Kitabı oku: «Complete Poetical Works», sayfa 13

THE MISSION BELLS OF MONTEREY

 
     O bells that rang, O bells that sang
     Above the martyrs' wilderness,
     Till from that reddened coast-line sprang
     The Gospel seed to cheer and bless,
     What are your garnered sheaves to-day?
     O Mission bells!  Eleison bells!
     O Mission bells of Monterey!
 
 
     O bells that crash, O bells that clash
     Above the chimney-crowded plain,
     On wall and tower your voices dash,
     But never with the old refrain;
     In mart and temple gone astray!
     Ye dangle bells!  Ye jangle bells!
     Ye wrangle bells of Monterey!
 
 
     O bells that die, so far, so nigh,
     Come back once more across the sea;
     Not with the zealot's furious cry,
     Not with the creed's austerity;
     Come with His love alone to stay,
     O Mission bells!  Eleison bells!
     O Mission bells of Monterey!
 

* This poem was set to music by Monsieur Charles Gounod.

"CROTALUS"

(RATTLESNAKE BAR, SIERRAS)

 
     No life in earth, or air, or sky;
     The sunbeams, broken silently,
     On the bared rocks around me lie,—
 
 
     Cold rocks with half-warmed lichens scarred,
     And scales of moss; and scarce a yard
     Away, one long strip, yellow-barred.
 
 
     Lost in a cleft!  'Tis but a stride
     To reach it, thrust its roots aside,
     And lift it on thy stick astride!
 
 
     Yet stay!  That moment is thy grace!
     For round thee, thrilling air and space,
     A chattering terror fills the place!
 
 
     A sound as of dry bones that stir
     In the dead Valley!  By yon fir
     The locust stops its noonday whir!
 
 
     The wild bird hears; smote with the sound,
     As if by bullet brought to ground,
     On broken wing, dips, wheeling round!
 
 
     The hare, transfixed, with trembling lip,
     Halts, breathless, on pulsating hip,
     And palsied tread, and heels that slip.
 
 
     Enough, old friend!—'tis thou.  Forget
     My heedless foot, nor longer fret
     The peace with thy grim castanet!
 
 
     I know thee!  Yes!  Thou mayst forego
     That lifted crest; the measured blow
     Beyond which thy pride scorns to go,
 
 
     Or yet retract!  For me no spell
     Lights those slit orbs, where, some think, dwell
     Machicolated fires of hell!
 
 
     I only know thee humble, bold,
     Haughty, with miseries untold,
     And the old Curse that left thee cold,
 
 
     And drove thee ever to the sun,
     On blistering rocks; nor made thee shun
     Our cabin's hearth, when day was done,
 
 
     And the spent ashes warmed thee best;
     We knew thee,—silent, joyless guest
     Of our rude ingle.  E'en thy quest
 
 
     Of the rare milk-bowl seemed to be
     Naught but a brother's poverty,
     And Spartan taste that kept thee free
 
 
     From lust and rapine.  Thou! whose fame
     Searchest the grass with tongue of flame,
     Making all creatures seem thy game;
 
 
     When the whole woods before thee run,
     Asked but—when all was said and done—
     To lie, untrodden, in the sun!
 

ON WILLIAM FRANCIS BARTLETT

DEAD AT PITTSFIELD, MASS., 1876

 
     O poor Romancer—thou whose printed page,
     Filled with rude speech and ruder forms of strife,
     Was given to heroes in whose vulgar rage
     No trace appears of gentler ways and life!—
 
 
     Thou who wast wont of commoner clay to build
     Some rough Achilles or some Ajax tall;
     Thou whose free brush too oft was wont to gild
     Some single virtue till it dazzled all;—
 
 
     What right hast thou beside this laureled bier
     Whereon all manhood lies—whereon the wreath
     Of Harvard rests, the civic crown, and here
     The starry flag, and sword and jeweled sheath?
 
 
     Seest thou these hatchments?  Knowest thou this blood
     Nourished the heroes of Colonial days—
     Sent to the dim and savage-haunted wood
     Those sad-eyed Puritans with hymns of praise?
 
 
     Look round thee!  Everywhere is classic ground.
     There Greylock rears.  Beside yon silver "Bowl"
     Great Hawthorne dwelt, and in its mirror found
     Those quaint, strange shapes that filled his poet's soul.
 
 
     Still silent, Stranger?  Thou who now and then
     Touched the too credulous ear with pathos, canst not speak?
     Hast lost thy ready skill of tongue and pen?
     What, Jester!  Tears upon that painted cheek?
 
