wool,
And just a square yard wide.

I would n't hurt yer, pardner,
But I tell you, no man
Was ever blessed as I am
With that old pelican.
It 's goin' on some two year
Since she was j'ined to me,
She was a widder prior,
Her name was Sophy Lee—

Good God! old man, what's happened?
Her? She? Is that the one?
That 's her? Your wife, you tell me?
Now reach down for yer gun.
I never injured no man,
And no man me, but squealed,
And any one who takes her
Must do it d---d well heeled!

409

Listen? Surely. Certainly
I'll let you look at her.
Peek through the door, she 's in thar,
Is that your furnitur'?
Speak, man, quick! You 're mistaken!
No! Yours! You recognize
My wife, your wife, the same one?
The man who says so, lies!

Don't mind what I say, pardner,
I'm not much on the gush,
But the thing comes down on me
Like fours upon a flush.
If that 's your wife—hold—steady!
That bottle, now my coat,
She'll think me dead as you were.
My pipe. Thar. I'm afloat.

But let me leave a message.
No; tell her that I died:
No, no; not that way, either,
Just tell her that I cried.
It don't rain much. Now, pardner,
Be to her what I 've been,
Or, by the God that hates you,
You'll see me back again!

“FREE SILVER AT ANGEL'S”

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James,
I have told the tale of “William” and of “Ah Sin's” sinful games;

410

I have yarned of “Our Society,” and certain gents I know,
Yet my words were plain and simple, and I never yet was low.

Thar is high-toned gents, ink-slingers; thar is folks as will allow
Ye can't reel off a story onless they 've taught ye how;
Till they get the word they're wantin', they're allus cryin' “Whoa!”
All the while their mule is pullin' (that 's their “Pegasus,” you know).

We ain't built that way at Angel's—but why pursue this theme?
When things is whirling round us in a wild delusive dream;
When “fads” on “bikes” go scorchin' down—to t'other place you know
(For I speak in simple language—and I never yet was low).

It was rainin' up at Angel's—we war sittin' round the bar,
Discussin' of “Free Silver” that was “going soon to par,”
And Ah Sin stood thar a-listenin' like a simple guileless child,
That hears the Angels singin'—so dreamy like he smiled.

But we knew while he was standin' thar—of all that heathen heard
And saw—he never understood a single blessed word;
Till Brown of Calaveras, who had waltzed up on his bike,
Sez: “What is your opinion, John, that this Free Silver 's like?”

But Ah Sin said, “No shabbee,” in his childish, simple way,
And Brown he tipped a wink at us and then he had his say:

411

He demonstrated then and thar how silver was as good
As gold—if folks war n't blasted fools, and only understood!

He showed how we “were crucified upon a cross of gold”
By millionaires, and banged his fist, until our blood ran cold.
He was a most convincin' man—was Brown in all his ways,
And his skill with a revolver, folks had oft remarked with praise.

He showed us how the ratio should be as “sixteen to one,”
And he sorted out some dollars—while the boys enjoyed the fun—
And laid them on the counter—and heaped 'em in a pile,
While Ah Sin, he drew nearer with his happy, pensive smile.

“The heathen in his blindness bows down to wood and stone,”
Said Brown, “but this poor heathen won't bow to gold alone;
So speak, my poor Mongolian, and show us your idee
Of what we call ‘Free Silver’ and what is meant by ‘Free.’”

Swift was the smile that stole across that heathen's face! I grieve
That swifter was the hand that swept those dollars up his sleeve.
“Me shabbee ‘Silvel’ allee same as Mellican man,” says he;
“Me shabbee ‘Flee’ means ‘B'longs to none,’ so Chinaman catch he!”

412

Now, childlike as his logic was, it did n't justify
The way the whole crowd went for him without a reason why;
And the language Brown made use of I shall not attempt to show,
For my words are plain and simple—and I never yet was low.

Then Abner Dean called “Order!” and he said “that it would seem
The gentleman from China's deductions were extreme;
I move that we should teach him, in a manner that shall strike,
The ‘bi-metallic balance’ on Mr. Brown's new bike!”

