The Writings of Bret Harte standard library edition |
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| 2. | II. SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS |
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 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
67
II. SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS
THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO
This is the tale that the Chronicle
Tells of the wonderful miracle
Wrought by the pious Padre Serro,
The very reverend Junipero.
Tells of the wonderful miracle
Wrought by the pious Padre Serro,
The very reverend Junipero.
The heathen stood on his ancient mound,
Looking over the desert bound
Into the distant, hazy South,
Over the dusty and broad champaign,
Where, with many a gaping mouth
And fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth,
For seven months had the wasted plain
Known no moisture of dew or rain.
The wells were empty and choked with sand;
The rivers had perished from the land;
Only the sea-fogs to and fro
Slipped like ghosts of the streams below.
Deep in its bed lay the river's bones,
Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones,
And tracked o'er the desert faint and far,
Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar.
Looking over the desert bound
Into the distant, hazy South,
Over the dusty and broad champaign,
Where, with many a gaping mouth
And fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth,
For seven months had the wasted plain
Known no moisture of dew or rain.
The wells were empty and choked with sand;
The rivers had perished from the land;
Only the sea-fogs to and fro
Slipped like ghosts of the streams below.
Deep in its bed lay the river's bones,
Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones,
And tracked o'er the desert faint and far,
Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar.
Thus they stood as the sun went down
Over the foot-hills bare and brown;
Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom
The pale-face medicine-man should come,
Not in anger or in strife,
But to bring—so ran the tale—
The welcome springs of eternal life,
The living waters that should not fail.
Over the foot-hills bare and brown;
Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom
The pale-face medicine-man should come,
Not in anger or in strife,
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The welcome springs of eternal life,
The living waters that should not fail.
Said one, “He will come like Manitou,
Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew.”
Said another, “He will come full soon
Out of the round-faced watery moon.”
And another said, “He is here!” and lo,
Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow,
Out from the desert's blinding heat
The Padre dropped at the heathen's feet.
Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew.”
Said another, “He will come full soon
Out of the round-faced watery moon.”
And another said, “He is here!” and lo,
Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow,
Out from the desert's blinding heat
The Padre dropped at the heathen's feet.
They stood and gazed for a little space
Down on his pallid and careworn face,
And a smile of scorn went round the band
As they touched alternate with foot and hand
This mortal waif, that the outer space
Of dim mysterious sky and sand
Flung with so little of Christian grace
Down on their barren, sterile strand.
Down on his pallid and careworn face,
And a smile of scorn went round the band
As they touched alternate with foot and hand
This mortal waif, that the outer space
Of dim mysterious sky and sand
Flung with so little of Christian grace
Down on their barren, sterile strand.
Said one to him: “It seems thy God
Is a very pitiful kind of God:
He could not shield thine aching eyes
From the blowing desert sands that rise,
Nor turn aside from thy old gray head
The glittering blade that is brandishèd
By the sun He set in the heavens high;
He could not moisten thy lips when dry;
The desert fire is in thy brain;
Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain;
If this be the grace He showeth thee
Who art His servant, what may we,
Strange to His ways and His commands,
Seek at His unforgiving hands?”
“Drink but this cup,” said the Padre, straight,
“And thou shalt know whose mercy bore
These aching limbs to your heathen door,
And purged my soul of its gross estate.
Drink in His name, and thou shalt see
The hidden depths of this mystery.
Drink!” and he held the cup. One blow
From the heathen dashed to the ground below
The sacred cup that the Padre bore,
And the thirsty soil drank the precious store
Of sacramental and holy wine,
That emblem and consecrated sign
And blessed symbol of blood divine.
Is a very pitiful kind of God:
He could not shield thine aching eyes
From the blowing desert sands that rise,
Nor turn aside from thy old gray head
The glittering blade that is brandishèd
By the sun He set in the heavens high;
He could not moisten thy lips when dry;
The desert fire is in thy brain;
Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain;
If this be the grace He showeth thee
Who art His servant, what may we,
Strange to His ways and His commands,
Seek at His unforgiving hands?”
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“And thou shalt know whose mercy bore
These aching limbs to your heathen door,
And purged my soul of its gross estate.
Drink in His name, and thou shalt see
The hidden depths of this mystery.
Drink!” and he held the cup. One blow
From the heathen dashed to the ground below
The sacred cup that the Padre bore,
And the thirsty soil drank the precious store
Of sacramental and holy wine,
That emblem and consecrated sign
And blessed symbol of blood divine.
Then, says the legend (and they who doubt
The same as heretics be accurst),
From the dry and feverish soil leaped out
A living fountain; a well-spring burst
Over the dusty and broad champaign,
Over the sandy and sterile plain,
Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones
That lay in the valley—the scattered bones—
Moved in the river and lived again!
The same as heretics be accurst),
From the dry and feverish soil leaped out
A living fountain; a well-spring burst
Over the dusty and broad champaign,
Over the sandy and sterile plain,
Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones
That lay in the valley—the scattered bones—
Moved in the river and lived again!
Such was the wonderful miracle
Wrought by the cup of wine that fell
From the hands of the pious Padre Serro,
The very reverend Junipero.
Wrought by the cup of wine that fell
From the hands of the pious Padre Serro,
The very reverend Junipero.
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THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN
Of all the fountains that poets sing,—
Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring,
Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth,
Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth,—
In short, of all the springs of Time
That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme,
That ever were tasted, felt, or seen,
There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin.
Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring,
Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth,
Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth,—
In short, of all the springs of Time
That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme,
That ever were tasted, felt, or seen,
There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin.
Anno Domini eighteen-seven,
Father Dominguez (now in heaven,—
Obiit eighteen twenty-seven)
Found the spring, and found it, too,
By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe;
For his beast—a descendant of Balaam's ass—
Stopped on the instant, and would not pass.
Father Dominguez (now in heaven,—
Obiit eighteen twenty-seven)
Found the spring, and found it, too,
By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe;
For his beast—a descendant of Balaam's ass—
Stopped on the instant, and would not pass.
The Padre thought the omen good,
And bent his lips to the trickling flood;
Then—as the Chronicles declare,
On the honest faith of a true believer—
His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare,
Filled like a withered russet pear
In the vacuum of a glass receiver,
And the snows that seventy winters bring
Melted away in that magic spring.
And bent his lips to the trickling flood;
Then—as the Chronicles declare,
On the honest faith of a true believer—
His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare,
Filled like a withered russet pear
In the vacuum of a glass receiver,
And the snows that seventy winters bring
Melted away in that magic spring.
Such, at least, was the wondrous news
The Padre brought into Santa Cruz.
The Church, of course, had its own views
Of who were worthiest to use
The magic spring; but the prior claim
Fell to the aged, sick, and lame.
Far and wide the people came;
Some from the healthful Aptos Creek
Hastened to bring their helpless sick;
Even the fishers of rude Soquel
Suddenly found they were far from well;
The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo
Said, in fact, they had never been so;
And all were ailing,—strange to say,—
From Pescadero to Monterey.
The Padre brought into Santa Cruz.
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Of who were worthiest to use
The magic spring; but the prior claim
Fell to the aged, sick, and lame.
Far and wide the people came;
Some from the healthful Aptos Creek
Hastened to bring their helpless sick;
Even the fishers of rude Soquel
Suddenly found they were far from well;
The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo
Said, in fact, they had never been so;
And all were ailing,—strange to say,—
From Pescadero to Monterey.
Over the mountain they poured in,
With leathern bottles and bags of skin
Through the cañons a motley throng
Trotted, hobbled, and limped along.
The Fathers gazed at the moving scene
With pious joy and with souls serene;
And then—a result perhaps foreseen—
They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin.
With leathern bottles and bags of skin
Through the cañons a motley throng
Trotted, hobbled, and limped along.
The Fathers gazed at the moving scene
With pious joy and with souls serene;
And then—a result perhaps foreseen—
They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin.
Not in the eyes of faith alone
The good effects of the water shone;
But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear,
Of rough vaquero and muleteer;
Angular forms were rounded out,
Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout;
And as for the girls,—for miles about
They had no equal! To this day,
From Pescadero to Monterey,
You'll still find eyes in which are seen
The liquid graces of San Joaquin.
