Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 28

(SANTA CRUZ, 1869)

Sauntering hither on listless wings, Careless vagabond of the sea, Little thou heedest the surf that sings, The bar that thunders, the shale that rings,-- Give me to keep thy company.

Little thou hast, old friend, that's new; Storms and wrecks are old things to thee; Sick am I of these changes, too; Little to care for, little to rue,-- I on the sh.o.r.e, and thou on the sea.

All of thy wanderings, far and near, Bring thee at last to sh.o.r.e and me; All of my journeyings end them here: This our tether must be our cheer,-- I on the sh.o.r.e, and thou on the sea.

Lazily rocking on ocean's breast, Something in common, old friend, have we: Thou on the s.h.i.+ngle seek'st thy nest, I to the waters look for rest,-- I on the sh.o.r.e, and thou on the sea.

WHAT THE CHIMNEY SANG

Over the chimney the night-wind sang And chanted a melody no one knew; And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed, And thought of the one she had long since lost, And said, as her teardrops back she forced, "I hate the wind in the chimney."

Over the chimney the night-wind sang And chanted a melody no one knew; And the Children said, as they closer drew, "'Tis some witch that is cleaving the black night through, 'Tis a fairy trumpet that just then blew, And we fear the wind in the chimney."

Over the chimney the night-wind sang And chanted a melody no one knew; And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below, Said to himself, "It will surely snow, And fuel is dear and wages low, And I'll stop the leak in the chimney."

Over the chimney the night-wind sang And chanted a melody no one knew; But the Poet listened and smiled, for he Was Man and Woman and Child, all three, And said, "It is G.o.d's own harmony, This wind we hear in the chimney."

d.i.c.kENS IN CAMP

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A h.o.a.rded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew.

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of "Little Nell."

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,--for the reader Was youngest of them all,-- But, as he read, from cl.u.s.tering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall;

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp with "Nell" on English meadows Wandered and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes--o'ertaken As by some spell divine-- Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire; And he who wrought that spell?

Ah! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vine's incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths entwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, This spray of Western pine!

July, 1870.

"TWENTY YEARS"

Beg your pardon, old fellow! I think I was dreaming just now when you spoke.

The fact is, the musical clink Of the ice on your wine-goblet's brink A chord of my memory woke.

And I stood in the pasture-field where Twenty summers ago I had stood; And I heard in that sound, I declare, The clinking of bells in the air, Of the cows coming home from the wood.

Then the apple-bloom shook on the hill; And the mullein-stalks tilted each lance; And the sun behind Rapalye's mill Was my uttermost West, and could thrill Like some fanciful land of romance.

Then my friend was a hero, and then My girl was an angel. In fine, I drank b.u.t.termilk; for at ten Faith asks less to aid her than when At thirty we doubt over wine.

Ah, well, it DOES seem that I must Have been dreaming just now when you spoke, Or lost, very like, in the dust Of the years that slow fas.h.i.+oned the crust On that bottle whose seal you last broke.

Twenty years was its age, did you say?

Twenty years? Ah, my friend, it is true!

All the dreams that have flown since that day, All the hopes in that time pa.s.sed away, Old friend, I've been drinking with you!

FATE

"The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, The spray of the tempest is white in air; The winds are out with the waves at play, And I shall not tempt the sea to-day.

"The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, The panther clings to the arching limb; And the lion's whelps are abroad at play, And I shall not join in the chase to-day."

But the s.h.i.+p sailed safely over the sea, And the hunters came from the chase in glee; And the town that was builded upon a rock Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock.

GRANDMOTHER TENTERDEN

(Ma.s.sACHUSETTS Sh.o.r.e, 1800)

I mind it was but yesterday: The sun was dim, the air was chill; Below the town, below the hill, The sails of my son's s.h.i.+p did fill,-- My Jacob, who was cast away.

He said, "G.o.d keep you, mother dear,"

But did not turn to kiss his wife; They had some foolish, idle strife; Her tongue was like a two-edged knife, And he was proud as any peer.

Howbeit that night I took no note Of sea nor sky, for all was drear; I marked not that the hills looked near, Nor that the moon, though curved and clear, Through curd-like scud did drive and float.

For with my darling went the joy Of autumn woods and meadows brown; I came to hate the little town; It seemed as if the sun went down With him, my only darling boy.

It was the middle of the night: The wind, it s.h.i.+fted west-by-south,-- It piled high up the harbor mouth; The marshes, black with summer drouth, Were all abroad with sea-foam white.