 
     Pardon, good friends!  I am not here to mar
     His laureled wreaths with this poor tinseled crown—
     This man who taught me how 'twas better far
     To be the poem than to write it down.
 
 
     I bring no lesson.  Well have others preached
     This sword that dealt full many a gallant blow;
     I come once more to touch the hand that reached
     Its knightly gauntlet to the vanquished foe.
 
 
     O pale Aristocrat, that liest there,
     So cold, so silent!  Couldst thou not in grace
     Have borne with us still longer, and so spare
     The scorn we see in that proud, placid face?
 
 
     "Hail and farewell!"  So the proud Roman cried
     O'er his dead hero.  "Hail," but not "farewell."
     With each high thought thou walkest side by side;
     We feel thee, touch thee, know who wrought the spell!
 

THE BIRDS OF CIRENCESTER

 
     Did I ever tell you, my dears, the way
     That the birds of Cisseter—"Cisseter!" eh?
     Well "Ciren-cester"—one OUGHT to say,
     From "Castra," or "Caster,"
     As your Latin master
     Will further explain to you some day;
     Though even the wisest err,
     And Shakespeare writes "Ci-cester,"
     While every visitor
     Who doesn't say "Cissiter"
     Is in "Ciren-cester" considered astray.
 
 
     A hundred miles from London town—
     Where the river goes curving and broadening down
     From tree-top to spire, and spire to mast,
     Till it tumbles outright in the Channel at last—
     A hundred miles from that flat foreshore
     That the Danes and the Northmen haunt no more—
     There's a little cup in the Cotswold hills
     Which a spring in a meadow bubbles and fills,
     Spanned by a heron's wing—crossed by a stride—
     Calm and untroubled by dreams of pride,
     Guiltless of Fame or ambition's aims,
     That is the source of the lordly Thames!
     Remark here again that custom contemns
     Both "Tames" and Thames—you must SAY "Tems!"
     But WHY? no matter!—from them you can see
     Cirencester's tall spires loom up o'er the lea.
 
 
     A. D. Five Hundred and Fifty-two,
     The Saxon invaders—a terrible crew—
     Had forced the lines of the Britons through;
     And Cirencester, half mud and thatch,
     Dry and crisp as a tinder match,
     Was fiercely beleaguered by foes, who'd catch
     At any device that could harry and rout
     The folk that so boldly were holding out.
 
 
     For the streets of the town—as you'll see to-day—
     Were twisted and curved in a curious way
     That kept the invaders still at bay;
     And the longest bolt that a Saxon drew
     Was stopped ere a dozen of yards it flew,
     By a turn in the street, and a law so true
     That even these robbers—of all laws scorners!—
     Knew you couldn't shoot arrows AROUND street corners.
 
 
     So they sat them down on a little knoll,
     And each man scratched his Saxon poll,
     And stared at the sky, where, clear and high,
     The birds of that summer went singing by,
     As if, in his glee, each motley jester
     Were mocking the foes of Cirencester,
     Till the jeering crow and the saucy linnet
     Seemed all to be saying: "Ah! you're not in it!"
 
 
     High o'er their heads the mavis flew,
     And the "ouzel-cock so black of hue;"
     And the "throstle," with his "note so true"
     (You remember what Shakespeare says—HE knew);
     And the soaring lark, that kept dropping through
     Like a bucket spilling in wells of blue;
     And the merlin—seen on heraldic panes—
     With legs as vague as the Queen of Spain's;
 
 
     And the dashing swift that would ricochet
     From the tufts of grasses before them, yet—
     Like bold Antaeus—would each time bring
     New life from the earth, barely touched by his wing;
     And the swallow and martlet that always knew
     The straightest way home.  Here a Saxon churl drew
     His breath—tapped his forehead—an idea had got through!
 
 
     So they brought them some nets, which straightway they filled
     With the swallows and martlets—the sweet birds who build
     In the houses of man—all that innocent guild
     Who sing at their labor on eaves and in thatch—
     And they stuck on their feathers a rude lighted match
     Made of resin and tow.  Then they let them all go
     To be free!  As a child-like diversion?  Ah, no!
     To work Cirencester's red ruin and woe.
 
 
     For straight to each nest they flew, in wild quest
     Of their homes and their fledgelings—that they loved the best;
     And straighter than arrow of Saxon e'er sped
     They shot o'er the curving streets, high overhead,
     Bringing fire and terror to roof tree and bed,
     Till the town broke in flame, wherever they came,
     To the Briton's red ruin—the Saxon's red shame!
 