There is a limit to human bliss,
And the Mission of San Joaquin had this;
None went abroad to roam or stay
But they fell sick in the queerest way,—
A singular maladie du pays,
With gastric symptoms: so they spent
Their days in a sensuous content,
Caring little for things unseen
Beyond their bowers of living green,
Beyond the mountains that lay between
The world and the Mission of San Joaquin.
The good effects of the water shone;
But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear,
Of rough vaquero and muleteer;
Angular forms were rounded out,
Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout;
And as for the girls,—for miles about
They had no equal! To this day,
From Pescadero to Monterey,
You'll still find eyes in which are seen
The liquid graces of San Joaquin.
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And the Mission of San Joaquin had this;
None went abroad to roam or stay
But they fell sick in the queerest way,—
A singular maladie du pays,
With gastric symptoms: so they spent
Their days in a sensuous content,
Caring little for things unseen
Beyond their bowers of living green,
Beyond the mountains that lay between
The world and the Mission of San Joaquin.
Winter passed, and the summer came;
The trunks of madroño, all aflame,
Here and there through the underwood
Like pillars of fire starkly stood.
All of the breezy solitude
Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay
And resinous odors mixed and blended;
And dim and ghostlike, far away,
The smoke of the burning woods ascended.
Then of a sudden the mountains swam,
The rivers piled their floods in a dam,
The ridge above Los Gatos Creek
Arched its spine in a feline fashion;
The forests waltzed till they grew sick,
And Nature shook in a speechless passion;
And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen,
The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin
Vanished, and never more was seen!
The trunks of madroño, all aflame,
Here and there through the underwood
Like pillars of fire starkly stood.
All of the breezy solitude
Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay
And resinous odors mixed and blended;
And dim and ghostlike, far away,
The smoke of the burning woods ascended.
Then of a sudden the mountains swam,
The rivers piled their floods in a dam,
The ridge above Los Gatos Creek
Arched its spine in a feline fashion;
The forests waltzed till they grew sick,
And Nature shook in a speechless passion;
And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen,
The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin
Vanished, and never more was seen!
Two days passed: the Mission folk
Out of their rosy dream awoke;
Some of them looked a trifle white,
But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright.
Three days: there was sore distress,
Headache, nausea, giddiness.
Four days: faintings, tenderness
Of the mouth and fauces; and in less
Than one week—here the story closes;
We won't continue the prognosis—
Enough that now no trace is seen
Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin.
Out of their rosy dream awoke;
Some of them looked a trifle white,
But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright.
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Headache, nausea, giddiness.
Four days: faintings, tenderness
Of the mouth and fauces; and in less
Than one week—here the story closes;
We won't continue the prognosis—
Enough that now no trace is seen
Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin.
MORAL
You see the point? Don't be too quickTo break bad habits: better stick,
Like the Mission folk, to your arsenic.
74
THE ANGELUS
(HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868)
Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music
Still fills the wide expanse,
Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present
With color of romance!
Still fills the wide expanse,
Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present
With color of romance!
I hear your call, and see the sun descending
On rock and wave and sand,
As down the coast the Mission voices, blending,
Girdle the heathen land.
On rock and wave and sand,
As down the coast the Mission voices, blending,
Girdle the heathen land.
Within the circle of your incantation
No blight nor mildew falls;
Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition
Passes those airy walls.
No blight nor mildew falls;
Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition
Passes those airy walls.
Borne on the swell of your long waves receding,
I touch the farther Past;
I see the dying glow of Spanish glory,
The sunset dream and last!
I touch the farther Past;
I see the dying glow of Spanish glory,
The sunset dream and last!
Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers,
The white Presidio;
The swart commander in his leathern jerkin,
The priest in stole of snow.
The white Presidio;
The swart commander in his leathern jerkin,
The priest in stole of snow.
Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting
Above the setting sun;
And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting,
The freighted galleon.
Above the setting sun;
75
The freighted galleon.
O solemn bells! whose consecrated masses
Recall the faith of old;
O tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight music
The spiritual fold!
Recall the faith of old;
O tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight music
The spiritual fold!
Your voices break and falter in the darkness,—
Break, falter, and are still;
And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending,
The sun sinks from the hill!
Break, falter, and are still;
And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending,
The sun sinks from the hill!
76
CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO
(PRESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO, 1800)
I
Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and quaint,
By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint,—
By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint,—
Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed,
On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel's golden reed;
On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel's golden reed;
All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed away;
And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day.
And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day.
Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering eye,
Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by;
Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by;
Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of gold
With the plain and homespun present, and a love that ne'er grows old;
With the plain and homespun present, and a love that ne'er grows old;
Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner dust,—
Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and trust.
Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and trust.
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II
Count von Resanoff, the Russian, envoy of the mighty Czar,
Stood beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are.
Stood beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are.
He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene debate
On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state;
On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state;
He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk apart
With the Commandante's daughter on the questions of the heart,
With the Commandante's daughter on the questions of the heart,
Until points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one,
And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun;
And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun;
Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are,
He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar;
He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar;
Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothèd bade adieu,
And from sallyport and gateway north the Russian eagles flew.
And from sallyport and gateway north the Russian eagles flew.
III
Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are,
Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of the Czar;
Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of the Czar;
Day by day on wall and bastion beat the hollow, empty breeze,—
Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling seas;
Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling seas;
78
Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty leather cloaks,—
Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing plain of oaks;
Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing plain of oaks;
Till the rains came, and far breaking, on the fierce southwester tost,
Dashed the whole long coast with color, and then vanished and were lost.
Dashed the whole long coast with color, and then vanished and were lost.
So each year the seasons shifted,—wet and warm and drear and dry;
Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and sky.
Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and sky.
Still it brought no ship nor message,—brought no tidings, ill or meet,
For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair and sweet.
For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair and sweet.
Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears beside:
“He will come,” the flowers whispered; “Come no more,” the dry hills sighed.
“He will come,” the flowers whispered; “Come no more,” the dry hills sighed.
Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning breeze,—
Still she lost him with the folding of the great white-tented seas;
Still she lost him with the folding of the great white-tented seas;
Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive brown,
And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet lashes down;
And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet lashes down;
79
Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied caress,
And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress.
And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress.
Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are,
Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from afar;
Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from afar;
Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each
As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech:
As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech:
“‘Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he;’
‘Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree;’
‘Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree;’
“‘He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall have flies;’
‘In the end God grinds the miller;’ ‘In the dark the mole has eyes;’
‘In the end God grinds the miller;’ ‘In the dark the mole has eyes;’
“‘He whose father is Alcalde of his trial hath no fear,’—
And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his conduct clear.”
And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his conduct clear.”
Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it would teach
Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech;
Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech;
And on “Concha,” “Conchitita,” and “Conchita” he would dwell
With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well.
With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well.
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So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt,
Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and went out.
Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and went out.
IV
Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately cavalcade,
Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid;
Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid;
Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport,
Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court.
Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court.
Vainly then at Concha's lattice, vainly as the idle wind,
Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth too kind;
Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth too kind;
Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and fleet,
Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their mustang's feet;
Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their mustang's feet;
So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay serapes blazed,—
Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had raised.
Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had raised.
Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, with patient mien,
The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull routine,—
The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull routine,—
Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone,
Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary monotone.
Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary monotone.
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V
Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze,
Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas;
Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas;
Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure decay,
And St. George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey;
And St. George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey;
And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gayly drest,
All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveler and guest.
All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveler and guest.
Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set,
And exchanged congratulations with the English baronet;
And exchanged congratulations with the English baronet;
Till, the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine,
Some one spoke of Concha's lover,—heedless of the warning sign.
Some one spoke of Concha's lover,—heedless of the warning sign.
Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson: “Speak no ill of him, I pray!
He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day,—
He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day,—
“Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse.
Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course!
Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course!
“Lives she yet?” A deathlike silence fell on banquet, guests, and hall,
And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of all.
And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of all.
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Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the nun's white hood;
Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood.
Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood.
“Lives she yet?” Sir George repeated. All were hushed as Concha drew
Closer yet her nun's attire. “Señor, pardon, she died, too!”
Closer yet her nun's attire. “Señor, pardon, she died, too!”
