Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 32

Ah, friends! beneath your real skies The actor's short-lived triumph dies: On that broad stage of empire won, Whose footlights were the setting sun, Whose flats a distant background rose In trackless peaks of endless snows; Here genius bows, and talent waits To copy that but One creates.

Your s.h.i.+fting scenes: the league of sand, An avenue by ocean spanned; The narrow beach of straggling tents, A mile of stately monuments; Your standard, lo! a flag unfurled, Whose clinging folds clasp half the world,-- This is your drama, built on facts, With "twenty years between the acts."

One moment more: if here we raise The oft-sung hymn of local praise, Before the curtain facts must sway; HERE waits the moral of your play.

Gla.s.sed in the poet's thought, you view What money can, yet cannot do; The faith that soars, the deeds that s.h.i.+ne, Above the gold that builds the shrine.

And oh! when others take our place, And Earth's green curtain hides our face, Ere on the stage, so silent now, The last new hero makes his bow: So may our deeds, recalled once more In Memory's sweet but brief encore, Down all the circling ages run, With the world's plaudit of "Well done!"

DOLLY VARDEN

Dear Dolly! who does not recall The thrilling page that pictured all Those charms that held our sense in thrall Just as the artist caught her,-- As down that English lane she tripped, In bowered chintz, hat sideways tipped, Trim-bodiced, bright-eyed, roguish-lipped,-- The locksmith's pretty daughter?

Sweet fragment of the Master's art!

O simple faith! O rustic heart!

O maid that hath no counterpart In life's dry, dog-eared pages!

Where shall we find thy like? Ah, stay!

Methinks I saw her yesterday In chintz that flowered, as one might say, Perennial for ages.

Her father's modest cot was stone, Five stories high; in style and tone Composite, and, I frankly own, Within its walls revealing Some certain novel, strange ideas: A Gothic door with Roman piers, And floors removed some thousand years, From their Pompeian ceiling.

The small salon where she received Was Louis Quatorze, and relieved By Chinese cabinets, conceived Grotesquely by the heathen; The sofas were a cla.s.sic sight,-- The Roman bench (sedilia hight); The chairs were French in gold and white, And one Elizabethan.

And she, the G.o.ddess of that shrine, Two ringed fingers placed in mine,-- The stones were many carats fine, And of the purest water,-- Then dropped a curtsy, far enough To fairly fill her cretonne puff And show the petticoat's rich stuff That her fond parent bought her.

Her speech was simple as her dress,-- Not French the more, but English less, She loved; yet sometimes, I confess, I scarce could comprehend her.

Her manners were quite far from shy.

There was a quiet in her eye Appalling to the Hugh who'd try With rudeness to offend her.

"But whence," I cried, "this masquerade?

Some figure for to-night's charade, A Watteau shepherdess or maid?"

She smiled and begged my pardon: "Why, surely you must know the name,-- That woman who was Shakespeare's flame Or Byron's,--well, it's all the same: Why, Lord! I'm Dolly Varden!"

TELEMACHUS VERSUS MENTOR

Don't mind me, I beg you, old fellow,--I'll do very well here alone; You must not be kept from your "German" because I've dropped in like a stone.

Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught but yourself; And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on the shelf.

As for me, you will say to your hostess--well, I scarcely need give you a cue.

Chant my praise! All will list to Apollo, though Mercury pipe to a few.

Say just what you please, my dear boy; there's more eloquence lies in youth's rash Outspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this grizzling mustache.

Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant,--youth's panoplied armor for fight,-- And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and lasts but a night; And pray the Nine G.o.ds to avert you what time the Three Sisters shall frown, And you'll lose your high-comedy figure, and sit more at ease in your gown.

He's off! There's his foot on the staircase. By Jove, what a bound!

Really now Did I ever leap like this springald, with Love's chaplet green on my brow?

Was I such an a.s.s? No, I fancy. Indeed, I remember quite plain A gravity mixed with my transports, a cheerfulness softened my pain.

He's gone! There's the slam of his cab door, there's the clatter of hoofs and the wheels; And while he the light toe is tripping, in this armchair I'll tilt up my heels.

He's gone, and for what? For a tremor from a waist like a teetotum spun; For a rosebud that's crumpled by many before it is gathered by one.

Is there naught in the halo of youth but the glow of a pa.s.sionate race--'Midst the cheers and applause of a crowd--to the goal of a beautiful face?

A race that is not to the swift, a prize that no merits enforce, But is won by some faineant youth, who shall simply walk over the course?

Poor boy! shall I shock his conceit? When he talks of her cheek's loveliness, Shall I say 'twas the air of the room, and was due to carbonic excess?

That when waltzing she drooped on his breast, and the veins of her eyelids grew dim, 'Twas oxygen's absence she felt, but never the presence of him?

Shall I tell him first love is a fraud, a weakling that's strangled in birth, Recalled with perfunctory tears, but lost in unsanctified mirth?

Or shall I go bid him believe in all womankind's charm, and forget In the light ringing laugh of the world the rattlesnake's gay castanet?

Shall I tear out a leaf from my heart, from that book that forever is shut On the past? Shall I speak of my first love--Augusta--my Lalage?

But I forget. Was it really Augusta? No. 'Twas Lucy! No. Mary!

No. Di!

Never mind! they were all first and faithless, and yet--I've forgotten just why.

No, no! Let him dream on and ever. Alas! he will waken too soon; And it doesn't look well for October to always be preaching at June.

Poor boy! All his fond foolish trophies pinned yonder--a bow from HER hair, A few billets-doux, invitations, and--what's this? My name, I declare!

Humph! "You'll come, for I've got you a prize, with beauty and money no end: You know her, I think; 'twas on dit she once was engaged to your friend; But she says that's all over." Ah, is it? Sweet Ethel! incomparable maid!

Or--what if the thing were a trick?--this letter so freely displayed!--

My opportune presence! No! nonsense! Will n.o.body answer the bell?

Call a cab! Half past ten. Not too late yet. Oh, Ethel! Why don't you go? Well?

"Master said you would wait"-- Hang your master! "Have I ever a message to send?"

Yes, tell him I've gone to the German to dance with the friend of his friend.

WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD

Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair, Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare?

"Why are my eyelids so open and wild?"

Only the better to see with, my child!

Only the better and clearer to view Cheeks that are rosy and eyes that are blue.

Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms, Swaying so wickedly? Are they misplaced Clasping or s.h.i.+elding some delicate waist?

Hands whose coa.r.s.e sinews may fill you with fear Only the better protect you, my dear!

Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street, Why do I press your small hand when we meet?

Why, when you timidly offered your cheek, Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak?

Why, well: you see--if the truth must appear-- I'm not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear!