Kitabı oku: «Complete Poetical Works», sayfa 12

THE TWO SHIPS

 
     As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest,
         Looking over the ultimate sea,
     In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest,
         And one sails away from the lea:
     One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track,
         With pennant and sheet flowing free;
     One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,—
         The ship that is waiting for me!
 
 
     But lo! in the distance the clouds break away,
         The Gate's glowing portals I see;
     And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay
         The song of the sailors in glee.
     So I think of the luminous footprints that bore
         The comfort o'er dark Galilee,
     And wait for the signal to go to the shore,
         To the ship that is waiting for me.
 

ADDRESS

(OPENING OF THE CALIFORNIA THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JANUARY 19, 1870)

 
     Brief words, when actions wait, are well:
     The prompter's hand is on his bell;
     The coming heroes, lovers, kings,
     Are idly lounging at the wings;
     Behind the curtain's mystic fold
     The glowing future lies unrolled;
     And yet, one moment for the Past,
     One retrospect,—the first and last.
 
 
     "The world's a stage," the Master said.
     To-night a mightier truth is read:
     Not in the shifting canvas screen,
     The flash of gas or tinsel sheen;
     Not in the skill whose signal calls
     From empty boards baronial halls;
     But, fronting sea and curving bay,
     Behold the players and the play.
 
 
     Ah, friends! beneath your real skies
     The actor's short-lived triumph dies:
     On that broad stage of empire won,
     Whose footlights were the setting sun,
     Whose flats a distant background rose
     In trackless peaks of endless snows;
     Here genius bows, and talent waits
     To copy that but One creates.
 
 
     Your shifting scenes: the league of sand,
     An avenue by ocean spanned;
     The narrow beach of straggling tents,
     A mile of stately monuments;
     Your standard, lo! a flag unfurled,
     Whose clinging folds clasp half the world,—
     This is your drama, built on facts,
     With "twenty years between the acts."
 
 
     One moment more: if here we raise
     The oft-sung hymn of local praise,
     Before the curtain facts must sway;
     HERE waits the moral of your play.
     Glassed in the poet's thought, you view
     What money can, yet cannot do;
     The faith that soars, the deeds that shine,
     Above the gold that builds the shrine.
 
 
     And oh! when others take our place,
     And Earth's green curtain hides our face,
     Ere on the stage, so silent now,
     The last new hero makes his bow:
     So may our deeds, recalled once more
     In Memory's sweet but brief encore,
     Down all the circling ages run,
     With the world's plaudit of "Well done!"
 

DOLLY VARDEN

 
     Dear Dolly! who does not recall
     The thrilling page that pictured all
     Those charms that held our sense in thrall
       Just as the artist caught her,—
     As down that English lane she tripped,
     In bowered chintz, hat sideways tipped,
     Trim-bodiced, bright-eyed, roguish-lipped,—
       The locksmith's pretty daughter?
 
 
     Sweet fragment of the Master's art!
     O simple faith!  O rustic heart!
     O maid that hath no counterpart
       In life's dry, dog-eared pages!
     Where shall we find thy like?  Ah, stay!
     Methinks I saw her yesterday
     In chintz that flowered, as one might say,
       Perennial for ages.
 
 
     Her father's modest cot was stone,
     Five stories high; in style and tone
     Composite, and, I frankly own,
       Within its walls revealing
     Some certain novel, strange ideas:
     A Gothic door with Roman piers,
     And floors removed some thousand years,
       From their Pompeian ceiling.
 
 
     The small salon where she received
     Was Louis Quatorze, and relieved
     By Chinese cabinets, conceived
       Grotesquely by the heathen;
     The sofas were a classic sight,—
     The Roman bench (sedilia hight);
     The chairs were French in gold and white,
       And one Elizabethan.
 
 
     And she, the goddess of that shrine,
     Two ringed fingers placed in mine,—
     The stones were many carats fine,
       And of the purest water,—
     Then dropped a curtsy, far enough
     To fairly fill her cretonne puff
     And show the petticoat's rich stuff
       That her fond parent bought her.
 
 
     Her speech was simple as her dress,—
     Not French the more, but English less,
     She loved; yet sometimes, I confess,
       I scarce could comprehend her.
     Her manners were quite far from shy.
     There was a quiet in her eye
     Appalling to the Hugh who'd try
       With rudeness to offend her.
 
 
     "But whence," I cried, "this masquerade?
     Some figure for to-night's charade,
     A Watteau shepherdess or maid?"
       She smiled and begged my pardon:
     "Why, surely you must know the name,—
     That woman who was Shakespeare's flame
     Or Byron's,—well, it's all the same:
       Why, Lord! I'm Dolly Varden!"
 

TELEMACHUS VERSUS MENTOR

 
     Don't mind me, I beg you, old fellow,—I'll do very well here alone;
     You must not be kept from your "German" because I've dropped in like
        a stone.
     Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught but
        yourself;
     And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on the shelf.
 
 
     As for me, you will say to your hostess—well, I scarcely need give
        you a cue.
     Chant my praise!  All will list to Apollo, though Mercury pipe to a
        few.
     Say just what you please, my dear boy; there's more eloquence lies
        in youth's rash
     Outspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this grizzling
        mustache.
 
 
     Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant,—youth's panoplied armor for
        fight,—
     And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and lasts
        but a night;
     And pray the Nine Gods to avert you what time the Three Sisters
        shall frown,
     And you'll lose your high-comedy figure, and sit more at ease in
        your gown.
 
 
     He's off!  There's his foot on the staircase.  By Jove, what a bound!
        Really now
     Did I ever leap like this springald, with Love's chaplet green on my
        brow?
     Was I such an ass?  No, I fancy.  Indeed, I remember quite plain
     A gravity mixed with my transports, a cheerfulness softened my pain.
 
 
     He's gone!  There's the slam of his cab door, there's the clatter
        of hoofs and the wheels;
     And while he the light toe is tripping, in this armchair I'll tilt
        up my heels.
     He's gone, and for what?  For a tremor from a waist like a teetotum
        spun;
     For a rosebud that's crumpled by many before it is gathered by one.
 
 
     Is there naught in the halo of youth but the glow of a passionate
     race—'Midst the cheers and applause of a crowd—to the goal of a
        beautiful face?
     A race that is not to the swift, a prize that no merits enforce,
     But is won by some faineant youth, who shall simply walk over the
        course?
 
 
     Poor boy! shall I shock his conceit?  When he talks of her cheek's
        loveliness,
     Shall I say 'twas the air of the room, and was due to carbonic excess?
     That when waltzing she drooped on his breast, and the veins of her
        eyelids grew dim,
     'Twas oxygen's absence she felt, but never the presence of him?
 
 
     Shall I tell him first love is a fraud, a weakling that's strangled
        in birth,
     Recalled with perfunctory tears, but lost in unsanctified mirth?
     Or shall I go bid him believe in all womankind's charm, and forget
     In the light ringing laugh of the world the rattlesnake's gay
        castanet?
     Shall I tear out a leaf from my heart, from that book that forever
        is shut
     On the past?  Shall I speak of my first love—Augusta—my Lalage?
        But
     I forget.  Was it really Augusta?  No. 'Twas Lucy!  No.  Mary!
        No.  Di!
     Never mind! they were all first and faithless, and yet—I've forgotten
        just why.
 
 
     No, no!  Let him dream on and ever.  Alas! he will waken too soon;
     And it doesn't look well for October to always be preaching at June.
     Poor boy!  All his fond foolish trophies pinned yonder—a bow from
        HER hair,
     A few billets-doux, invitations, and—what's this?  My name, I
        declare!
 
 
     Humph!  "You'll come, for I've got you a prize, with beauty and money
        no end:
     You know her, I think; 'twas on dit she once was engaged to your
        friend;
     But she says that's all over."  Ah, is it?  Sweet Ethel! incomparable
        maid!
     Or—what if the thing were a trick?—this letter so freely displayed!—
 
 
     My opportune presence!  No! nonsense!  Will nobody answer the bell?
     Call a cab!  Half past ten.  Not too late yet.  Oh, Ethel!  Why don't
        you go?  Well?
     "Master said you would wait"–  Hang your master!  "Have I ever a
        message to send?"
     Yes, tell him I've gone to the German to dance with the friend of
        his friend.
 

WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD

 
     Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair,
     Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare?
     "Why are my eyelids so open and wild?"
     Only the better to see with, my child!
     Only the better and clearer to view
     Cheeks that are rosy and eyes that are blue.
 
 
     Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms
     Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms,
     Swaying so wickedly?  Are they misplaced
     Clasping or shielding some delicate waist?
     Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear
     Only the better protect you, my dear!
 
 
     Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street,
     Why do I press your small hand when we meet?
     Why, when you timidly offered your cheek,
     Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak?
     Why, well: you see—if the truth must appear—
     I'm not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear!
 

HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER

 
     "So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you met on the train,
     And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her
        again?"
 