83
“FOR THE KING”
(NORTHERN MEXICO, 1640)
As you look from the plaza at Leon west
You can see her house, but the view is best
From the porch of the church where she lies at rest;
You can see her house, but the view is best
From the porch of the church where she lies at rest;
Where much of her past still lives, I think,
In the scowling brows and sidelong blink
Of the worshiping throng that rise or sink
In the scowling brows and sidelong blink
Of the worshiping throng that rise or sink
To the waxen saints that, yellow and lank,
Lean out from their niches, rank on rank,
With a bloodless Saviour on either flank;
Lean out from their niches, rank on rank,
With a bloodless Saviour on either flank;
In the gouty pillars, whose cracks begin
To show the adobe core within,—
A soul of earth in a whitewashed skin.
To show the adobe core within,—
A soul of earth in a whitewashed skin.
And I think that the moral of all, you'll say,
Is the sculptured legend that moulds away
On a tomb in the choir: “Por el Rey.”
Is the sculptured legend that moulds away
On a tomb in the choir: “Por el Rey.”
“Por el Rey!” Well, the king is gone
Ages ago, and the Hapsburg one
Shot—but the Rock of the Church lives on.
Ages ago, and the Hapsburg one
Shot—but the Rock of the Church lives on.
“Por el Rey!” What matters, indeed,
If king or president succeed
To a country haggard with sloth and greed,
If king or president succeed
To a country haggard with sloth and greed,
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As long as one granary is fat,
And yonder priest, in a shovel hat,
Peeps out from the bin like a sleek brown rat?
And yonder priest, in a shovel hat,
Peeps out from the bin like a sleek brown rat?
What matters? Naught, if it serves to bring
The legend nearer,—no other thing.—
We'll spare the moral, “Live the king!”
The legend nearer,—no other thing.—
We'll spare the moral, “Live the king!”
Two hundred years ago, they say,
The Viceroy, Marquis of Monte-Rey,
Rode with his retinue that way:
The Viceroy, Marquis of Monte-Rey,
Rode with his retinue that way:
Grave, as befitted Spain's grandee;
Grave, as the substitute should be
Of His Most Catholic Majesty;
Grave, as the substitute should be
Of His Most Catholic Majesty;
Yet, from his black plume's curving grace
To his slim black gauntlet's smaller space,
Exquisite as a piece of lace!
To his slim black gauntlet's smaller space,
Exquisite as a piece of lace!
Two hundred years ago—e'en so—
The Marquis stopped where the lime-trees blow,
While Leon's seneschal bent him low,
The Marquis stopped where the lime-trees blow,
While Leon's seneschal bent him low,
And begged that the Marquis would that night take
His humble roof for the royal sake,
And then, as the custom demanded, spake
His humble roof for the royal sake,
And then, as the custom demanded, spake
The usual wish, that his guest would hold
The house, and all that it might enfold,
As his—with the bride scarce three days old.
The house, and all that it might enfold,
As his—with the bride scarce three days old.
Be sure that the Marquis, in his place,
Replied to all with the measured grace
Of chosen speech and unmoved face;
Replied to all with the measured grace
Of chosen speech and unmoved face;
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Nor raised his head till his black plume swept
The hem of the lady's robe, who kept
Her place, as her husband backward stept.
The hem of the lady's robe, who kept
Her place, as her husband backward stept.
And then (I know not how nor why)
A subtle flame in the lady's eye—
Unseen by the courtiers standing by—
A subtle flame in the lady's eye—
Unseen by the courtiers standing by—
Burned through his lace and titled wreath,
Burned through his body's jeweled sheath,
Till it touched the steel of the man beneath!
Burned through his body's jeweled sheath,
Till it touched the steel of the man beneath!
(And yet, mayhap, no more was meant
Than to point a well-worn compliment,
And the lady's beauty, her worst intent.
Than to point a well-worn compliment,
And the lady's beauty, her worst intent.
Howbeit, the Marquis bowed again:
“Who rules with awe well serveth Spain,
But best whose law is love made plain.”
“Who rules with awe well serveth Spain,
But best whose law is love made plain.”
Be sure that night no pillow prest
The seneschal, but with the rest
Watched, as was due a royal guest,—
The seneschal, but with the rest
Watched, as was due a royal guest,—
Watched from the wall till he saw the square
Fill with the moonlight, white and bare,—
Watched till he saw two shadows fare
Fill with the moonlight, white and bare,—
Watched till he saw two shadows fare
Out from his garden, where the shade
That the old church tower and belfry made
Like a benedictory hand was laid.
That the old church tower and belfry made
Like a benedictory hand was laid.
Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned
To his nearest sentry: “These monks have learned
That stolen fruit is sweetly earned.
To his nearest sentry: “These monks have learned
That stolen fruit is sweetly earned.
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“Myself shall punish yon acolyte
Who gathers my garden grapes by night;
Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light.”
Who gathers my garden grapes by night;
Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light.”
Yet not till the sun was riding high
Did the sentry meet his commander's eye,
Nor then till the Viceroy stood by.
Did the sentry meet his commander's eye,
Nor then till the Viceroy stood by.
To the lovers of grave formalities
No greeting was ever so fine, I wis,
As this host's and guest's high courtesies!
No greeting was ever so fine, I wis,
As this host's and guest's high courtesies!
The seneschal feared, as the wind was west,
A blast from Morena had chilled his rest;
The Viceroy languidly confest
A blast from Morena had chilled his rest;
The Viceroy languidly confest
That cares of state, and—he dared to say—
Some fears that the King could not repay
The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way
Some fears that the King could not repay
The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way
Had marred his rest. Yet he trusted much
None shared his wakefulness; though such
Indeed might be! If he dared to touch
None shared his wakefulness; though such
Indeed might be! If he dared to touch
A theme so fine—the bride, perchance,
Still slept! At least, they missed her glance
To give this greeting countenance.
Still slept! At least, they missed her glance
To give this greeting countenance.
Be sure that the seneschal, in turn,
Was deeply bowed with the grave concern
Of the painful news his guest should learn;
Was deeply bowed with the grave concern
Of the painful news his guest should learn;
“Last night, to her father's dying bed
By a priest was the lady summonèd;
Nor know we yet how well she sped,
By a priest was the lady summonèd;
Nor know we yet how well she sped,
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“But hope for the best.” The grave Viceroy
(Though grieved his visit had such alloy)
Must still wish the seneschal great joy
(Though grieved his visit had such alloy)
Must still wish the seneschal great joy
Of a bride so true to her filial trust!
Yet now, as the day waxed on, they must
To horse, if they'd 'scape the noonday dust.
Yet now, as the day waxed on, they must
To horse, if they'd 'scape the noonday dust.
“Nay,” said the seneschal, “at least,
To mend the news of this funeral priest,
Myself shall ride as your escort east.”
To mend the news of this funeral priest,
Myself shall ride as your escort east.”
The Viceroy bowed. Then turned aside
To his nearest follower: “With me ride—
You and Felipe—on either side.
To his nearest follower: “With me ride—
You and Felipe—on either side.
“And list! Should anything me befall,
Mischance of ambush or musket-ball,
Cleave to his saddle yon seneschal!
Mischance of ambush or musket-ball,
Cleave to his saddle yon seneschal!
“No more.” Then gravely in accents clear
Took formal leave of his late good cheer;
Whiles the seneschal whispered a musketeer,
Took formal leave of his late good cheer;
Whiles the seneschal whispered a musketeer,
Carelessly stroking his pommel top:
“If from the saddle ye see me drop,
Riddle me quickly yon solemn fop!”
“If from the saddle ye see me drop,
Riddle me quickly yon solemn fop!”
So these, with many a compliment,
Each on his own dark thought intent,
With grave politeness onward went,
Each on his own dark thought intent,
With grave politeness onward went,
Riding high, and in sight of all,
Viceroy, escort, and seneschal,
Under the shade of the Almandral;
Viceroy, escort, and seneschal,
Under the shade of the Almandral;
88
Holding their secret hard and fast,
Silent and grave they ride at last
Into the dusty traveled Past.
Silent and grave they ride at last
Into the dusty traveled Past.
Even like this they passed away
Two hundred years ago to-day.
What of the lady? Who shall say?
Two hundred years ago to-day.
What of the lady? Who shall say?
Do the souls of the dying ever yearn
To some favored spot for the dust's return,
For the homely peace of the family urn?
To some favored spot for the dust's return,
For the homely peace of the family urn?