 
     Yet they're all gone together!  To-day you'll dig up
     From "mound" or from "barrow" some arrow or cup.
     Their fame is forgotten—their story is ended—
     'Neath the feet of the race they have mixed with and blended.
     But the birds are unchanged—the ouzel-cock sings,
     Still gold on his crest and still black on his wings;
     And the lark chants on high, as he mounts to the sky,
     Still brown in his coat and still dim in his eye;
     While the swallow or martlet is still a free nester
     In the eaves and the roofs of thrice-built Cirencester.
 

LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON

 
     When I bought you for a song,
     Years ago—Lord knows how long!—
     I was struck—I may be wrong—
         By your features,
     And—a something in your air
     That I couldn't quite compare
     To my other plain or fair
         Fellow creatures.
 
 
     In your simple, oval frame
     You were not well known to fame,
     But to me—'twas all the same—
         Whoe'er drew you;
     For your face I can't forget,
     Though I oftentimes regret
     That, somehow, I never yet
         Saw quite through you.
 
 
     Yet each morning, when I rise,
     I go first to greet your eyes;
     And, in turn, YOU scrutinize
         My presentment.
     And when shades of evening fall,
     As you hang upon my wall,
     You're the last thing I recall
         With contentment.
 
 
     It is weakness, yet I know
     That I never turned to go
     Anywhere, for weal or woe,
         But I lingered
     For one parting, thrilling flash
     From your eyes, to give that dash
     To the curl of my mustache,
         That I fingered.
 
 
     If to some you may seem plain,
     And when people glance again
     Where you hang, their lips refrain.
         From confession;
     Yet they turn in stealth aside,
     And I note, they try to hide
     How much they are satisfied
         In expression.
 
 
     Other faces I have seen;
     Other forms have come between;
     Other things I have, I ween,
         Done and dared for!
     But OUR ties they cannot sever,
     And, though I should say it never,
     You're the only one I ever
         Really cared for!
 
 
     And you'll still be hanging there
     When we're both the worse for wear,
     And the silver's on my hair
         And off your backing;
     Yet my faith shall never pass
     In my dear old shaving-glass,
     Till my face and yours, alas!
         Both are lacking!
 

HER LAST LETTER

BEING A REPLY TO "HIS ANSWER"

 
     June 4th!  Do you know what that date means?
       June 4th!  By this air and these pines!
     Well,—only you know how I hate scenes,—
       These might be my very last lines!
     For perhaps, sir, you'll kindly remember—
       If some OTHER things you've forgot—
     That you last wrote the 4th of DECEMBER,—
       Just six months ago I—from this spot;
     From this spot, that you said was "the fairest
       For once being held in my thought."
     Now, really I call that the barest
       Of—well, I won't say what I ought!
     For here I am back from my "riches,"
       My "triumphs," my "tours," and all that;
     And YOU'RE not to be found in the ditches
       Or temples of Poverty Flat!
     From Paris we went for the season
       To London, when pa wired, "Stop."
     Mama says "his HEALTH" was the reason.
       (I've heard that some things took a "drop.")
     But she said if my patience I'd summon
       I could go back with him to the Flat—
     Perhaps I was thinking of some one
       Who of me—well—was not thinking THAT!
     Of course you will SAY that I "never
       Replied to the letter you wrote."
     That is just like a man!  But, however,
       I read it—or how could I quote?
     And as to the stories you've heard (No,
       Don't tell me you haven't—I know!),
     You'll not believe one blessed word, Joe;
       But just whence they came, let them go!
     And they came from Sade Lotski of Yolo,
       Whose father sold clothes on the Bar—
     You called him Job-lotski, you know, Joe,
       And the boys said HER value was par.
     Well, we met her in Paris—just flaring
       With diamonds, and lost in a hat
     And she asked me "how Joseph was faring
       In his love-suit on Poverty Flat!"
     She thought it would shame me!  I met her
       With a look, Joe, that made her eyes drop;
     And I said that your "love-suit fared better
       Than any suit out of THEIR shop!"
     And I didn't blush THEN—as I'm doing
       To find myself here, all alone,
     And left, Joe, to do all the "sueing"
       To a lover that's certainly flown.
     In this brand-new hotel, called "The Lily"
       (I wonder who gave it that name?)
     I really am feeling quite silly,
       To think I was once called the same;
     And I stare from its windows, and fancy
       I'm labeled to each passer-by.
     Ah! gone is the old necromancy,
       For nothing seems right to my eye.
     On that hill there are stores that I knew not;
       There's a street—where I once lost my way;
     And the copse where you once tied my shoe-knot
       Is shamelessly open as day!
     And that bank by the spring—I once drank there,
       And you called the place Eden, you know;
     Now I'm banished like Eve—though the bank there
       Is belonging to "Adams and Co."
     There's the rustle of silk on the sidewalk;
       Just now there passed by a tall hat;
     But there's gloom in this "boom" and this wild talk
       Of the "future" of Poverty Flat.
     There's a decorous chill in the air, Joe,
       Where once we were simple and free;
     And I hear they've been making a mayor, Joe,
       Of the man who shot Sandy McGee.
     But there's still the "lap, lap" of the river;
       There's the song of the pines, deep and low.
     (How my longing for them made me quiver
       In the park that they call Fontainebleau!)
     There's the snow-peak that looked on our dances,
       And blushed when the morning said, "Go!"
     There's a lot that remains which one fancies—
       But somehow there's never a Joe!
     Perhaps, on the whole, it is better,
       For you might have been changed like the rest;
     Though it's strange that I'm trusting this letter
       To papa, just to have it addressed.
     He thinks he may find you, and really
       Seems kinder now I'm all alone.
     You might have been here, Joe, if merely
       To LOOK what I'm willing to OWN.
     Well, well! that's all past; so good-night, Joe;
       Good-night to the river and Flat;
     Good-night to what's wrong and what's right, Joe;
       Good-night to the past, and all that—
     To Harrison's barn, and its dancers;
       To the moon, and the white peak of snow;
     And good-night to the canyon that answers
       My "Joe!" with its echo of "No!"
 