Now Dean was scientific,—but was sinful, too, and gay,—
And I hold it most improper for a gent to act that way,
And having muddled Ah Sin's brains with that same silver craze,
To set him on a bicycle—and he not know its ways

They set him on and set him off; it surely seemed a sin
To see him waltz from left to right, and wobble out an in,
Till his pigtail caught within the wheel and wound up round its rim,
And that bicycle got up and reared—and then crawled over him.

“My poor Mongolian friend,” said Dean, “it 's plain that in your case
Your centre point of gravity don't fall within your base.
We'll tie the silver in a bag and hang it from your queue,
And then—by scientific law—you'll keep your balance true!”

413

They tied that silver to his queue, and it hung down behind,
But always straight, no matter which the side Ah Sin inclined—
For though a sinful sort of man—and lightsome, too, I ween—
He was no slouch in Science—was Mister Abner Dean!

And here I would remark how vain are all deceitful tricks,—
The boomerang we throw comes back to give us its last licks,—
And that same weight on Ah Sin's queue set him up straight and plumb,
And he scooted past us down the grade and left us cold and dumb!

“Come back! Come back!” we called at last. We heard a shriek of glee,
And something sounding strangely like “All litee! Silvel 's flee!”
And saw his feet tucked on the wheel—the bike go all alone!
And break the biggest record Angel's Camp had ever known!

He raised the hill without a spill, and still his speed maintained,
For why?—he traveled on the sheer momentum he had gained,
And vanished like a meteor—with his queue stretched in the gale,
Or I might say a Comet—takin' in that silver tail!

But not again we saw his face—nor Brown his “Silver Free”!
And I marvel in my simple mind howe'er these things can be!

414

But I do not reproduce the speech of Brown who saw him go,
For my words are pure and simple—and I never yet was low!

“HASTA MAÑANA”

When all's in bud, and the leaf still unfolding,
When there are ruby points still on the spray,
When that prim school gown your charms are withholding,
Then, Manuela, child, well may you say:
“Hasta Mañana! Hasta Mañana!
Until to-morrow—amigo, alway.”

When, Manuela, white, crimson, and yellow,
Peep through green sepals the roses of May,
And through black laces the bloom of your face is
Fresh as those roses, child, still you may say:
Through your mantilla—coy Manuela!
“Hasta Mañana, amigo, alway.”

When all 's in bloom, and the rose in its passion
Warmed on your bosom would never say nay,
Still it is wise—in your own country fashion—
Under your opening fan, only to say:
“Hasta Mañana! Hasta Mañana!
Until to-morrow, amigo, alway.”

When all is gray and the roses are scattered,
Hearts may have broken that brook no delay,
Yet will to-morrow, surcease of sorrow
Bring unto eyes and lips that still can say:
“Hasta Mañana! Hasta Mañana!
Until to-morrow is best for to-day!”

415

Phrase of Castilian lands! Speech, that in languor
Softly procrastinates, for “aye” or “nay,”
From Seville's orange groves to remote Yanguea,
Best heard on rosy lips—let thy words say:
“Hasta Mañana! Hasta Mañana!
Until to-morrow, amigo, alway!”

LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON

When I bought you for a song,
Years ago—Lord knows how long!—
I was struck—I may be wrong—
By your features,
And—a something in your air
That I could n't quite compare
To my other plain or fair
Fellow-creatures.

In your simple, oval frame
You were not well known to fame,
But to me—'t was all the same—
Whoe'er drew you;
For your face I can't forget,
Though I oftentimes regret
That, somehow, I never yet
Saw quite through you.

Yet each morning, when I rise,
I go first to greet your eyes;
And, in turn, you scrutinize
My presentment.
And when shades of evening fall,
As you hang upon my wall,
You 're the last thing I recall
With contentment.

416

It is weakness, yet I know
That I never turned to go
Anywhere, for weal or woe,
But I lingered
For one parting, thrilling flash
From your eyes, to give that dash
To the curl of my mustache,
That I fingered.

If to some you may seem plain,
And when people glance again
Where you hang, their lips refrain
From confession;
Yet they turn in stealth aside,
And I note, they try to hide
How much they are satisfied
In expression.

Other faces I have seen;
Other forms have come between;
Other things I have, I ween,
Done and dared for!
But our ties they cannot sever,
And, though I should say it never,
You 're the only one I ever
Really cared for!

And you'll still be hanging there
When we 're both the worse for wear,
And the silver 's on my hair
And off your backing;
Yet my faith shall never pass
In my dear old shaving-glass,
Till my face and yours, alas!
Both are lacking!

417

THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER

Did I ever tell you, my dears, the way
That the birds of Cisseter—“Cisseter!” eh?
Well “Ciren-cester”—one ought to say,
From “Castra,” or “Caster,”
As your Latin master.
Will further explain to you some day;
Though even the wisest err,
And Shakespeare writes “Ci-cester,”
While every visitor
Who does n't say “Cisseter”
Is in “Ciren-cester” considered astray.

A hundred miles from London town—
Where the river goes curving and broadening down
From tree-top to spire, and spire to mast,
Till it tumbles outright in the Channel at last—
A hundred miles from that flat foreshore
That the Danes and the Northmen haunt no more—
There 's a little cup in the Cotswold Hills
Which a spring in a meadow bubbles and fills,
Spanned by a heron's wing—crossed by a stride—
Calm and untroubled by dreams of pride,
Guiltless of fame or ambition's aims,
That is the source of the lordly Thames!
Remark here again that custom condemns
Both “Thames” and Thamis—you must say “Tems”!
But why? no matter!—from them you can see
Cirencester's tall spires loom up o'er the lea.

A. D. Five Hundred and Fifty-two,
The Saxon invaders—a terrible crew—
Had forced the lines of the Britons through;

418

And Cirencester—half mud and thatch,
Dry and crisp as a tinder match,
Was fiercely beleaguered by foes, who 'd catch
At any device that could harry and rout
The folk that so boldly were holding out.

For the streets of the town—as you'll see to-day—
Were twisted and curved in a curious way
That kept the invaders still at bay;
And the longest bolt that a Saxon drew
Was stopped, ere a dozen of yards it flew,
By a turn in the street, and a law so true
That even these robbers—of all laws scorners!—
Knew you could n't shoot arrows around street corners.

So they sat them down on a little knoll,
And each man scratched his Saxon poll,
And stared at the sky, where, clear and high,
The birds of that summer went singing by,
As if, in his glee, each motley jester
Were mocking the foes of Cirencester,
Till the jeering crow and the saucy linnet
Seemed all to be saying: “Ah! you 're not in it!”

High o'er their heads the mavis flew,
And the “ouzel-cock so black of hue”;
And the “throstle,” with his “note so true”
(You remember what Shakespeare says—he knew);
And the soaring lark, that kept dropping through
Like a bucket spilling in wells of blue;
And the merlin—seen on heraldic panes—
With legs as vague as the Queen of Spain's;
And the dashing swift that would ricochet
From the tufts of grasses before them, yet—

419

Like bold Antæus—would each time bring
New life from the earth, barely touched by his wing;
And the swallow and martlet that always knew
The straightest way home. Here a Saxon churl drew
His breath—tapped his forehead—an idea had got through!

So they brought them some nets, which straightway they filled
With the swallows and martlets—the sweet birds who build
In the houses of man—all that innocent guild
Who sing at their labor on eaves and in thatch—
And they stuck on their feathers a rude lighted match
Made of resin and tow. Then they let them all go
To be free! As a childlike diversion? Ah, no!
To work Cirencester's red ruin and woe.

For straight to each nest they flew, in wild quest
Of their homes and their fledglings—that they loved the best;
And straighter than arrow of Saxon e'er sped
They shot o'er the curving streets, high overhead,
Bringing fire and terror to roof-tree and bed,
Till the town broke in flame, wherever they came,
To the Briton's red ruin—the Saxon's red shame!

Yet they 're all gone together! To-day you'll dig up
From “mound” or from “barrow” some arrow or cup.
Their fame is forgotten—their story is ended—
'Neath the feet of the race they have mixed with and blended.
But the birds are unchanged—the ouzel-cock sings,
Still gold on his crest and still black on his wings;
And the lark chants on high, as he mounts to the sky,
Still brown in his coat and still dim in his eye;
While the swallow or martlet is still a free nester
In the eaves and the roofs of thrice-built Cirencester.

420

TRUTHFUL JAMES AND THE KLONDIKER

We woz sittin' free—like ez you and me—in our camp on the Stanislow,
Round a roarin' fire of bresh and brier, stirred up by a pitch-pine bough,
And Jones of Yolo had finished his solo on Bilson's prospectin' pan,
And we all woz gay until Jefferson Clay kem in with a Klondike man.

Now I most despise low language and lies, as I used to remark to Nye,
But the soul of Truth—though he was but a youth—looked out of that stranger's eye,
And the things he said I had frequent read in the papers down on “the Bay,”
And the words he choosed woz the kind wot 's used in the best theayter play.

He talked of snows, and of whiskey wot froze in the solidest kind of chunk,
Which it took just a pound to go fairly around when the boys had a first-class drunk,
And of pork that was drilled and with dynamite filled before it would yield to a blow,
For things will be strange when thermometers range to sixty degrees below.

How they made soup of boots—which the oldest best suits—and a “fry” from a dancin' shoe,
How in Yukon Valley a corpse de bally might get up a fine “menoo.”

421

But their regular fare when they'd nothin' to spare and had finished their final mule
Was the harness leather which with hides went together, though the last did n't count ez a rule.

Now all this seemed true, and quite nateral, too, and then he spoke of the gold,
And we all sot up, and refilled his cup, and this is the yarn he told:
There was gold in heaps—but it 's there it keeps, and will keep till the Judgment Day,
For it's very rare that a man gets there—and the man that is there must stay!

It's a thousand miles by them Russian isles till you come onto “Fort Get There”
(Which the same you are not if you'll look at the spot on the map—that of gold is bare);
Then a river begins that the Amazon skins and the big Mississippi knocks out,
For it's seventy miles 'cross its mouth when it smiles, and—you 've only begun your route.

Here Bilson arose with a keerless-like pose and he gazed on that Klondike youth,
And he says: “Fair sir, do not think I infer that your words are not words of truth,
But I 'd simply ask why—since that all men must die—your sperrit is wanderin' here
When at Dawson City—the more's the pity—you 've been frozen up nigh a year.”

“You need not care, for I never was there,” said that simple Klondike man.

422

“I'm a company floater and business promoter, and this is my little plan:
I show you the dangers to which you are strangers, and now for a sum you'll learn
What price you expect us—as per this Prospectus—to insure your safe return.”

Then Bilson stared, and he almost r'ared, but he spoke in a calm-like tone:
“You'll excuse me for sayin' you 're rather delayin' your chance to insure your own!
For we're way worn and weary, your style isn't cheery, we 've had quite enough of your game.”
But—what did affect us—he took that Prospectus and chucked it right into the flame!

Then our roarin' fire of bresh and brier flashed up on the Stanislow,
And Jefferson Clay went softly away with that youth with a downcast brow,
And Jones of Yolo repeated his solo on that still, calm evening air,
And we thought with a shiver of Yukon River and the fort that was called “Get There!”

UNCLE JUBA

“Dar was a man in Florida, dey called him ‘Uncle Ju,’
De doctor found him proof agin all fevers dat dey knew;
De cholera bacillus he would brush away like flies,
And yaller fever microbes he would simply jess despise.
For he was such a bery seasoned nigger
Froo and froo—all froo,
Jess de acclimated, vaccinated figger
To do—to do.

