The Writings of Bret Harte standard library edition |
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“MAD RIVER” |
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 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
319
“MAD RIVER”
Where the Redwood spires together
Pierce the mists in stormy weather,
Where the willow's topmost feather
Waves the limpid waters o'er;
Where the long and sweeping surges
Sing their melancholy dirges,
There the river just emerges
On the sad Pacific's shore.
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,
320
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 Writings of Bret Harte | |