Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 10

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 b.u.t.ter never did in time agree;'

"'He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall have flies;'

'In the end G.o.d 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" "Conchit.i.ta," 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 wors.h.i.+ping 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 subst.i.tute should be Of His Most Catholic Majesty;

Yet, from his black plume's curving grace To his slim black gauntlet's smaller s.p.a.ce, 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.