I know not. Yet did the seneschal,
Chancing in after-years to fall
Pierced by a Flemish musket-ball,
Chancing in after-years to fall
Pierced by a Flemish musket-ball,
Call to his side a trusty friar,
And bid him swear, as his last desire,
To bear his corse to San Pedro's choir
And bid him swear, as his last desire,
To bear his corse to San Pedro's choir
At Leon, where 'neath a shield azure
Should his mortal frame find sepulture:
This much, for the pains Christ did endure.
Should his mortal frame find sepulture:
This much, for the pains Christ did endure.
Be sure that the friar loyally
Fulfilled his trust by land and sea,
Till the spires of Leon silently
Fulfilled his trust by land and sea,
Till the spires of Leon silently
Rose through the green of the Almandral,
As if to beckon the seneschal
To his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall.
As if to beckon the seneschal
To his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall.
I wot that the saints on either side
Leaned from their niches open-eyed
To see the doors of the church swing wide;
Leaned from their niches open-eyed
To see the doors of the church swing wide;
89
That the wounds of the Saviour on either flank
Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank,
Went by with the coffin, clank on clank.
Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank,
Went by with the coffin, clank on clank.
For why? When they raised the marble door
Of the tomb, untouched for years before,
The friar swooned on the choir floor;
Of the tomb, untouched for years before,
The friar swooned on the choir floor;
For there, in her laces and festal dress,
Lay the dead man's wife, her loveliness
Scarcely changed by her long duress,—
Lay the dead man's wife, her loveliness
Scarcely changed by her long duress,—
As on the night she had passed away;
Only that near her a dagger lay,
With the written legend, “Por el Rey.”
Only that near her a dagger lay,
With the written legend, “Por el Rey.”
What was their greeting, the groom and bride,
They whom that steel and the years divide?
I know not. Here they lie side by side.
They whom that steel and the years divide?
I know not. Here they lie side by side.
Side by side! Though the king has his way,
Even the dead at last have their day.
Make you the moral. “Por el Rey!”
Even the dead at last have their day.
Make you the moral. “Por el Rey!”
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RAMON
(REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO)
Drunk and senseless in his place,
Prone and sprawling on his face,
More like brute than any man
Alive or dead,
By his great pump out of gear,
Lay the peon engineer,
Waking only just to hear,
Overhead,
Angry tones that called his name,
Oaths and cries of bitter blame,—
Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled!
Prone and sprawling on his face,
More like brute than any man
Alive or dead,
By his great pump out of gear,
Lay the peon engineer,
Waking only just to hear,
Overhead,
Angry tones that called his name,
Oaths and cries of bitter blame,—
Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled!
“To the man who'll bring to me,”
Cried Intendant Harry Lee,—
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—
“Bring the sot alive or dead,
I will give to him,” he said,
“Fifteen hundred pesos down,
Just to set the rascal's crown
Underneath this heel of mine:
Since but death
Deserves the man whose deed,
Be it vice or want of heed,
Stops the pumps that give us breath,—
Stops the pumps that suck the death
From the poisoned lower levels of the mine!”
Cried Intendant Harry Lee,—
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—
“Bring the sot alive or dead,
I will give to him,” he said,
“Fifteen hundred pesos down,
Just to set the rascal's crown
Underneath this heel of mine:
Since but death
Deserves the man whose deed,
Be it vice or want of heed,
Stops the pumps that give us breath,—
Stops the pumps that suck the death
From the poisoned lower levels of the mine!”
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No one answered; for a cry
From the shaft rose up on high,
And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below,
Came the miners each, the bolder
Mounting on the weaker's shoulder,
Grappling, clinging to their hold or
Letting go,
As the weaker gasped and fell
From the ladder to the well,—
To the poisoned pit of hell
Down below!
From the shaft rose up on high,
And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below,
Came the miners each, the bolder
Mounting on the weaker's shoulder,
Grappling, clinging to their hold or
Letting go,
As the weaker gasped and fell
From the ladder to the well,—
To the poisoned pit of hell
Down below!
“To the man who sets them free,”
Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,—
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—
“Brings them out and sets them free,
I will give that man,” said he,
“Twice that sum, who with a rope
Face to face with Death shall cope.
Let him come who dares to hope!”
“Hold your peace!” some one replied,
Standing by the foreman's side;
“There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!”
Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,—
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—
“Brings them out and sets them free,
I will give that man,” said he,
“Twice that sum, who with a rope
Face to face with Death shall cope.
Let him come who dares to hope!”
“Hold your peace!” some one replied,
Standing by the foreman's side;
“There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!”
Then they held their breath with awe,
Pulling on the rope, and saw
Fainting figures reappear,
On the black rope swinging clear,
Fastened by some skillful hand from below;
Till a score the level gained,
And but one alone remained,—
He the hero and the last,
He whose skillful hand made fast
The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!
Pulling on the rope, and saw
Fainting figures reappear,
On the black rope swinging clear,
Fastened by some skillful hand from below;
Till a score the level gained,
And but one alone remained,—
He the hero and the last,
He whose skillful hand made fast
The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!
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Haggard, gasping, down dropped he
At the feet of Harry Lee,—
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine.
“I have come,” he gasped, “to claim
Both rewards. Señor, my name
Is Ramon!
I'm the drunken engineer,
I'm the coward, Señor”—Here
He fell over, by that sign,
Dead as stone!
At the feet of Harry Lee,—
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine.
“I have come,” he gasped, “to claim
Both rewards. Señor, my name
Is Ramon!
I'm the drunken engineer,
I'm the coward, Señor”—Here
He fell over, by that sign,
Dead as stone!
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DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH
(REFECTORY, MISSION SAN GABRIEL, 1869)
Good—!said the Padre,—believe me still,
“Don Giovanni,” or what you will,
The type's eternal! We knew him here
As Don Diego del Sud. I fear
The story's no new one! Will you hear?
“Don Giovanni,” or what you will,
The type's eternal! We knew him here
As Don Diego del Sud. I fear
The story's no new one! Will you hear?
One of those spirits you can't tell why
God has permitted. Therein I
Have the advantage, for I hold
That wolves are sent to the purest fold,
And we'd save the wolf if we'd get the lamb.
You're no believer? Good! I am.
God has permitted. Therein I
Have the advantage, for I hold
That wolves are sent to the purest fold,
And we'd save the wolf if we'd get the lamb.
You're no believer? Good! I am.
Well, for some purpose, I grant you dim,
The Don loved women, and they loved him.
Each thought herself his last love! Worst,
Many believed that they were his first!
And, such are these creatures since the Fall,
The very doubt had a charm for all!
The Don loved women, and they loved him.
Each thought herself his last love! Worst,
Many believed that they were his first!
And, such are these creatures since the Fall,
The very doubt had a charm for all!
You laugh! You are young, but I—indeed
I have no patience ... To proceed:—
You saw, as you passed through the upper town,
The Eucinal where the road goes down
To San Felipe! There one morn
They found Diego,—his mantle torn.
And as many holes through his doublet's band
As there were wronged husbands—you understand!
I have no patience ... To proceed:—
You saw, as you passed through the upper town,
The Eucinal where the road goes down
To San Felipe! There one morn
They found Diego,—his mantle torn.
94
As there were wronged husbands—you understand!
“Dying,” so said the gossips. “Dead”
Was what the friars who found him said.
May be. Quien sabe? Who else should know?
It was a hundred years ago.
There was a funeral. Small indeed—
Private. What would you? To proceed:—
Was what the friars who found him said.
May be. Quien sabe? Who else should know?
It was a hundred years ago.
There was a funeral. Small indeed—
Private. What would you? To proceed:—
Scarcely the year had flown. One night
The Commandante awoke in fright,
Hearing below his casement's bar
The well-known twang of the Don's guitar;
And rushed to the window, just to see
His wife a-swoon on the balcony.
The Commandante awoke in fright,
Hearing below his casement's bar
The well-known twang of the Don's guitar;
And rushed to the window, just to see
His wife a-swoon on the balcony.
One week later, Don Juan Ramirez
Found his own daughter, the Doña Inez,
Pale as a ghost, leaning out to hear
The song of that phantom cavalier.
Even Alcalde Pedro Blas
Saw, it was said, through his niece's glass,
The shade of Diego twice repass.
Found his own daughter, the Doña Inez,
Pale as a ghost, leaning out to hear
The song of that phantom cavalier.
