 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
EARLY POEMS (1857-1865)
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THE VALENTINE
'T was St. Valentine's day, and he mused in his chair,
His feet on the fender—but his heart was not there;
His feet on the fender—but his heart was not there;
Thoughts of sweet Angelina, of all girls the best,
Fill'd his mind's waking dreams, and a sigh fill'd his breast.
Fill'd his mind's waking dreams, and a sigh fill'd his breast.
What sound breaks the silence?—the doorbell's loud jingle—
The blood leaves his heart, his cheeks also tingle.
The blood leaves his heart, his cheeks also tingle.
He rushed through the doorway, he jumps down the stair,
He opens the door, and the postman is there.
He opens the door, and the postman is there.
His ways are not pleasant—his words are but few;
“Mr. Jones?” “So I am!” “Here's a letter for you.”
“Mr. Jones?” “So I am!” “Here's a letter for you.”
He seized the loved missive, and straightway he fled,
With his lips all the way pressed to Washington's head.
With his lips all the way pressed to Washington's head.
“Oh, my fond Angelina!—dear girl!” thus he cried;
“'T is from thee, my own darling, and maybe—my bride.
“'T is from thee, my own darling, and maybe—my bride.
“Bashful girl! did'st thou think thy sweet hand to disguise
That no sign might reveal, and thy lover surprise?
That no sign might reveal, and thy lover surprise?
“But love—fancy painter—more signs doth espy
Than the casual observer would idly pass by.”
Than the casual observer would idly pass by.”
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Thus spake he, then tore off the envious seal,
And impatiently read. What its contents reveal?
And impatiently read. What its contents reveal?
“Dear Sir:—The amount that stands charged to your name,
You'd oblige us by calling and settling the same!”
You'd oblige us by calling and settling the same!”
LINES WRITTEN IN A PRAYER-BOOK
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.
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.
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.
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,
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!
Impute not the fault to her pride,
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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“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?”
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!
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.
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.
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.
Zephyrs greet the coming girl,
Press the little bonnet back,
Nestle in the dewy curl.
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Robins twittering thro' the leaves,
Chirping wren and chattering jay
Carol 'neath the verdant eaves;
Carols she as sweet as they.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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?
Looking in the limpid spring
Sees she there her cheeks appear—
Sees her blue eyes glistening?
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
Though our visions still are fair,
Humblest things in our possession
Greater than illusions are.
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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.”
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.
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 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?
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.
And sighed, but it was not a sigh of pain.
Was it an echo that, lingering nigh,
Caught and repeated that long-drawn sigh?
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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.’”
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.
“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!’”
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.
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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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
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,
That many a tale of summer told,
Where golden corn and pumpkins rolled,
And apples, that might scarcely hold
The goddess' fabled horn;
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,
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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.”
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.
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.
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.
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
For the love that a mortal won—
Are here, and you should be the same.
Withdrawn in her maidenly shame
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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.
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!
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?
“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:
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,
Fogs round the gallant ship
Stealthily creep;
Fogs on the forecastle,
Quarter and waist,
Fog in the binnacle,
Fog in each place;
Fogs on the deep,
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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 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.
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.
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;
Fog that, in pity's eye,
Melts to a tear;
Things that delusively
In the fogs loom,
Men still unceasingly
Grope for in gloom.
Dark'ning and drear;
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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.
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.
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,
Whether still to wish her older
Or that she were always this.
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,
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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.
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.
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,
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]
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
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?”
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]
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!
“Dolores!” Ho there! within the wall:
Fly ye! the Ladye Superior call:
A nun has fled from the convent wall!
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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:
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!
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.
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
If for ain blest time in all our life,
You and I can ever agree.
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
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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?”
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.
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!”
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,
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?
Simple, guileless little figure,
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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?
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?
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.
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.
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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.
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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.
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 '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?
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.
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.
Peeps the moon and wakes the thrush,
Bird and moon and music grate,
Like the hinges on the gate.
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Midas rises—takes his cane,
“Will be proud to call again.”
Off goes Midas. Off goes Kate;
Two stand at the garden gate.
“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.
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 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!”
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!”
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“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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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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:
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!”
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!”
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.
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.
Heart of gold and will of yew;
Will of yew and heart of gold—
Still her charms are scarcely told.
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If she yet remain unsung,
Pretty, constant, docile, young,
What remains not here compiled?
Effie is a little child!
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!
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.
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.
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.
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;
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.
Pours forth those fond accents that thrill thee;
305
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.”
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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;
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!
And tranquil patient stars
Their lustre spread, and all the earth
Seemed strewn with silver bars;
308
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!
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.
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!
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,
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!
Shun, if thou canst, alway,
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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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
A match still smouldering on the floor;
The inkstand's purple pool of gore;
The chessmen scattered near and far.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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;
Thy pulpit grave, beside shall call
A week-day fold from street and square.
Who join in Sabbath praise and prayer;
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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.
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 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.
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.
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.
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.
Before thy tomb, and watch its door,
Expectant that some angel's hand
May roll the stone that lies before.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
She calls the evening mists that rise
Miasma, and the dew that lies
Is damp and cold and shocking.
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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!
“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!
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?
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?
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?
Why can't all trees be evergreen?
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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!
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!
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!
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!
Each man has his appointed time;
The worst is but a glad release;
Chime, Sabbath bells, a song of Peace—
Chime!
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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.
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.
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 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.
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.
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.
I find in great confusion—
For like the earth the people have
A daily revolution.
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Their manners to a stranger here,
Is stranger yet to see;
Last night in going to a ball
A ball went into me.
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.
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.”
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.
But every method fails,
For since they have impressed the men,
Of course, they 've stopped the males.
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“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.
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.
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 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,
Warrior braves met one another,
Not as ally, friend or brother,
But the fires of hate to smother
In the placid water's flow.
Ere the restless pale-faced rover
Sought the quiet Indian cover,
Many, many moons ago,
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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.
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.
THE PONY EXPRESS
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.
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.
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.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.”
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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.”
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.”
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.”
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.”
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!
I loves another!” “Cruel man! That ring I now diskiver—
Say whose?” “My gal's!” She snatches it and chucks it in the river.
And sich-like gammon. But the Count says, “Come, now, that won't pay!
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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,
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;
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.
“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;
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;
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.
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!”
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
'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.”
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?
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?
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.
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!
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!
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 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;
There 's Saratoga—Monmouth too—who can our limit fix?
Enough—the total added up is known as Seventy-Six!
To end—in lieu of rebel's necks—some patriotic line;
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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!
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!)
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!
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)
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.)
O, God of our country—if silent we come,
With wreaths that are old to thy altar to-day;
'T is but that elsewhere, to the beat of thy drum,
Our love pours its roses far redder than they!
With wreaths that are old to thy altar to-day;
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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!
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?
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!
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!
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!
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!
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!
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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.
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;
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.
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?
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;
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.
A soul who strove to benefit mankind—
Of private fortune and of public worth,
His trade—first man, then sugar he refined.
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“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!”
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.
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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.
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.
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.
(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.
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.
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.
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.]
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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.
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.
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.
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:
He took erect position,
A certain trembling in his knees
Betrayed their weak condition;
And looking round, poor Dennis found
This fearful exhibition:
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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 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.
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.
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.
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!
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 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.
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;
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.
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!
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!
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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.
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!”
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!”
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.”
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.
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.
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!)
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!)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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;
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.
Sees the miracles of yore;
340
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.
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.
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.
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!”
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.
The holy Fathers touched the lonely shore—
Then covered o'er
With shells and gifts—the cross their witness bore.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |