Complete Poetical Works - Bret Harte 4 стр.


MISS BLANCHE SAYS

     And you are the poet, and so you want
       Somethingwhat is it?a theme, a fancy?
     Something or other the Muse won't grant
       To your old poetical necromancy;
     Why, one half you poetsyou can't deny
       Don't know the Muse when you chance to meet her,
     But sit in your attics and mope and sigh
     For a faineant goddess to drop from the sky,
     When flesh and blood may be standing by
       Quite at your service, should you but greet her.

     What if I told you my own romance?
       Women are poets, if you so take them,
     One third poet,the rest what chance
       Of man and marriage may choose to make them.
     Give me ten minutes before you go,
       Here at the window we'll sit together,
     Watching the currents that ebb and flow;
     Watching the world as it drifts below
     Up the hot Avenue's dusty glow:
       Isn't it pleasant, this bright June weather?

     Well, it was after the war broke out,
       And I was a schoolgirl fresh from Paris;
     Papa had contracts, and roamed about,
       And Idid nothingfor I was an heiress.
     Picked some lint, now I think; perhaps
       Knitted some stockingsa dozen nearly:
     Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps;
     Stood at fair-tables and peddled traps
     Quite at a profit.  The "shoulder-straps"
       Thought I was pretty.  Ah, thank you! really?

     Still it was stupid.  Rata-tat-tat!
       Those were the sounds of that battle summer,
     Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat,
       And every footfall the tap of a drummer;
     And day by day down the Avenue went
       Cavalry, infantry, all together,
     Till my pitying angel one day sent
     My fate in the shape of a regiment,
     That halted, just as the day was spent,
       Here at our door in the bright June weather.

     None of your dandy warriors they,
       Men from the West, but where I know not;
     Haggard and travel-stained, worn and gray,
       With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot:
     And I opened the window, and, leaning there,
       I felt in their presence the free winds blowing.
     My neck and shoulders and arms were bare,
     I did not dream they might think me fair,
     But I had some flowers that night in my hair,
       And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing.

     And I looked from the window along the line,
       Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn,
     Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine,
       And a dark face shone from the darkening column,
     And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair,
       Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together,
     And the next I found myself standing there
     With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair,
     And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air,
       Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather.

     Then I drew back quickly: there came a cheer,
       A rush of figures, a noise and tussle,
     And then it was over, and high and clear
       My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle.
     Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried,
       And slowly and steadily, all together,
     Shoulder to shoulder and side to side,
     Rising and falling and swaying wide,
     But bearing above them the rose, my pride,
       They marched away in the twilight weather.

     And I leaned from my window and watched my rose
       Tossed on the waves of the surging column,
     Warmed from above in the sunset glows,
       Borne from below by an impulse solemn.
     Then I shut the window.  I heard no more
       Of my soldier friend, nor my flower neither,
     But lived my life as I did before.
     I did not go as a nurse to the war,
     Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore,
       So I didn't go to the hospital either.

     You smile, O poet, and what do you?
       You lean from your window, and watch life's column
     Trampling and struggling through dust and dew,
       Filled with its purposes grave and solemn;
     And an act, a gesture, a facewho knows?
       Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you,
     And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows
     And down it flies like my red, red rose,
     And you sit and dream as away it goes,
       And think that your duty is done,now don't you?

     I know your answer.  I'm not yet through.
       Look at this photograph,"In the Trenches"!
     That dead man in the coat of blue
       Holds a withered rose in his hand.  That clenches
     Nothing!except that the sun paints true,
       And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded.
     And that's my romance.  And, poet, you
     Take it and mould it to suit your view;
     And who knows but you may find it too
       Come to your heart once more, as mine did.

AN ARCTIC VISION

     Where the short-legged Esquimaux
     Waddle in the ice and snow,
     And the playful Polar bear
     Nips the hunter unaware;
     Where by day they track the ermine,
     And by night another vermin,
     Segment of the frigid zone,
     Where the temperature alone
     Warms on St. Elias' cone;
     Polar dock, where Nature slips
     From the ways her icy ships;
     Land of fox and deer and sable,
     Shore end of our western cable,
     Let the news that flying goes
     Thrill through all your Arctic floes,
     And reverberate the boast
     From the cliffs off Beechey's coast,
     Till the tidings, circling round
     Every bay of Norton Sound,
     Throw the vocal tide-wave back
     To the isles of Kodiac.
     Let the stately Polar bears
     Waltz around the pole in pairs,
     And the walrus, in his glee,
     Bare his tusk of ivory;
     While the bold sea-unicorn
     Calmly takes an extra horn;
     All ye Polar skies, reveal your
     Very rarest of parhelia;
     Trip it, all ye merry dancers,
     In the airiest of "Lancers;"
     Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide,
     One inch farther to the tide,
     Nor in rash precipitation
     Upset Tyndall's calculation.
     Know you not what fate awaits you,
     Or to whom the future mates you?
     All ye icebergs, make salaam,
     You belong to Uncle Sam!