423

When de sojer boys came marching, dey would shout,
‘Lordy! Here 's de man for Cuba—trot him out.
For even if he cannot pull a trigger
Just like you—like you,
He 's a seasoned and an acclimated figure,
Dat will do—will do.’

“De proudest man in Florida dat day was ‘Uncle Ju,’
When dey marched him off to Cuba wid de odder boys in blue;
He had a brand-new uniform, a red cross on his arm,
He said, ‘Don't mind me, darkies, I can't come to any harm,
For de surgeon dat inspected of my figger
When on view—on view,
Sez I'm just de kind of acclimated nigger
Dat 'ud do—would do.
I can tackle yaller fever all de day,
I'm de only man for Cuba what can stay,
For agin de bery worst kind of malaria
Dat dey knew—dey knew,
I'm an iron-plated, sheathed and belted area
Froo and froo—all froo.’

“Alas! for Ju, poor Uncle Ju, aldo' dar was no doubt
Dey passed him froo as fever proof, one ting dey had left out;
For while he took his rations straight, and odders died like flies,
Along o' dat 'er Yaller Jack and deadly Cuban skies,
And though such a bery highly seasoned nigger
Froo and froo—all froo,
And an acclimated, vaccinated figure
Just like new—like new,

424

One day a Spanish gunner sent a shell
Which skooted dat poor darkie off to dwell
Where de fever would send any odder nigger
Like you—like you,
For it flattened out dat acclimated figger
Ob old Ju—poor Ju.”

THE QUEEN'S DEATH

(ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN VICTORIA)

When your men bowed heads together
With hushed lips,
And the globe swung out from gladness
To eclipse;

When your drums from the equator
To the pole
Carried round it an unending
Funeral roll;

When your capitals from Norway
To the Cape
Through their streets and from their houses
Trailed their crape;

Still the sun awoke to gladness
As of old,
And the stars their midnight beauty
Still unrolled;

For the glory born of Goodness
Never dies,
And its flag is not half-masted
In the skies.

425

THE SWORD OF DON JOSÉ

(TOLD AT THE MISSION OF SAN LUIS REY, 1860)

Aye, look, there it hangs! You would think 'twas a cross
Fairly wrought of old iron. Yet, barring the loss
Of some twisted work here that once guarded the hand,
You might say 't was the hilt of some cavalier's brand;
As it is, of a truth! You are staring, Señor!
At this shrine, at this altar, where never before
Hung ex voto so strange; at these walls in decay,
All that stands of the Mission of San Luis Rey;
At these leagues of wild llano beyond, which still hoard
In their heart this poor shrine, and a cavalier's sword!

Yes! It hangs there to praise Holy Church and the spell
She once broke in her power and glory; as well
As that tough blade she snapped in its vengeance, just when—
But here is—Don Pancho!—a tale for your pen!

You accept. Then observe on the blade near its haft
The world-renowned stamp of that chief of his craft
In Toledo, Sebastian Hernandez. The date
You will note: sixteen hundred and seventy-eight!
That 's the year, so 't is said, when this story begins
And he fashioned that blade for our sorrows and sins.

From a baldric of Cordovan leather and steel
It trailed in its prime, at the insolent heel
Of Don José Ramirez, a Toledan knight,
Poor in all, so 't was said, but a stomach for fight.
And that blade, like himself, was so eager and keen
It would glide through a corselet and all else between;

426

And so supple 't would double from point to the hilt,
Yet pierce a cuirass like a lance in full tilt;
Till 'twixt Master and Sword, there was scarcely a day
That both were not drawn in some quarrel or fray.

Then Ruy Mendoza, a grandee of Spain,
Castellan of Toledo, was called to maintain
That such blades should be parted, but José replied,
“Come and try it!”—while Ruy let fall, on his side
Certain sneers which too free a translation might mar,
Such as “Ho! Espadachin!” and “Fanfarronear!”
Till Don José burst out that “the whole race abhorred,”
The line of Mendoza's should “fall by his sword.”