P. S

 
     I've just got your note.  You deceiver!
       How dared you—how COULD you?  Oh, Joe!
     To think I've been kept a believer
       In things that were six months ago!
     And it's YOU'VE built this house, and the bank, too,
       And the mills, and the stores, and all that!
     And for everything changed I must thank YOU,
       Who have "struck it" on Poverty Flat!
     How dared you get rich—you great stupid!—
       Like papa, and some men that I know,
     Instead of just trusting to Cupid
       And to me for your money?  Ah, Joe!
     Just to think you sent never a word, dear,
       Till you wrote to papa for consent!
     Now I know why they had me transferred here,
       And "the health of papa"—what THAT meant!
     Now I know why they call this "The Lily;"
       Why the man who shot Sandy McGee
     You made mayor!  'Twas because—oh, you silly!—
       He once "went down the middle" with me!
     I've been fooled to the top of my bent here,
       So come, and ask pardon—you know
     That you've still got to get MY consent, dear!
       And just think what that echo said—Joe!
 

V. PARODIES

BEFORE THE CURTAIN

 
     Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize,
     A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze
     Of flaring gas and curious eyes that gaze.
 
 
     The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide,
     And hardly fit for royal Richard's stride,
     Or Falstaff's bulk, or Denmark's youthful pride.
 
 
     Ah, well! no passion walks its humble boards;
     O'er it no king nor valiant Hector lords:
     The simplest skill is all its space affords.
 
 
     The song and jest, the dance and trifling play,
     The local hit at follies of the day,
     The trick to pass an idle hour away,—
 
 
     For these no trumpets that announce the Moor,
     No blast that makes the hero's welcome sure,—
     A single fiddle in the overture!
 

TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL²

(A GEOLOGICAL ADDRESS)

 
     "Speak, O man, less recent!  Fragmentary fossil!
     Primal pioneer of pliocene formation,
     Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum
         Of volcanic tufa!
 
 
     "Older than the beasts, the oldest Palaeotherium;
     Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami;
     Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions
         Of earth's epidermis!
 
 
     "Eo—Mio—Plio—whatsoe'er the 'cene' was
     That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,—
     Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,—
         Tell us thy strange story!
 
 
     "Or has the professor slightly antedated
     By some thousand years thy advent on this planet,
     Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted
         For cold-blooded creatures?
 
 
     "Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest
     When above thy head the stately Sigillaria
     Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant
         Carboniferous epoch?
 
 
     "Tell us of that scene,—the dim and watery woodland,
     Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect,
     Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club mosses,
         Lycopodiacea,—
 
 
     "When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus,
     And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus,
     While from time to time above thee flew and circled
         Cheerful Pterodactyls.
 