 
     "Of course," he replied, "she would know me; there never was
        womankind yet
     Forgot the effect she inspired.  She excuses, but does not forget."
 
 
     "Then you told her your love?" asked the elder.  The younger looked
        up with a smile:
     "I sat by her side half an hour—what else was I doing the while?
 
 
     "What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky,
     And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from your own to
        her eye?
 
 
     "No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and as bold as
        the look,
     And I held up herself to herself,—that was more than she got from
        her book."
 
 
     "Young blood!" laughed the elder; "no doubt you are voicing the mode
        of To-Day:
     But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance for delay.
 
 
     "There's my wife (you must know),—we first met on the journey from
        Florence to Rome:
     It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where was her home;
 
 
     "Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw her again;
     And a year ere my romance BEGAN where yours ended that day on the
        train."
 
 
     "Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day by
        express;
     Forty miles to the hour," he answered, "won't admit of a passion
        that's less."
 
 
     "But what if you make a mistake?" quoth the elder.  The younger half
        sighed.
     "What happens when signals are wrong or switches misplaced?" he
        replied.
 
 
     "Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned, "but
        submit
     Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has bettered no whit.
 
 
     "Why, you do not at best know her name.  And what if I try your ideal
     With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regle and real?
 
 
     "Let me find you a partner.  Nay, come, I insist—you shall follow—
        this way.
     My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to stay?
 
 
     "My wife, Mr. Rapid—  Eh, what!  Why, he's gone—yet he said he
        would come.
     How rude!  I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly crimson and
        dumb!"
 

WHAT THE BULLET SANG

 
     O joy of creation
           To be!
     O rapture to fly
           And be free!
     Be the battle lost or won,
     Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
     I shall find my love,—the one
           Born for me!
     I shall know him where he stands,
           All alone,
     With the power in his hands
           Not o'erthrown;
 
 
     I shall know him by his face,
     By his godlike front and grace;
     I shall hold him for a space,
           All my own!
     It is he—O my love!
           So bold!
 
 
     It is I—all thy love
           Foretold!
     It is I.  O love! what bliss!
     Dost thou answer to my kiss?
     O sweetheart! what is this
           Lieth there so cold?
 

THE OLD CAMP-FIRE

 
     Now shift the blanket pad before your saddle back you fling,
     And draw your cinch up tighter till the sweat drops from the ring:
     We've a dozen miles to cover ere we reach the next divide.
     Our limbs are stiffer now than when we first set out to ride,
     And worse, the horses know it, and feel the leg-grip tire,
     Since in the days when, long ago, we sought the old camp-fire.
 
 
     Yes, twenty years!  Lord! how we'd scent its incense down the trail,
     Through balm of bay and spice of spruce, when eye and ear would fail,
     And worn and faint from useless quest we crept, like this, to rest,
     Or, flushed with luck and youthful hope, we rode, like this, abreast.
     Ay! straighten up, old friend, and let the mustang think he's nigher,
     Through looser rein and stirrup strain, the welcome old camp-fire.
 
 
     You know the shout that would ring out before us down the glade,
     And start the blue jays like a flight of arrows through the shade,
     And sift the thin pine needles down like slanting, shining rain,
     And send the squirrels scampering back to their holes again,
     Until we saw, blue-veiled and dim, or leaping like desire,
     That flame of twenty years ago, which lit the old camp-fire.
 
 
     And then that rest on Nature's breast, when talk had dropped, and slow
     The night wind went from tree to tree with challenge soft and low!
     We lay on lazy elbows propped, or stood to stir the flame,
     Till up the soaring redwood's shaft our shadows danced and came,
     As if to draw us with the sparks, high o'er its unseen spire,
     To the five stars that kept their ward above the old camp-fire,—
 
 
     Those picket stars whose tranquil watch half soothed, half shamed
        our sleep.
     What recked we then what beasts or men around might lurk or creep?
     We lay and heard with listless ears the far-off panther's cry,
     The near coyote's snarling snap, the grizzly's deep-drawn sigh,
     The brown bear's blundering human tread, the gray wolves' yelping
        choir
     Beyond the magic circle drawn around the old camp-fire.
 
 
     And then that morn!  Was ever morn so filled with all things new?
     The light that fell through long brown aisles from out the kindling
        blue,
     The creak and yawn of stretching boughs, the jay-bird's early call,
     The rat-tat-tat of woodpecker that waked the woodland hall,
     The fainter stir of lower life in fern and brake and brier,
     Till flashing leaped the torch of Day from last night's old camp-fire!
 