Even Alcalde Pedro Blas
Saw, it was said, through his niece's glass,
The shade of Diego twice repass.
What these gentlemen each confessed
Heaven and the Church only knows. At best
The case was a bad one. How to deal
With Sin as a Ghost, they could n't but feel
Was an awful thing. Till a certain Fray
Humbly offered to show the way.
Heaven and the Church only knows. At best
The case was a bad one. How to deal
With Sin as a Ghost, they could n't but feel
Was an awful thing. Till a certain Fray
Humbly offered to show the way.
And the way was this. Did I say before
That the Fray was a stranger? No, Señor?
Strange! very strange! I should have said
That the very week that the Don lay dead
He came among us. Bread he broke
Silent, nor ever to one he spoke.
So he had vowed it! Below his brows
His face was hidden. There are such vows!
That the Fray was a stranger? No, Señor?
Strange! very strange! I should have said
95
He came among us. Bread he broke
Silent, nor ever to one he spoke.
So he had vowed it! Below his brows
His face was hidden. There are such vows!
Strange! are they not? You do not use
Snuff? A bad habit!
Snuff? A bad habit!
Well, the views
Of the Fray were these: that the penance done
By the caballeros was right; but one
Was due from the cause, and that, in brief,
Was Doña Dolores Gomez, chief,
And Inez, Sanchicha, Concepcion,
And Carmen,—well, half the girls in town
On his tablets the Friar had written down.
Of the Fray were these: that the penance done
By the caballeros was right; but one
Was due from the cause, and that, in brief,
Was Doña Dolores Gomez, chief,
And Inez, Sanchicha, Concepcion,
And Carmen,—well, half the girls in town
On his tablets the Friar had written down.
These were to come on a certain day
And ask at the hands of the pious Fray
For absolution. That done, small fear
But the shade of Diego would disappear.
And ask at the hands of the pious Fray
For absolution. That done, small fear
But the shade of Diego would disappear.
They came; each knelt in her turn and place
To the pious Fray with his hidden face
And voiceless lips, and each again
Took back her soul freed from spot or stain,
Till the Doña Inez, with eyes downcast
And a tear on their fringes, knelt her last.
To the pious Fray with his hidden face
And voiceless lips, and each again
Took back her soul freed from spot or stain,
Till the Doña Inez, with eyes downcast
And a tear on their fringes, knelt her last.
And then—perhaps that her voice was low
From fear or from shame—the monks said so—
But the Fray leaned forward, when, presto! all
Were thrilled by a scream, and saw her fall
Fainting beside the confessional.
From fear or from shame—the monks said so—
But the Fray leaned forward, when, presto! all
Were thrilled by a scream, and saw her fall
Fainting beside the confessional.
96
And so was the ghost of Diego laid
As the Fray had said. Never more his shade
Was seen at San Gabriel's Mission. Eh!
The girl interests you? I dare say!
“Nothing,” said she, when they brought her to—
“Only a faintness!” They spoke more true
Who said 't was a stubborn soul. But then—
Women are women, and men are men!
As the Fray had said. Never more his shade
Was seen at San Gabriel's Mission. Eh!
The girl interests you? I dare say!
“Nothing,” said she, when they brought her to—
“Only a faintness!” They spoke more true
Who said 't was a stubborn soul. But then—
Women are women, and men are men!
So, to return. As I said before,
Having got the wolf, by the same high law
We saved the lamb in the wolf's own jaw,
And that's my moral. The tale, I fear,
But poorly told. Yet it strikes me here
Is stuff for a moral. What's your view?
You smile, Don Pancho. Ah! that's like you!
Having got the wolf, by the same high law
We saved the lamb in the wolf's own jaw,
And that's my moral. The tale, I fear,
But poorly told. Yet it strikes me here
Is stuff for a moral. What's your view?
You smile, Don Pancho. Ah! that's like you!
97
AT THE HACIENDA
Know I not whom thou mayst be
Carved upon this olive-tree,—
“Manuela of La Torre,”—
For around on broken walls
Summer sun and spring rain falls,
And in vain the low wind calls
“Manuela of La Torre.”
Carved upon this olive-tree,—
“Manuela of La Torre,”—
For around on broken walls
Summer sun and spring rain falls,
And in vain the low wind calls
“Manuela of La Torre.”
Of that song no words remain
But the musical refrain,—
“Manuela of La Torre.”
Yet at night, when winds are still,
Tinkles on the distant hill
A guitar, and words that thrill
Tell to me the old, old story,—
Old when first thy charms were sung,
Old when these old walls were young,
“Manuela of La Torre.”
But the musical refrain,—
“Manuela of La Torre.”
Yet at night, when winds are still,
Tinkles on the distant hill
A guitar, and words that thrill
Tell to me the old, old story,—
Old when first thy charms were sung,
Old when these old walls were young,
“Manuela of La Torre.”
98
FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE
It was the morning season of the year;
It was the morning era of the land;
The watercourses rang full loud and clear;
Portala's cross stood where Portala's hand
Had planted it when Faith was taught by Fear,
When monks and missions held the sole command
Of all that shore beside the peaceful sea,
Where spring-tides beat their long-drawn reveille.
It was the morning era of the land;
The watercourses rang full loud and clear;
Portala's cross stood where Portala's hand
Had planted it when Faith was taught by Fear,
When monks and missions held the sole command
Of all that shore beside the peaceful sea,
Where spring-tides beat their long-drawn reveille.
Out of the mission of San Luis Rey,
All in that brisk, tumultuous spring weather,
Rode Friar Pedro, in a pious way,
With six dragoons in cuirasses of leather,
Each armed alike for either prayer or fray;
Handcuffs and missals they had slung together,
And as an aid the gospel truth to scatter
Each swung a lasso—alias a “riata.”
All in that brisk, tumultuous spring weather,
Rode Friar Pedro, in a pious way,
With six dragoons in cuirasses of leather,
Each armed alike for either prayer or fray;
Handcuffs and missals they had slung together,
And as an aid the gospel truth to scatter
Each swung a lasso—alias a “riata.”
In sooth, that year the harvest had been slack,
The crop of converts scarce worth computation;
Some souls were lost, whose owners had turned back
To save their bodies frequent flagellation;
And some preferred the songs of birds, alack!
To Latin matins and their souls' salvation,
And thought their own wild whoopings were less dreary
Than Father Pedro's droning miserere.
The crop of converts scarce worth computation;
Some souls were lost, whose owners had turned back
To save their bodies frequent flagellation;
And some preferred the songs of birds, alack!
To Latin matins and their souls' salvation,
And thought their own wild whoopings were less dreary
Than Father Pedro's droning miserere.
To bring them back to matins and to prime,
To pious works and secular submission,
To prove to them that liberty was crime,—
This was, in fact, the Padre's present mission;
To get new souls perchance at the same time,
And bring them to a “sense of their condition,”—
That easy phrase, which, in the past and present,
Means making that condition most unpleasant.
To pious works and secular submission,
99
This was, in fact, the Padre's present mission;
To get new souls perchance at the same time,
And bring them to a “sense of their condition,”—
That easy phrase, which, in the past and present,
Means making that condition most unpleasant.
He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow;
He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill;
He saw the gopher working in his burrow;
He saw the squirrel scampering at his will:—
He saw all this, and felt no doubt a thorough
And deep conviction of God's goodness; still
He failed to see that in His glory He
Yet left the humblest of His creatures free.
He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill;
He saw the gopher working in his burrow;
He saw the squirrel scampering at his will:—
He saw all this, and felt no doubt a thorough
And deep conviction of God's goodness; still
He failed to see that in His glory He
Yet left the humblest of His creatures free.
He saw the flapping crow, whose frequent note
Voiced the monotony of land and sky,
Mocking with graceless wing and rusty coat
His priestly presence as he trotted by.
He would have cursed the bird by bell and rote,
But other game just then was in his eye,—
A savage camp, whose occupants preferred
Their heathen darkness to the living Word.
Voiced the monotony of land and sky,
Mocking with graceless wing and rusty coat
His priestly presence as he trotted by.
He would have cursed the bird by bell and rote,
But other game just then was in his eye,—
A savage camp, whose occupants preferred
Their heathen darkness to the living Word.