     On the spot where Eugene Sue
     Led his wretched Wandering Jew,
     Stands a form whose features strike
     Russ and Esquimaux alike.
     He it is whom Skalds of old
     In their Runic rhymes foretold;
     Lean of flank and lank of jaw,
     See the real Northern Thor!
     See the awful Yankee leering
     Just across the Straits of Behring;
     On the drifted snow, too plain,
     Sinks his fresh tobacco stain,
     Just beside the deep inden-
     Tation of his Number 10.

     Leaning on his icy hammer
     Stands the hero of this drama,
     And above the wild-duck's clamor,
     In his own peculiar grammar,
     With its linguistic disguises,
     La! the Arctic prologue rises:
     "Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad,
     Seein' ez 'twas all they had.

     True, the Springs are rather late,
     And early Falls predominate;
     But the ice-crop's pretty sure,
     And the air is kind o' pure;
     'Tain't so very mean a trade,
     When the land is all surveyed.
     There's a right smart chance for fur-chase
     All along this recent purchase,
     And, unless the stories fail,
     Every fish from cod to whale;
     Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,
     'Twould be strange if there should be,
     Seems I've heerd such stories told;
     Eh!why, bless us,yes, it's gold!"

     While the blows are falling thick
     From his California pick,
     You may recognize the Thor
     Of the vision that I saw,
     Freed from legendary glamour,
     See the real magician's hammer.

ST. THOMAS

AN ARCTIC VISION

     Where the short-legged Esquimaux
     Waddle in the ice and snow,
     And the playful Polar bear
     Nips the hunter unaware;
     Where by day they track the ermine,
     And by night another vermin,
     Segment of the frigid zone,
     Where the temperature alone
     Warms on St. Elias' cone;
     Polar dock, where Nature slips
     From the ways her icy ships;
     Land of fox and deer and sable,
     Shore end of our western cable,
     Let the news that flying goes
     Thrill through all your Arctic floes,
     And reverberate the boast
     From the cliffs off Beechey's coast,
     Till the tidings, circling round
     Every bay of Norton Sound,
     Throw the vocal tide-wave back
     To the isles of Kodiac.
     Let the stately Polar bears
     Waltz around the pole in pairs,
     And the walrus, in his glee,
     Bare his tusk of ivory;
     While the bold sea-unicorn
     Calmly takes an extra horn;
     All ye Polar skies, reveal your
     Very rarest of parhelia;
     Trip it, all ye merry dancers,
     In the airiest of "Lancers;"
     Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide,
     One inch farther to the tide,
     Nor in rash precipitation
     Upset Tyndall's calculation.
     Know you not what fate awaits you,
     Or to whom the future mates you?
     All ye icebergs, make salaam,
     You belong to Uncle Sam!

     On the spot where Eugene Sue
     Led his wretched Wandering Jew,
     Stands a form whose features strike
     Russ and Esquimaux alike.
     He it is whom Skalds of old
     In their Runic rhymes foretold;
     Lean of flank and lank of jaw,
     See the real Northern Thor!
     See the awful Yankee leering
     Just across the Straits of Behring;
     On the drifted snow, too plain,
     Sinks his fresh tobacco stain,
     Just beside the deep inden-
     Tation of his Number 10.

     Leaning on his icy hammer
     Stands the hero of this drama,
     And above the wild-duck's clamor,
     In his own peculiar grammar,
     With its linguistic disguises,
     La! the Arctic prologue rises:
     "Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad,
     Seein' ez 'twas all they had.

     True, the Springs are rather late,
     And early Falls predominate;
     But the ice-crop's pretty sure,
     And the air is kind o' pure;
     'Tain't so very mean a trade,
     When the land is all surveyed.
     There's a right smart chance for fur-chase
     All along this recent purchase,
     And, unless the stories fail,
     Every fish from cod to whale;
     Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,
     'Twould be strange if there should be,
     Seems I've heerd such stories told;
     Eh!why, bless us,yes, it's gold!"

     While the blows are falling thick
     From his California pick,
     You may recognize the Thor
     Of the vision that I saw,
     Freed from legendary glamour,
     See the real magician's hammer.

ST. THOMAS

(A GEOGRAPHICAL SURVEY, 1868)

     Very fair and full of promise
     Lay the island of St. Thomas:
     Ocean o'er its reefs and bars
     Hid its elemental scars;
     Groves of cocoanut and guava
     Grew above its fields of lava.
     So the gem of the Antilles
     "Isles of Eden," where no ill is
     Like a great green turtle slumbered
     On the sea that it encumbered.

     Then said William Henry Seward,
     As he cast his eye to leeward,
     "Quite important to our commerce
     Is this island of St. Thomas."

     Said the Mountain ranges, "Thank'ee,
     But we cannot stand the Yankee
     O'er our scars and fissures poring,
     In our very vitals boring,
     In our sacred caverns prying,
     All our secret problems trying,
     Digging, blasting, with dynamit
     Mocking all our thunders!  Damn it!
     Other lands may be more civil;
     Bust our lava crust if we will!"

     Said the Sea, its white teeth gnashing
     Through its coral-reef lips flashing,
     "Shall I let this scheming mortal
     Shut with stone my shining portal,
     Curb my tide and check my play,
     Fence with wharves my shining bay?
     Rather let me be drawn out
     In one awful waterspout!"

     Said the black-browed Hurricane,
     Brooding down the Spanish Main,
     "Shall I see my forces, zounds!
     Measured by square inch and pounds,
     With detectives at my back
     When I double on my track,
     And my secret paths made clear,
     Published o'er the hemisphere
     To each gaping, prying crew?
     Shall I?  Blow me if I do!"

     So the Mountains shook and thundered,
     And the Hurricane came sweeping,
     And the people stared and wondered
     As the Sea came on them leaping:
     Each, according to his promise,
     Made things lively at St. Thomas.

     Till one morn, when Mr. Seward
     Cast his weather eye to leeward,
     There was not an inch of dry land
     Left to mark his recent island.
     Not a flagstaff or a sentry,
     Not a wharf or port of entry,
     Onlyto cut matters shorter
     Just a patch of muddy water
     In the open ocean lying,
     And a gull above it flying.

OFF SCARBOROUGH

(SEPTEMBER, 1779)I

     "Have a care!" the bailiffs cried
       From their cockleshell that lay
     Off the frigate's yellow side,
       Tossing on Scarborough Bay,
     While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched away.
     "Take your chicks beneath your wings,
       And your claws and feathers spread,
     Ere the hawk upon them springs,
       Ere around Flamborough Head
     Swoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and talons red."

II

     How we laughed!my mate and I,
       On the "Bon Homme Richard's" deck,
     As we saw that convoy fly
       Like a snow-squall, till each fleck
     Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by speck;
     And scuffling back to shore
       The Scarborough bailiffs sped,
     As the "Richard" with a roar
       Of her cannon round the Head,
     Crossed her royal yards and signaled to her consort: "Chase ahead"

III

     But the devil seize Landais
       In that consort ship of France!
     For the shabby, lubber way
       That he worked the "Alliance"
     In the offing,nor a broadside fired save to our mischance!
     When tumbling to the van,
       With his battle-lanterns set,
     Rose the burly Englishman
       'Gainst our hull as black as jet,
     Rode the yellow-sided "Serapis," and all alone we met!

IV

     All alone, though far at sea
       Hung his consort, rounding to;
     All alone, though on our lee
       Fought our "Pallas," stanch and true!
     For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle drew:
     And, like champions in a ring,
       There was cleared a little space
     Scarce a cable's length to swing
       Ere we grappled in embrace,
     All the world shut out around us, and we only face to face!

V

     Then awoke all hell below
       From that broadside, doubly curst,
     For our long eighteens in row
       Leaped the first discharge and burst!
     And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own guns the worst.
     And as dumb we lay, till, through
       Smoke and flame and bitter cry,
     Hailed the "Serapis:" "Have you
       Struck your colors?" Our reply,
     "We have not yet begun to fight!" went shouting to the sky!

VI

     Roux of Brest, old fisher, lay
       Like a herring gasping here;
     Bunker of Nantucket Bay,
       Blown from out the port, dropped sheer
     Half a cable's length to leeward; yet we faintly raised a cheer
     As with his own right hand
       Our Commodore made fast
     The foeman's head-gear and
       The "Richard's" mizzen-mast,
     And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to last!

VII

     Yet the foeman, gun on gun,
       Through the "Richard" tore a road,
     With his gunners' rammers run
       Through our ports at every load,
     Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers showed.
     Yet with entrails torn we clung
       Like the Spartan to our fox,
     And on deck no coward tongue
       Wailed the enemy's hard knocks,
     Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks.

VIII

     Then a thought rose in my brain,
       As through Channel mists the sun.
     From our tops a fire like rain
       Drove below decks every one
     Of the enemy's ship's company to hide or work a gun:
     And that thought took shape as I
       On the "Richard's" yard lay out,
     That a man might do and die,
       If the doing brought about
     Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates' cheering shout!

IX

     Then I crept out in the dark
       Till I hung above the hatch
     Of the "Serapis,"a mark
       For her marksmen!with a match
     And a hand-grenade, but lingered just a moment more to snatch
     One last look at sea and sky!
       At the lighthouse on the hill!
     At the harvest-moon on high!
       And our pine flag fluttering still!
     Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that devil's pill!

X

     Then a blank was all between
       As the flames around me spun!
     Had I fired the magazine?
       Was the victory lost or won?
     Nor knew I till the fight was o'er but half my work was done:
     For I lay among the dead
       In the cockpit of our foe,
     With a roar above my head,
       Till a trampling to and fro,
     And a lantern showed my mate's face, and I knew what now you know!

CADET GREY

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