Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 3

No need to bid him show the scars Of blows dealt by the Scaean gate, Who lived to pa.s.s its shattered bars, And see the foe capitulate:

Who lived to turn his slower feet Toward the western setting sun, To see his harvest all complete, His dream fulfilled, his duty done,

The one flag streaming from the pole, The one faith borne from sea to sea: For such a triumph, and such goal, Poor must our human greeting be.

Ah! rather that the conscious land In simpler ways salute the Man,-- The tall pines bowing where they stand, The bared head of El Capitan!

The tumult of the waterfalls, Pohono's kerchief in the breeze, The waving from the rocky walls, The stir and rustle of the trees;

Till, lapped in sunset skies of hope, In sunset lands by sunset seas, The Young World's Premier treads the slope Of sunset years in calm and peace.

THE AGED STRANGER

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR

"I was with Grant"--the stranger said; Said the farmer, "Say no more, But rest thee here at my cottage porch, For thy feet are weary and sore."

"I was with Grant"--the stranger said; Said the farmer, "Nay, no more,-- I prithee sit at my frugal board, And eat of my humble store.

"How fares my boy,--my soldier boy, Of the old Ninth Army Corps?

I warrant he bore him gallantly In the smoke and the battle's roar!"

"I know him not," said the aged man, "And, as I remarked before, I was with Grant"-- "Nay, nay, I know,"

Said the farmer, "say no more:

"He fell in battle,--I see, alas!

Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er,-- Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, Though it rend my bosom's core.

"How fell he? With his face to the foe, Upholding the flag he bore?

Oh, say not that my boy disgraced The uniform that he wore!"

"I cannot tell," said the aged man, "And should have remarked before.

That I was with Grant,--in Illinois,-- Some three years before the war."

Then the farmer spake him never a word, But beat with his fist full sore That aged man who had worked for Grant Some three years before the war.

THE IDYL OF BATTLE HOLLOW

(WAR OF THE REBELLION, 1884)

No, I won't,--thar, now, so! And it ain't nothin',--no!

And thar's nary to tell that you folks yer don't know; And it's "Belle, tell us, do!" and it's "Belle, is it true?"

And "Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you?"

Till I'm sick of it all,--so I am, but I s'pose Thet is nothin' to you.... Well, then, listen! yer goes!

It was after the fight, and around us all night Thar was poppin' and shootin' a powerful sight; And the n.i.g.g.e.rs had fled, and Aunt Chlo was abed, And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed: And I ran out at daybreak, and nothin' was nigh But the growlin' of cannon low down in the sky.

And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring, But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing, And a bird said "Kerchee!" as it sat on a tree, As if it was lonesome, and glad to see me; And I filled up my pail and was risin' to go, When up comes the Major a-canterin' slow.

When he saw me he drew in his reins, and then threw On the gate-post his bridle, and--what does he do But come down where I sat; and he lifted his hat, And he says--well, thar ain't any need to tell THAT; 'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this, Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted--a kiss.

Then I said (I was mad), "For the water, my lad, You're too big and must stoop; for a kiss, it's as bad,-- You ain't near big enough." And I turned in a huff, When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff, And he says, "You're a trump! Take my pistol, don't fear!

But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear."

Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool, Leavin' me with that pistol stuck there like a fool, When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light From the top of the little stone fence on the right, And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it all Rose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall!

Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead; And I stood still and white, but Lord! gals, in spite Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright!

Went off--true as gospil!--and, strangest of all, It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall!

Thet's all--now, go 'long! Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong, And thar's some wants to know to what side I belong; But I says, "Served him right!" and I go, all my might, In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight; And as for the Major--sho! gals, don't you know Thet--Lord! thar's his step in the garden below.

CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD

(NEW JERSEY, 1780)

Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,-- You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball.

Nothing more. Gra.s.ses spring, waters run, flowers blow, Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment: you've heard Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word Down at Springfield? What, no? Come--that's bad; why, he had All the Jerseys aflame! And they gave him the name Of the "rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge, For he loved the Lord G.o.d--and he hated King George!

He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way At the "farms," where his wife, with a child in her arms, Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew But G.o.d--and that one of the hireling crew Who fired the shot! Enough!--there she lay, And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away!

Did he preach--did he pray? Think of him as you stand By the old church to-day,--think of him and his band Of militant ploughboys! See the smoke and the heat Of that reckless advance, of that straggling retreat!

Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view-- And what could you, what should you, what would YOU do?

Why, just what HE did! They were left in the lurch For the want of more wadding. He ran to the church, Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the road With his arms full of hymn-books, and threw down his load At their feet! Then above all the shouting and shots Rang his voice: "Put Watts into 'em! Boys, give 'em Watts!"

And they did. That is all. Gra.s.ses spring, flowers blow, Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.

You may dig anywhere and you'll turn up a ball-- But not always a hero like this--and that's all.

POEM

DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALIFORNIA'S ADMISSION INTO THE UNION, SEPTEMBER 9, 1864

We meet in peace, though from our native East The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast Glanced as he rose on fields whose dews were red With darker tints than those Aurora spread.

Though shorn his rays, his welcome disk concealed In the dim smoke that veiled each battlefield, Still striving upward, in meridian pride, He climbed the walls that East and West divide,-- Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand, And sapphire seas that lave the Western land.