He rang his bell, and at the martial sound
Twelve silver spurs their jingling rowels clashed;
Six horses sprang across the level ground
As six dragoons in open order dashed;
Above their heads the lassos circled round,
In every eye a pious fervor flashed;
They charged the camp, and in one moment more
They lassoed six and reconverted four.
Twelve silver spurs their jingling rowels clashed;
Six horses sprang across the level ground
As six dragoons in open order dashed;
Above their heads the lassos circled round,
In every eye a pious fervor flashed;
They charged the camp, and in one moment more
They lassoed six and reconverted four.
The Friar saw the conflict from a knoll,
And sang Laus Deo and cheered on his men:
“Well thrown, Bautista,—that's another soul;
After him, Gomez,—try it once again;
This way, Felipe,—there the heathen stole;
Bones of St. Francis!—surely that makes ten;
Te Deum laudamus—but they're very wild;
Non nobis Domine—all right, my child!”
And sang Laus Deo and cheered on his men:
100
After him, Gomez,—try it once again;
This way, Felipe,—there the heathen stole;
Bones of St. Francis!—surely that makes ten;
Te Deum laudamus—but they're very wild;
Non nobis Domine—all right, my child!”
When at that moment—as the story goes—
A certain squaw, who had her foes eluded,
Ran past the Friar, just before his nose.
He stared a moment, and in silence brooded;
Then in his breast a pious frenzy rose
And every other prudent thought excluded;
He caught a lasso, and dashed in a canter
After that Occidental Atalanta.
A certain squaw, who had her foes eluded,
Ran past the Friar, just before his nose.
He stared a moment, and in silence brooded;
Then in his breast a pious frenzy rose
And every other prudent thought excluded;
He caught a lasso, and dashed in a canter
After that Occidental Atalanta.
High o'er his head he swirled the dreadful noose;
But, as the practice was quite unfamiliar,
His first cast tore Felipe's captive loose,
And almost choked Tiburcio Camilla,
And might have interfered with that brave youth's
Ability to gorge the tough tortilla;
But all things come by practice, and at last
His flying slip-knot caught the maiden fast.
But, as the practice was quite unfamiliar,
His first cast tore Felipe's captive loose,
And almost choked Tiburcio Camilla,
And might have interfered with that brave youth's
Ability to gorge the tough tortilla;
But all things come by practice, and at last
His flying slip-knot caught the maiden fast.
Then rose above the plain a mingled yell
Of rage and triumph,—a demoniac whoop:
The Padre heard it like a passing knell,
And would have loosened his unchristian loop;
But the tough raw-hide held the captive well,
And held, alas! too well the captor-dupe;
For with one bound the savage fled amain,
Dragging horse, Friar, down the lonely plain.
Of rage and triumph,—a demoniac whoop:
The Padre heard it like a passing knell,
And would have loosened his unchristian loop;
But the tough raw-hide held the captive well,
And held, alas! too well the captor-dupe;
For with one bound the savage fled amain,
Dragging horse, Friar, down the lonely plain.
Down the arroyo, out across the mead,
By heath and hollow, sped the flying maid,
Dragging behind her still the panting steed
And helpless Friar, who in vain essayed
To cut the lasso or to check his speed.
He felt himself beyond all human aid,
And trusted to the saints,—and, for that matter,
To some weak spot in Felipe's riata.
By heath and hollow, sped the flying maid,
101
And helpless Friar, who in vain essayed
To cut the lasso or to check his speed.
He felt himself beyond all human aid,
And trusted to the saints,—and, for that matter,
To some weak spot in Felipe's riata.
Alas! the lasso had been duly blessed,
And, like baptism, held the flying wretch,—
A doctrine that the priest had oft expressed,
Which, like the lasso, might be made to stretch,
But would not break; so neither could divest
Themselves of it, but, like some awful fetch,
The holy Friar had to recognize
The image of his fate in heathen guise.
And, like baptism, held the flying wretch,—
A doctrine that the priest had oft expressed,
Which, like the lasso, might be made to stretch,
But would not break; so neither could divest
Themselves of it, but, like some awful fetch,
The holy Friar had to recognize
The image of his fate in heathen guise.
He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow;
He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill;
He saw the gopher standing in his burrow;
He saw the squirrel scampering at his will:—
He saw all this, and felt no doubt how thorough
The contrast was to his condition; still
The squaw kept onward to the sea, till night
And the cold sea-fog hid them both from sight.
He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill;
He saw the gopher standing in his burrow;
He saw the squirrel scampering at his will:—
He saw all this, and felt no doubt how thorough
The contrast was to his condition; still
The squaw kept onward to the sea, till night
And the cold sea-fog hid them both from sight.
The morning came above the serried coast,
Lighting the snow-peaks with its beacon-fires,
Driving before it all the fleet-winged host
Of chattering birds above the Mission spires,
Filling the land with light and joy, but most
The savage woods with all their leafy lyres;
In pearly tints and opal flame and fire
The morning came, but not the holy Friar.
Lighting the snow-peaks with its beacon-fires,
Driving before it all the fleet-winged host
Of chattering birds above the Mission spires,
Filling the land with light and joy, but most
The savage woods with all their leafy lyres;
In pearly tints and opal flame and fire
The morning came, but not the holy Friar.
Weeks passed away. In vain the Fathers sought
Some trace or token that might tell his story;
Some thought him dead, or, like Elijah, caught
Up to the heavens in a blaze of glory.
In this surmise some miracles were wrought
On his account, and souls in purgatory
Were thought to profit from his intercession;
In brief, his absence made a “deep impression.”
Some trace or token that might tell his story;
102
Up to the heavens in a blaze of glory.
In this surmise some miracles were wrought
On his account, and souls in purgatory
Were thought to profit from his intercession;
In brief, his absence made a “deep impression.”
A twelvemonth passed; the welcome Spring once more
Made green the hills beside the white-faced Mission,
Spread her bright dais by the western shore,
And sat enthroned, a most resplendent vision.
The heathen converts thronged the chapel door
At morning mass, when, says the old tradition,
A frightful whoop throughout the church resounded,
And to their feet the congregation bounded.
Made green the hills beside the white-faced Mission,
Spread her bright dais by the western shore,
And sat enthroned, a most resplendent vision.
The heathen converts thronged the chapel door
At morning mass, when, says the old tradition,
A frightful whoop throughout the church resounded,
And to their feet the congregation bounded.
A tramp of hoofs upon the beaten course,
Then came a sight that made the bravest quail:
A phantom Friar on a spectre horse,
Dragged by a creature decked with horns and tail.
By the lone Mission, with the whirlwind's force,
They madly swept, and left a sulphurous trail:
And that was all,—enough to tell the story,
And leave unblessed those souls in purgatory.
Then came a sight that made the bravest quail:
A phantom Friar on a spectre horse,
Dragged by a creature decked with horns and tail.
By the lone Mission, with the whirlwind's force,
They madly swept, and left a sulphurous trail:
And that was all,—enough to tell the story,
And leave unblessed those souls in purgatory.
And ever after, on that fatal day
That Friar Pedro rode abroad lassoing,
A ghostly couple came and went away
With savage whoop and heathenish hallooing,
Which brought discredit on San Luis Rey,
And proved the Mission's ruin and undoing;
For ere ten years had passed, the squaw and Friar
Performed to empty walls and fallen spire.
That Friar Pedro rode abroad lassoing,
A ghostly couple came and went away
With savage whoop and heathenish hallooing,
Which brought discredit on San Luis Rey,
And proved the Mission's ruin and undoing;
For ere ten years had passed, the squaw and Friar
Performed to empty walls and fallen spire.
The Mission is no more; upon its walls
The golden lizards slip, or breathless pause,
Still as the sunshine brokenly that falls
Through crannied roof and spider-webs of gauze;
No more the bell its solemn warning calls,—
A holier silence thrills and overawes;
And the sharp lights and shadows of to-day
Outline the Mission of San Luis Rey.
The golden lizards slip, or breathless pause,
103
Through crannied roof and spider-webs of gauze;
No more the bell its solemn warning calls,—
A holier silence thrills and overawes;
And the sharp lights and shadows of to-day
Outline the Mission of San Luis Rey.
104
IN THE MISSION GARDEN
(1865)
FATHER FELIPE
I speak not the English well, but Pachita,
She speak for me; is it not so, my Pancha?
Eh, little rogue? Come, salute me the stranger
Americano.
