Kitabı oku: «Complete Poetical Works», sayfa 4

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.
 
 
     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.
 
 
     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.
 
 
     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.
 
 
     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.
 
 
     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 brandished
     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.
 
 
     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!
 
 
     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.
 

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.
 
 
     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.
 
 
     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.
 
 
     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.
 
 
     Over the mountain they poured in,
     With leathern bottles and bags of skin;
     Through the canyons 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.
 
 
     Winter passed, and the summer came
     The trunks of madrono, 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.
 

MORAL

 
     You see the point?  Don't be too quick
     To break bad habits: better stick,
     Like the Mission folk, to your ARSENIC.
 

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!
 
 
     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.
 
 
     Within the circle of your incantation
              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!
 
 
     Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers,
              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.
 
 
     O solemn bells! whose consecrated masses
              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!
 

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,—
     Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed,
     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.
 
 
     Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering eye,
     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;
     Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner dust,—
     Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and trust.
 

II

 
     Count von Resanoff, the Russian, envoy of the mighty Czar,
     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;
     He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk apart
     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;
     Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are,
     He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar;
     Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothed bade adieu,
     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;
     Day by day on wall and bastion beat the hollow, empty breeze,—
     Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling seas:
     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;
     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.
     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.
     Still it brought no ship nor message,—brought no tidings, ill or meet,
     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.
     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;
     Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive brown,
     And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet lashes down;
     Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied caress,
     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;
     Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each
     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;'
     "'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;'
     "'He whose father is Alcalde of his trial hath no fear,'—
     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;
     And on "Concha" "Conchitita," and "Conchita" he would dwell
     With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well.
     So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt,
     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 days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport,
     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;
     Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and fleet,
     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.
     Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, with patient
        mien,
     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.
 

V

 
     Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze,
     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 the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gayly drest,
     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;
     Till, the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine,
     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,—
     "Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse.
     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.
     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.
     "Lives she yet?" Sir George repeated.  All were hushed as Concha drew
     Closer yet her nun's attire.  "Senor, pardon, she died, too!"
 

"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;
 
 
     Where much of her past still lives, I think,
     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;
 
 
     In the gouty pillars, whose cracks begin
     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."
 
 
     "Por el Rey!"  Well, the king is gone
     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,
 
 
     As long as one granary is fat,
     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!"
 
 
     Two hundred years ago, they say,
     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;
 
 
     Yet, from his black plume's curving grace
     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,
 
 
     And begged that the Marquis would that night take
     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.
 
 
     Be sure that the Marquis, in his place,
     Replied to all with the measured grace
     Of chosen speech and unmoved face;
 
 
     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.
 
 
     And then (I know not how nor why)
     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!
 
 
     (And yet, mayhap, no more was meant
     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."
 
 
     Be sure that night no pillow prest
     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
 
 
     Out from his garden, where the shade
     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.
 
 
     "Myself shall punish yon acolyte
     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.
 
 
     To the lovers of grave formalities
     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
 
 
     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
 
 
     Had marred his rest.  Yet he trusted much
     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.
 
 
     Be sure that the seneschal, in turn,
     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 summoned;
     Nor know we yet how well she sped,
 
 
     "But hope for the best."  The grave Viceroy
     (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.
 
 
     "Nay," said the seneschal, "at least,
     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.
 
 
     "And list!  Should anything me befall,
     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,
 
 
     Carelessly stroking his pommel top:
     "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,
 
 
     Riding high, and in sight of all,
     Viceroy, escort, and seneschal,
     Under the shade of the Almandral;
 
 
     Holding their secret hard and fast,
     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?
 
 
     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?
 
 
     I know not.  Yet did the seneschal,
     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
 
 
     At Leon, where 'neath a shield azure
     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
 
 
     Rose through the green of the Almandral,
     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;
 
 
     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.
 
 
     For why?  When they raised the marble door
     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,—
 
 
     As on the night she had passed away;
     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.
 
 
     Side by side!  Though the king has his way,
     Even the dead at last have their day.
     Make you the moral.  "Por el Rey!"