 
     "Tell us of thy food,—those half-marine refections,
     Crinoids on the shell and Brachipods au naturel,—
     Cuttlefish to which the pieuvre of Victor Hugo
         Seems a periwinkle.
 
 
     "Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth's creation,
     Solitary fragment of remains organic!
     Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence,—
         Speak! thou oldest primate!"
 
 
     Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla,
     And a lateral movement of the condyloid process,
     With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication,
         Ground the teeth together.
 
 
     And from that imperfect dental exhibition,
     Stained with express juices of the weed nicotian,
     Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs
         Of expectoration:
 
 
     "Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted
     Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County;
     But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces
         Home to old Missouri!"
 

THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE

(LEGEND OF THE CLIFF HOUSE, SAN FRANCISCO)

 
     Where the sturdy ocean breeze
     Drives the spray of roaring seas,
     That the Cliff House balconies
          Overlook:
     There, in spite of rain that balked,
     With his sandals duly chalked,
     Once upon a tight-rope walked
          Mr. Cooke.
 
 
     But the jester's lightsome mien,
     And his spangles and his sheen,
     All had vanished when the scene
          He forsook.
     Yet in some delusive hope,
     In some vague desire to cope,
     ONE still came to view the rope
          Walked by Cooke.
 
 
     Amid Beauty's bright array,
     On that strange eventful day,
     Partly hidden from the spray,
          In a nook,
     Stood Florinda Vere de Vere;
     Who, with wind-disheveled hair,
     And a rapt, distracted air,
          Gazed on Cooke.
 
 
     Then she turned, and quickly cried
     To her lover at her side,
     While her form with love and pride
         Wildly shook:
     "Clifford Snook! oh, hear me now!
     Here I break each plighted vow;
     There's but one to whom I bow,
          And that's Cooke!"
 
 
     Haughtily that young man spoke:
     "I descend from noble folk;
     'Seven Oaks,' and then 'Se'nnoak,'
          Lastly 'Snook,'
     Is the way my name I trace.
     Shall a youth of noble race
     In affairs of love give place
          To a Cooke?"
 
 
     "Clifford Snook, I know thy claim
     To that lineage and name,
     And I think I've read the same
          In Horne Tooke;
     But I swear, by all divine,
     Never, never, to be thine,
     Till thou canst upon yon line
          Walk like Cooke."
 
 
     Though to that gymnastic feat
     He no closer might compete
     Than to strike a BALANCE-sheet
          In a book;
     Yet thenceforward from that day
     He his figure would display
     In some wild athletic way,
          After Cooke.
 
 
     On some household eminence,
     On a clothes-line or a fence,
     Over ditches, drains, and thence
          O'er a brook,
     He, by high ambition led,
     Ever walked and balanced,
     Till the people, wondering, said,
          "How like Cooke!"
 
 
     Step by step did he proceed,
     Nerved by valor, not by greed,
     And at last the crowning deed
          Undertook.
     Misty was the midnight air,
     And the cliff was bleak and bare,
     When he came to do and dare,
          Just like Cooke.
 
 
     Through the darkness, o'er the flow,
     Stretched the line where he should go,
     Straight across as flies the crow
          Or the rook.
     One wild glance around he cast;
     Then he faced the ocean blast,
     And he strode the cable last
          Touched by Cooke.
 
 
     Vainly roared the angry seas,
     Vainly blew the ocean breeze;
     But, alas! the walker's knees
          Had a crook;
     And before he reached the rock
     Did they both together knock,
     And he stumbled with a shock—
          Unlike Cooke!
 
 
     Downward dropping in the dark,
     Like an arrow to its mark,
     Or a fish-pole when a shark
          Bites the hook,
     Dropped the pole he could not save,
     Dropped the walker, and the wave
     Swift engulfed the rival brave
          Of J. Cooke!
 
 
     Came a roar across the sea
     Of sea-lions in their glee,
     In a tongue remarkably
          Like Chinook;
     And the maddened sea-gull seemed
     Still to utter, as he screamed,
     "Perish thus the wretch who deemed
          Himself Cooke!"
 
 
     But on misty moonlit nights
     Comes a skeleton in tights,
     Walks once more the giddy heights
          He mistook;
     And unseen to mortal eyes,
     Purged of grosser earthly ties,
     Now at last in spirit guise
          Outdoes Cooke.
 
 
     Still the sturdy ocean breeze
     Sweeps the spray of roaring seas,
     Where the Cliff House balconies
          Overlook;
     And the maidens in their prime,
     Reading of this mournful rhyme,
     Weep where, in the olden time,
          Walked J. Cooke.