She speak for me; is it not so, my Pancha?
Eh, little rogue? Come, salute me the stranger
Americano.
Sir, in my country we say, “Where the heart is,
There live the speech.” Ah! you not understand? So!
Pardon an old man,—what you call “old fogy,”—
Padre Felipe!
There live the speech.” Ah! you not understand? So!
Pardon an old man,—what you call “old fogy,”—
Padre Felipe!
Old, Señor, old! just so old as the Mission.
You see that pear-tree? How old you think, Señor?
Fifteen year? Twenty? Ah, Señor, just fifty
Gone since I plant him!
You see that pear-tree? How old you think, Señor?
Fifteen year? Twenty? Ah, Señor, just fifty
Gone since I plant him!
You like the wine? It is some at the Mission,
Made from the grape of the year eighteen hundred;
All the same time when the earthquake he come to
San Juan Bautista.
Made from the grape of the year eighteen hundred;
All the same time when the earthquake he come to
San Juan Bautista.
But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree;
And I am the olive, and this is the garden:
And “Pancha” we say, but her name is “Francisca,”
Same like her mother.
And I am the olive, and this is the garden:
And “Pancha” we say, but her name is “Francisca,”
Same like her mother.
105
Eh, you knew her? No? Ah! it is a story;
But I speak not, like Pachita, the English:
So! if I try, you will sit here beside me,
And shall not laugh, eh?
But I speak not, like Pachita, the English:
So! if I try, you will sit here beside me,
And shall not laugh, eh?
When the American come to the Mission,
Many arrive at the house of Francisca:
One,—he was fine man,—he buy the cattle
Of José Castro.
Many arrive at the house of Francisca:
One,—he was fine man,—he buy the cattle
Of José Castro.
So! he came much, and Francisca, she saw him:
And it was love,—and a very dry season;
And the pears bake on the tree,—and the rain come,
But not Francisca.
And it was love,—and a very dry season;
And the pears bake on the tree,—and the rain come,
But not Francisca.
Not for one year; and one night I have walk much
Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca,—
Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca,—
Under the olive-tree.
Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca,—
Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca,—
Under the olive-tree.
Sir, it was sad; ... but I speak not the English;
So! ... she stay here, and she wait for her husband:
He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside;
There stands Pachita.
So! ... she stay here, and she wait for her husband:
He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside;
There stands Pachita.
Ah! there's the Angelus. Will you not enter?
Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha?
Go, little rogue—st! attend to the stranger!
Adios, Señor.
Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha?
Go, little rogue—st! attend to the stranger!
Adios, Señor.
PACHITA
(briskly).
So, he's been telling that yarn about mother!
Bless you! he tells it to every stranger:
Folks about yer say the old man's my father;
What's your opinion?
106
THE LOST GALLEON
As the custom on which the central incident of this legend is based may not be familiar to all readers, I will repeat here that it is the habit of navigators to drop a day from their calendar in crossing westerly the 180th degree of longitude of Greenwich, adding a day in coming east; and that the idea of the lost galleon had an origin as prosaic as the log of the first China Mail Steamer from San Francisco. The explanation of the custom and its astronomical relations belongs rather to the usual text-books than to poetical narration. If any reader thinks I have overdrawn the credulous superstitions of the ancient navigators, I refer him to the veracious statements of Maldonado, De Fonté, the later voyages of La Perouse and Anson, and the charts of 1640. In the charts of that day Spanish navigators reckoned longitude E. 360 degrees from the meridian of the Isle of Ferro. For the sake of perspicuity before a modern audience, the more recent meridian of Madrid was substituted. The custom of dropping a day at some arbitrary point in crossing the Pacific westerly, I need not say, remains unaffected by any change of meridian. I know not if any galleon was ever really missing. For two hundred and fifty years an annual trip was made between Acapulco and Manila. It may be some satisfaction to the more severely practical of my readers to know that, according to the best statistics of insurance, the loss during that period would be exactly three vessels and six hundredths of a vessel, which would certainly justify me in this summary disposition of one.
As the custom on which the central incident of this legend is based may not be familiar to all readers, I will repeat here that it is the habit of navigators to drop a day from their calendar in crossing westerly the 180th degree of longitude of Greenwich, adding a day in coming east; and that the idea of the lost galleon had an origin as prosaic as the log of the first China Mail Steamer from San Francisco. The explanation of the custom and its astronomical relations belongs rather to the usual text-books than to poetical narration. If any reader thinks I have overdrawn the credulous superstitions of the ancient navigators, I refer him to the veracious statements of Maldonado, De Fonté, the later voyages of La Perouse and Anson, and the charts of 1640. In the charts of that day Spanish navigators reckoned longitude E. 360 degrees from the meridian of the Isle of Ferro. For the sake of perspicuity before a modern audience, the more recent meridian of Madrid was substituted. The custom of dropping a day at some arbitrary point in crossing the Pacific westerly, I need not say, remains unaffected by any change of meridian. I know not if any galleon was ever really missing. For two hundred and fifty years an annual trip was made between Acapulco and Manila. It may be some satisfaction to the more severely practical of my readers to know that, according to the best statistics of insurance, the loss during that period would be exactly three vessels and six hundredths of a vessel, which would certainly justify me in this summary disposition of one.
In sixteen hundred and forty-one,
The regular yearly galleon,
Laden with odorous gums and spice,
India cottons and India rice,
And the richest silks of far Cathay,
Was due at Acapulco Bay.
The regular yearly galleon,
Laden with odorous gums and spice,
India cottons and India rice,
And the richest silks of far Cathay,
Was due at Acapulco Bay.
Due she was, and overdue,—
Galleon, merchandise, and crew,
Creeping along through rain and shine,
Through the tropics, under the line.
The trains were waiting outside the walls,
The wives of sailors thronged the town,
The traders sat by their empty stalls,
And the Viceroy himself came down;
The bells in the tower were all a-trip,
Te Deums were on each Father's lip,
The limes were ripening in the sun
For the sick of the coming galleon.
Galleon, merchandise, and crew,
Creeping along through rain and shine,
Through the tropics, under the line.
The trains were waiting outside the walls,
The wives of sailors thronged the town,
The traders sat by their empty stalls,
And the Viceroy himself came down;
The bells in the tower were all a-trip,
Te Deums were on each Father's lip,
The limes were ripening in the sun
For the sick of the coming galleon.
All in vain. Weeks passed away,
And yet no galleon saw the bay.
India goods advanced in price;
The Governor missed his favorite spice;
The Señoritas mourned for sandal
And the famous cottons of Coromandel;
And some for an absent lover lost,
And one for a husband,—Doña Julia,
Wife of the captain tempest-tossed,
In circumstances so peculiar;
Even the Fathers, unawares,
Grumbled a little at their prayers;
And all along the coast that year
Votive candles were scarce and dear.
And yet no galleon saw the bay.
India goods advanced in price;
The Governor missed his favorite spice;
The Señoritas mourned for sandal
And the famous cottons of Coromandel;
And some for an absent lover lost,
And one for a husband,—Doña Julia,
107
In circumstances so peculiar;
Even the Fathers, unawares,
Grumbled a little at their prayers;
And all along the coast that year
Votive candles were scarce and dear.
Never a tear bedims the eye
That time and patience will not dry;
Never a lip is curved with pain
That can't be kissed into smiles again;
And these same truths, as far as I know,
Obtained on the coast of Mexico
More than two hundred years ago,
In sixteen hundred and fifty-one,—
Ten years after the deed was done,—
And folks had forgotten the galleon:
The divers plunged in the gulf for pearls,
White as the teeth of the Indian girls;
The traders sat by their full bazaars;
The mules with many a weary load,
And oxen dragging their creaking cars,
Came and went on the mountain road.
That time and patience will not dry;
Never a lip is curved with pain
That can't be kissed into smiles again;
And these same truths, as far as I know,
Obtained on the coast of Mexico
More than two hundred years ago,
In sixteen hundred and fifty-one,—
Ten years after the deed was done,—
And folks had forgotten the galleon:
The divers plunged in the gulf for pearls,
White as the teeth of the Indian girls;
The traders sat by their full bazaars;
The mules with many a weary load,
And oxen dragging their creaking cars,
Came and went on the mountain road.
Where was the galleon all this while?