 
     Well, well! we'll see it once again; we should be near it now;
     It's scarce a mile to where the trail strikes off to skirt the slough,
     And then the dip to Indian Spring, the wooded rise, and—strange!
     Yet here should stand the blasted pine that marked our farther range;
     And here—what's this?  A ragged swab of ruts and stumps and mire!
     Sure this is not the sacred grove that hid the old camp-fire!
 
 
     Yet here's the "blaze" I cut myself, and there's the stumbling ledge,
     With quartz "outcrop" that lay atop, now leveled to its edge,
     And mounds of moss-grown stumps beside the woodman's rotting chips,
     And gashes in the hillside, that gape with dumb red lips.
     And yet above the shattered wreck and ruin, curling higher—
     Ah yes!—still lifts the smoke that marked the welcome old camp-fire!
 
 
     Perhaps some friend of twenty years still lingers there to raise
     To weary hearts and tired eyes that beacon of old days.
     Perhaps but stay; 'tis gone! and yet once more it lifts as though
     To meet our tardy blundering steps, and seems to MOVE, and lo!
     Whirls by us in a rush of sound,—the vanished funeral pyre
     Of hopes and fears that twenty years burned in the old camp-fire!
 
 
     For see, beyond the prospect spreads, with chimney, spire, and roof,—
     Two iron bands across the trail clank to our mustang's hoof;
     Above them leap two blackened threads from limb-lopped tree to tree,
     To where the whitewashed station speeds its message to the sea.
     Rein in!  Rein in!  The quest is o'er.  The goal of our desire
     Is but the train whose track has lain across the old camp-fire!
 

THE STATION-MASTER OF LONE PRAIRIE

 
     An empty bench, a sky of grayest etching,
     A bare, bleak shed in blackest silhouette,
     Twelve years of platform, and before them stretching
     Twelve miles of prairie glimmering through the wet.
 
 
     North, south, east, west,—the same dull gray persistence,
     The tattered vapors of a vanished train,
     The narrowing rails that meet to pierce the distance,
     Or break the columns of the far-off rain.
 
 
     Naught but myself; nor form nor figure breaking
     The long hushed level and stark shining waste;
     Nothing that moves to fill the vision aching,
     When the last shadow fled in sullen haste.
 
 
     Nothing beyond.  Ah yes!  From out the station
     A stiff, gaunt figure thrown against the sky,
     Beckoning me with some wooden salutation
     Caught from his signals as the train flashed by;
 
 
     Yielding me place beside him with dumb gesture
     Born of that reticence of sky and air.
     We sit apart, yet wrapped in that one vesture
     Of silence, sadness, and unspoken care:
 
 
     Each following his own thought,—around us darkening
     The rain-washed boundaries and stretching track,—
     Each following those dim parallels and hearkening
     For long-lost voices that will not come back.
 
 
     Until, unasked,—I knew not why or wherefore,—
     He yielded, bit by bit, his dreary past,
     Like gathered clouds that seemed to thicken there for
     Some dull down-dropping of their care at last.
 
 
     Long had he lived there.  As a boy had started
     From the stacked corn the Indian's painted face;
     Heard the wolves' howl the wearying waste that parted
     His father's hut from the last camping-place.
 
 
     Nature had mocked him: thrice had claimed the reaping,
     With scythe of fire, of lands she once had sown;
     Sent the tornado, round his hearthstone heaping
     Rafters, dead faces that were like his own.
 
 
     Then came the War Time.  When its shadow beckoned
     He had walked dumbly where the flag had led
     Through swamp and fen,—unknown, unpraised, unreckoned,—
     To famine, fever, and a prison bed.
 
 
     Till the storm passed, and the slow tide returning
     Cast him, a wreck, beneath his native sky;
     Here, at his watch, gave him the chance of earning
     Scant means to live—who won the right to die.
 
 
     All this I heard—or seemed to hear—half blending
     With the low murmur of the coming breeze,
     The call of some lost bird, and the unending
     And tireless sobbing of those grassy seas.
 
 
     Until at last the spell of desolation
     Broke with a trembling star and far-off cry.
     The coming train!  I glanced around the station,
     All was as empty as the upper sky!
 
 
     Naught but myself; nor form nor figure waking
     The long hushed level and stark shining waste;
     Naught but myself, that cry, and the dull shaking
     Of wheel and axle, stopped in breathless haste!
 
 
     "Now, then—look sharp!  Eh, what?  The Station-Master?
     THAR'S NONE!  We stopped here of our own accord.
     The man got killed in that down-train disaster
     This time last evening.  Right there!  All aboard!"