The oath of a braggart, you 'd say? Well, in truth,
So it seemed, for that oath wrought Ramirez but ruth;
And spite of the lightnings that leaped from his blade,
Here and there, everywhere, never point yet he made;
While the sword of Mendoza, pressing closely but true,
At the third and fourth pass ran the challenger through,
And he fell. But they say as the proud victor grasped
The sword of Ramirez, the dying man gasped,
And his white lips repeated the words of his boast:
“Ye—shall—fall—by—my—sword,” as he gave up the ghost.

“Retribution?” Quien sabe? The tale 's not yet done.
For a twelvemonth scarce passed since that victory won
And the sword of Don José hung up in the hall
Of Mendoza's own castle, a lesson for all
Who love brawls to consider, when one summer noon
Don Ruy came home just an hour too soon,
As some husbands will do when their wives prove untrue,
And discovered his own with a lover, who flew

427

From her bower through passage and hall in dismay,
With the Don in pursuit, but at last stood at bay
In the hall, where they closed in a deadly affray.

But here, runs the tale, when the lover's bright blade,
Engaging Don Ruy's, showed out “in parade,”
The latter drew back with a cry and a start
Which threw up his guard, and straightway through his heart
Passed the sword of his rival. He fell, but they say
He pointed one hand, as his soul was set free,
To the blade, and gasped out: “'T is his sword! Ay de mi!”
And 't was true! For the lover, unarmed in his flight,
Caught up the first weapon that chanced to his sight—
The sword on the wall, José's own fateful brand,
Not knowing the curse to be wrought by his hand.

So the first victim fell! When Don Luis, the heir
Of the luckless Don Ruy, in haste summoned there,
Heard the tale, he commanded the sword which had wrought
Such mischance to his race to be instantly brought,
And in presence of all smote the blade such a blow
'Cross the mail of his knee as should snap it; but, no;
For that well-tempered steel, from its point to its heel,
Was so supple, it bent in an arc like a wheel,
And recoiling, glanced up, to the horror of all,
Through the throat of the heir, in his dead father's hall!

Next of kin was a soldier, Ramon, who maintained
That by boldness alone was security gained,
And the curse would be naught to the man who dared trip
Through the rest of his life with that sword on his hip,
As he should. But, what would you? when he took the field,
His troop was surrounded; himself made to yield

428

And deliver his sword! You can fancy the rest
When you think of the curse. By the foe sorely pressed
In a fight, when released, he fell by that brand
Of the Spanish José, in some strange Flemish hand!

Then the sword disappeared, and with it, it seemed,
The race of Mendoza. No man ever dreamed
Of a curse lying perdu for centuries; when,
Some time in the year eighteen hundred and ten,
There died at the Pueblo of San Luis Rey
Comandante Mendoza, descended, they say,
From those proud hidalgos who brought in their hands
No sword, but the cross, to these far heathen lands,
And he left but one son, Agustin, to alone
Bear the curse of his race (though to him all unknown);
A studious youth, quite devout from a child,
With no trace of that sin his ancestors defiled.

You know the Pueblo? On its outskirts there stood
The casa new-built of El Capitan Wood
An American trader, who brought from the seas
Much wealth and the power to live at his ease.
And his casa was filled with the spoils of all climes
He had known; silks and china, rare goods of all times.
But notably first, 'midst queer idols and charms,
Was a rare and historical trophy of arms;
And supreme over all, hung the prize of that hoard,
An antique and genuine Toledan sword.

He had, too, a son, who was playmate and friend
To Agustin. Together, their joy was to spend
In this house of rare treasures their hours of play;
And here it so chanced that an unlucky day
The son of the host in adventurous zeal
Climbed the wall to examine that queer-looking steel

429

While Agustin looked on. A misstep! A wild cry!
And a clutch that tore loose that queer weapon on high,
And they both hurtled down on Agustin beneath
With his uplifted arms, and his breast a mere sheath
For the blade! When, thank God! (and all glory and praise
To our blessed San Luis, whose shrine here we raise!)
Its point struck the cross ever hung at his neck
And shivered like glass! a miraculous wreck!
Without splinter or fragment save this near the hilt,
And of innocent blood not a drop ever spilt!