Wrecked on some lonely coral isle,
Burnt by the roving sea-marauders,
Or sailing north under secret orders?
Had she found the Anian passage famed,
By lying Maldonado claimed,
And sailed through the sixty-fifth degree
Direct to the North Atlantic Sea?
Or had she found the “River of Kings,”
Of which De Fonte told such strange things,
In sixteen forty? Never a sign,
East or west or under the line,
They saw of the missing galleon;
Never a sail or plank or chip
They found of the long-lost treasure-ship,
Or enough to build a tale upon.
But when she was lost, and where and how,
Are the facts we're coming to just now.
Wrecked on some lonely coral isle,
Burnt by the roving sea-marauders,
Or sailing north under secret orders?
Had she found the Anian passage famed,
By lying Maldonado claimed,
And sailed through the sixty-fifth degree
Direct to the North Atlantic Sea?
Or had she found the “River of Kings,”
Of which De Fonte told such strange things,
In sixteen forty? Never a sign,
108
They saw of the missing galleon;
Never a sail or plank or chip
They found of the long-lost treasure-ship,
Or enough to build a tale upon.
But when she was lost, and where and how,
Are the facts we're coming to just now.
Take, if you please, the chart of that day,
Published at Madrid,—por el Rey;
Look for a spot in the old South Sea,
The hundred and eightieth degree
Longitude west of Madrid: there,
Under the equatorial glare,
Just where the east and west are one,
You'll find the missing galleon,—
You'll find the San Gregorio, yet
Riding the seas, with sails all set,
Fresh as upon the very day
She sailed from Acapulco Bay.
Published at Madrid,—por el Rey;
Look for a spot in the old South Sea,
The hundred and eightieth degree
Longitude west of Madrid: there,
Under the equatorial glare,
Just where the east and west are one,
You'll find the missing galleon,—
You'll find the San Gregorio, yet
Riding the seas, with sails all set,
Fresh as upon the very day
She sailed from Acapulco Bay.
How did she get there? What strange spell
Kept her two hundred years so well,
Free from decay and mortal taint?
What but the prayers of a patron saint!
Kept her two hundred years so well,
Free from decay and mortal taint?
What but the prayers of a patron saint!
A hundred leagues from Manilla town,
The San Gregorio's helm came down;
Round she went on her heel, and not
A cable's length from a galliot
That rocked on the waters just abreast
Of the galleon's course, which was west-sou'-west.
The San Gregorio's helm came down;
Round she went on her heel, and not
A cable's length from a galliot
That rocked on the waters just abreast
Of the galleon's course, which was west-sou'-west.
Then said the galleon's commandante,
General Pedro Sobriente
(That was his rank on land and main,
A regular custom of Old Spain),
“My pilot is dead of scurvy: may
I ask the longitude, time, and day?”
The first two given and compared;
The third—the commandante stared!
“The first of June? I make it second.”
Said the stranger, “Then you've wrongly reckoned;
I make it first: as you came this way,
You should have lost, d' ye see, a day;
Lost a day, as plainly see,
On the hundred and eightieth degree.”
“Lost a day?” “Yes; if not rude,
When did you make east longitude?”
“On the ninth of May,—our patron's day.”
“On the ninth?—you had no ninth of May!
Eighth and tenth was there; but stay”—
Too late; for the galleon bore away.
General Pedro Sobriente
109
A regular custom of Old Spain),
“My pilot is dead of scurvy: may
I ask the longitude, time, and day?”
The first two given and compared;
The third—the commandante stared!
“The first of June? I make it second.”
Said the stranger, “Then you've wrongly reckoned;
I make it first: as you came this way,
You should have lost, d' ye see, a day;
Lost a day, as plainly see,
On the hundred and eightieth degree.”
“Lost a day?” “Yes; if not rude,
When did you make east longitude?”
“On the ninth of May,—our patron's day.”
“On the ninth?—you had no ninth of May!
Eighth and tenth was there; but stay”—
Too late; for the galleon bore away.
Lost was the day they should have kept,
Lost unheeded and lost unwept;
Lost in a way that made search vain,
Lost in a trackless and boundless main;
Lost like the day of Job's awful curse,
In his third chapter, third and fourth verse;
Wrecked was their patron's only day,—
What would the holy Fathers say?
Lost unheeded and lost unwept;
Lost in a way that made search vain,
Lost in a trackless and boundless main;
Lost like the day of Job's awful curse,
In his third chapter, third and fourth verse;
Wrecked was their patron's only day,—
What would the holy Fathers say?
Said the Fray Antonio Estavan,
The galleon's chaplain,—a learned man,—
“Nothing is lost that you can regain;
And the way to look for a thing is plain,
To go where you lost it, back again.
Back with your galleon till you see
The hundred and eightieth degree.
Wait till the rolling year goes round,
And there will the missing day be found;
For you'll find, if computation's true,
That sailing East will give to you
Not only one ninth of May, but two,—
One for the good saint's present cheer,
And one for the day we lost last year.”
The galleon's chaplain,—a learned man,—
“Nothing is lost that you can regain;
And the way to look for a thing is plain,
To go where you lost it, back again.
Back with your galleon till you see
The hundred and eightieth degree.
110
And there will the missing day be found;
For you'll find, if computation's true,
That sailing East will give to you
Not only one ninth of May, but two,—
One for the good saint's present cheer,
And one for the day we lost last year.”
Back to the spot sailed the galleon;
Where, for a twelvemonth, off and on
The hundred and eightieth degree
She rose and fell on a tropic sea.
But lo! when it came to the ninth of May,
All of a sudden becalmed she lay
One degree from that fatal spot,
Without the power to move a knot;
And of course the moment she lost her way,
Gone was her chance to save that day.
Where, for a twelvemonth, off and on
The hundred and eightieth degree
She rose and fell on a tropic sea.
But lo! when it came to the ninth of May,
All of a sudden becalmed she lay
One degree from that fatal spot,
Without the power to move a knot;
And of course the moment she lost her way,
Gone was her chance to save that day.
To cut a lengthening story short,
She never saved it. Made the sport
Of evil spirits and baffling wind,
She was always before or just behind,
One day too soon or one day too late,
And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait.
She had two Eighths, as she idly lay,
Two Tenths, but never a Ninth of May;
And there she rides through two hundred years
Of dreary penance and anxious fears;
Yet, through the grace of the saint she served,
Captain and crew are still preserved.
She never saved it. Made the sport
Of evil spirits and baffling wind,
She was always before or just behind,
One day too soon or one day too late,
And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait.
She had two Eighths, as she idly lay,
Two Tenths, but never a Ninth of May;
And there she rides through two hundred years
Of dreary penance and anxious fears;
Yet, through the grace of the saint she served,
Captain and crew are still preserved.
By a computation that still holds good,
Made by the Holy Brotherhood,
The San Gregorio will cross that line
In nineteen hundred and thirty-nine:
Just three hundred years to a day
From the time she lost the ninth of May.
And the folk in Acapulco town,
Over the waters looking down,
Will see in the glow of the setting sun
The sails of the missing galleon,
And the royal standard of Philip Rey,
The gleaming mast and glistening spar,
As she nears the surf of the outer bar.
A Te Deum sung on her crowded deck,
An odor of spice along the shore,
A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck,—
And the yearly galleon sails no more
In or out of the olden bay;
For the blessed patron has found his day.
Made by the Holy Brotherhood,
The San Gregorio will cross that line
111
Just three hundred years to a day
From the time she lost the ninth of May.
And the folk in Acapulco town,
Over the waters looking down,
Will see in the glow of the setting sun
The sails of the missing galleon,
And the royal standard of Philip Rey,
The gleaming mast and glistening spar,
As she nears the surf of the outer bar.
A Te Deum sung on her crowded deck,
An odor of spice along the shore,
A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck,—
And the yearly galleon sails no more
In or out of the olden bay;
For the blessed patron has found his day.
Such is the legend. Hear this truth:
Over the trackless past, somewhere,
Lie the lost days of our tropic youth,
Only regained by faith and prayer,
Only recalled by prayer and plaint:
Each lost day has its patron saint!
Over the trackless past, somewhere,
Lie the lost days of our tropic youth,
Only regained by faith and prayer,
Only recalled by prayer and plaint:
Each lost day has its patron saint!
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