Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 31

Alas! the hour you think would crown Your highest wishes should let you down!

Or Fate should turn, by your own mischance, Your victor's car to an ambulance, From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance!

(And these things happen, even in France.) And so Miss Rose, as she trotted by, The cynosure of every eye, Saw to her horror the off mare shy, Flourish her tail so exceedingly high That, disregarding the closest tie, And without giving a reason why, She flung that tail so free and frisky Off in the face of Caskowhisky.

Excuses, blushes, smiles: in fine, End of the pony's tail, and mine!

ON A CONE OF THE BIG TREES

(SEQUOIA GIGANTEA)

Brown foundling of the Western wood, Babe of primeval wildernesses!

Long on my table thou hast stood Encounters strange and rude caresses; Perchance contented with thy lot, Surroundings new, and curious faces, As though ten centuries were not Imprisoned in thy s.h.i.+ning cases.

Thou bring'st me back the halcyon days Of grateful rest, the week of leisure, The journey lapped in autumn haze, The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure, The morning ride, the noonday halt, The blazing slopes, the red dust rising, And then the dim, brown, columned vault, With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing.

Once more I see the rocking masts That sc.r.a.pe the sky, their only tenant The jay-bird, that in frolic casts From some high yard his broad blue pennant.

I see the Indian files that keep Their places in the dusty heather, Their red trunks standing ankle-deep In moccasins of rusty leather.

I see all this, and marvel much That thou, sweet woodland waif, art able To keep the company of such As throng thy friend's--the poet's--table: The latest sp.a.w.n the press hath cast,-- The "modern popes," "the later Byrons,"-- Why, e'en the best may not outlast Thy poor relation--Sempervirens.

Thy sire saw the light that shone On Mohammed's uplifted crescent, On many a royal gilded throne And deed forgotten in the present; He saw the age of sacred trees And Druid groves and mystic larches; And saw from forest domes like these The builder bring his Gothic arches.

And must thou, foundling, still forego Thy heritage and high ambition, To lie full lowly and full low, Adjusted to thy new condition?

Not hidden in the drifted snows, But under ink-drops idly spattered, And leaves ephemeral as those That on thy woodland tomb were scattered?

Yet lie thou there, O friend! and speak The moral of thy simple story: Though life is all that thou dost seek, And age alone thy crown of glory, Not thine the only germs that fail The purpose of their high creation, If their poor tenements avail For worldly show and ostentation.

LONE MOUNTAIN

(CEMETERY, SAN FRANCISCO)

This is that hill of awe That Persian Sindbad saw,-- The mount magnetic; And on its seaward face, Scattered along its base, The wrecks prophetic.

Here come the argosies Blown by each idle breeze, To and fro s.h.i.+fting; Yet to the hill of Fate All drawing, soon or late,-- Day by day drifting;

Drifting forever here Barks that for many a year Braved wind and weather; Shallops but yesterday Launched on yon s.h.i.+ning bay,-- Drawn all together.

This is the end of all: Sun thyself by the wall, O poorer Hindbad!

Envy not Sindbad's fame: Here come alike the same Hindbad and Sindbad.

ALNASCHAR

Here's yer toy balloons! All sizes!

Twenty cents for that. It rises Jest as quick as that 'ere, Miss, Twice as big. Ye see it is Some more fancy. Make it square Fifty for 'em both. That's fair.

That's the sixth I've sold since noon.

Trade's reviving. Just as soon As this lot's worked off, I'll take Wholesale figgers. Make or break,-- That's my motto! Then I'll buy In some first-cla.s.s lottery One half ticket, numbered right-- As I dreamed about last night.

That'll fetch it. Don't tell me!

When a man's in luck, you see, All things help him. Every chance Hits him like an avalanche.

Here's your toy balloons, Miss. Eh?

You won't turn your face this way?

Mebbe you'll be glad some day.

With that clear ten thousand prize This 'yer trade I'll drop, and rise Into wholesale. No! I'll take Stocks in Wall Street. Make or break,-- That's my motto! With my luck, Where's the chance of being stuck?

Call it sixty thousand, clear, Made in Wall Street in one year.

Sixty thousand! Umph! Let's see!

Bond and mortgage'll do for me.

Good! That gal that pa.s.sed me by Scornful like--why, mebbe I Some day'll hold in p.a.w.n--why not?-- All her father's prop. She'll spot What's my little game, and see What I'm after's HER. He! he!

He! he! When she comes to sue-- Let's see! What's the thing to do?

Kick her? No! There's the perliss!

Sorter throw her off like this.

h.e.l.lo! Stop! Help! Murder! Hey!

There's my whole stock got away, Kiting on the house-tops! Lost!

All a poor man's fortin! Cost?

Twenty dollars! Eh! What's this?

Fifty cents! G.o.d bless ye, Miss!

THE TWO s.h.i.+PS

As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest, Looking over the ultimate sea, In the gloom of the mountain a s.h.i.+p lies at rest, And one sails away from the lea: One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track, With pennant and sheet flowing free; One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,-- The s.h.i.+p that is waiting for me!

But lo! in the distance the clouds break away, The Gate's glowing portals I see; And I hear from the outgoing s.h.i.+p in the bay The song of the sailors in glee.

So I think of the luminous footprints that bore The comfort o'er dark Galilee, And wait for the signal to go to the sh.o.r.e, To the s.h.i.+p that is waiting for me.

ADDRESS

(OPENING OF THE CALIFORNIA THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JANUARY 19, 1870)

Brief words, when actions wait, are well: The prompter's hand is on his bell; The coming heroes, lovers, kings, Are idly lounging at the wings; Behind the curtain's mystic fold The glowing future lies unrolled; And yet, one moment for the Past, One retrospect,--the first and last.

"The world's a stage," the Master said.

To-night a mightier truth is read: Not in the s.h.i.+fting canvas screen, The flash of gas or tinsel sheen; Not in the skill whose signal calls From empty boards baronial halls; But, fronting sea and curving bay, Behold the players and the play.