There 's the tale! Yet not all! though that cross broke the spell
It ended the race of Mendoza as well,
For that youth was the last of his name! You ask, “How?
Died he too?” Nay, Don Pancho,—he speaks with you now,—
Spared that curse as “Agustin,” his young life he laid,
With his vows, on this altar, as “Brother Merced.”
And this cross on my breast with this dent, as you see,
Hangs but where it hung when that spell was set free!

THE END

University of Virginia Library

20. STORIES AND POEMS AND OTHER UNCOLLECTED WRITINGS BY BRET HARTE

COMPILED BY CHARLES MEEKER KOZLAY WITH AN INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNT OF HARTE'S EARLY CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE CALIFORNIA PRESS

BRET HARTE

EARLY POEMS (1857-1865)

THE VALENTINE

LINES WRITTEN IN A PRAYER-BOOK

LOVE AND PHYSIC

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

(After Longfellow)

THE STUDENT'S DREAM

“KNOWLEDGE IS POWER”

THE HOMESTEAD BARN

TRYSTING

“THE FOG BELL”

“JESSIE”

“DOLORES”

ELISE

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM; CIRCA 1858

THE BAILIE O' PERTH

(Bret Harte's first dialect poem)

QUESTION

LETHE

STANZAS FOR MUSIC

I

II

III

MIDAS' WOOING

THE WRECKER

(From a Painting)

BY THE SAD SEA WAVES

EFFIE

MY SOUL TO THINE

A TRANSCENDENTAL VALENTINE

SERENADE

(ADAPTED TO THE LATITUDE OF SAN FRANCISCO)

THE PRIZE-FIGHTER TO HIS MISTRESS

MARY'S ALBUM

WRITTEN IN 1863, IN AN ALBUM BELONGING TO CHARLES WARREN STODDARD

THE REJECTED STOCKHOLDER

A LOCAL MONOLOGUE

ON A NAUGHTY LITTLE BOY, SLEEPING

AT THE SEPULCHRE

(Thomas Starr King)

ARCADIA REVISITED

THE SABBATH BELLS

IMPORTANT MEXICAN CORRESPONDENCE

AN INTERCEPTED LETTER

Dear Trem:—

“MAD RIVER”

THE PONY EXPRESS [_] (The Pony Express was, at one time, the sole dependence of the Pacific Coast for the latest news from the Atlantic)

THE ARGUMENT OE LURLINE

Air: “The Tall Young Oysterman”

THE YERBA BUENA

TREASURER A---Y

Air: “A Frog He would A-wooing Go”

COLENSO RHYMES FOR ORTHODOX CHILDREN

POEM

DELIVERED AT THE PATRIOTIC EXERCISES IN THE METROPOLITAN THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JULY 4, 1863.

(Written for the event by the poet of the day, Bret Harte, and read by the Reverend Thomas Sir King.)

SOUTH PARK

(SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, 1864)

(After Gray)

THE PLAZA

(SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, 1864)

(After Sir Walter Scott)

THE FIRST BROOM RANGER

AN OLD STORY WITH A NEW MORAL

ANSWERING THE BELL

A STORY OF THE LATE EARTHQUAKE (SAN FRANCISCO, SUNDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1865)

MIDSUMMER

A SAN FRANCISCO MADRIGAL

POEM

DELIVERED ON THE OCCASION OF THE LAYING OF THE CORNER-STONE OF THE CALIFORNIA DEAF, DUMB, AND BLIND ASYLUM, SEPTEMBER 26, 1867

Written for this event by Bret Harte and read by John Swett

PORTALA'S CROSS

CIVIL WAR POEMS

A VOLUNTEER STOCKING

THE CONSERVATIVE BRIDGE OF SIGHS

(After Hood)

THE PONY EXPRESS
[_]

(The Pony Express was, at one time, the sole dependence of the Pacific Coast for the latest news from the Atlantic)