Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 4

Strange was the contrast that such scenes disclose From his high vantage o'er eternal snows; There War's alarm the brazen trumpet rings-- Here his love-song the mailed cicala sings; There bayonets glitter through the forest glades-- Here yellow cornfields stack their peaceful blades; There the deep trench where Valor finds a grave-- Here the long ditch that curbs the peaceful wave; There the bold sapper with his lighted train-- Here the dark tunnel and its stores of gain; Here the full harvest and the wain's advance-- There the Grim Reaper and the ambulance.

With scenes so adverse, what mysterious bond Links our fair fortunes to the sh.o.r.es beyond?

Why come we here--last of a scattered fold-- To pour new metal in the broken mould?

To yield our tribute, stamped with Caesar's face, To Caesar, stricken in the market-place?

Ah! love of country is the secret tie That joins these contrasts 'neath one arching sky; Though brighter paths our peaceful steps explore, We meet together at the Nation's door.

War winds her horn, and giant cliffs go down Like the high walls that girt the sacred town, And bares the pathway to her throbbing heart, From cl.u.s.tered village and from crowded mart.

Part of G.o.d's providence it was to found A Nation's bulwark on this chosen ground; Not Jesuit's zeal nor pioneer's unrest Planted these pickets in the distant West, But He who first the Nation's fate forecast Placed here His fountains sealed for ages past, Rock-ribbed and guarded till the coming time Should fit the people for their work sublime; When a new Moses with his rod of steel Smote the tall cliffs with one wide-ringing peal, And the old miracle in record told To the new Nation was revealed in gold.

Judge not too idly that our toils are mean, Though no new levies marshal on our green; Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small, Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall.

See, where thick vapor wreathes the battle-line; There Mercy follows with her oil and wine; Or where brown Labor with its peaceful charm Stiffens the sinews of the Nation's arm.

What nerves its hands to strike a deadlier blow And hurl its legions on the rebel foe?

Lo! for each town new rising o'er our State See the foe's hamlet waste and desolate, While each new factory lifts its chimney tall, Like a fresh mortar trained on Richmond's wall.

For this, O brothers, swings the fruitful vine, Spread our broad pastures with their countless kine: For this o'erhead the arching vault springs clear, Sunlit and cloudless for one half the year; For this no snowflake, e'er so lightly pressed, Chills the warm impulse of our mother's breast.

Quick to reply, from meadows brown and sere, She thrills responsive to Spring's earliest tear; Breaks into blossom, flings her loveliest rose Ere the white crocus mounts Atlantic snows; And the example of her liberal creed Teaches the lesson that to-day we heed.

Thus ours the lot with peaceful, generous hand To spread our bounty o'er the suffering land; As the deep cleft in Mariposa's wall Hurls a vast river splintering in its fall,-- Though the rapt soul who stands in awe below Sees but the arching of the promised bow, Lo! the far streamlet drinks its dews unseen, And the whole valley wakes a brighter green.

MISS BLANCHE SAYS

And you are the poet, and so you want Something--what is it?--a theme, a fancy?

Something or other the Muse won't grant To your old poetical necromancy; Why, one half you poets--you can't deny-- Don't know the Muse when you chance to meet her, But sit in your attics and mope and sigh For a faineant G.o.ddess to drop from the sky, When flesh and blood may be standing by Quite at your service, should you but greet her.

What if I told you my own romance?

Women are poets, if you so take them, One third poet,--the rest what chance Of man and marriage may choose to make them.

Give me ten minutes before you go,-- Here at the window we'll sit together, Watching the currents that ebb and flow; Watching the world as it drifts below Up the hot Avenue's dusty glow: Isn't it pleasant, this bright June weather?

Well, it was after the war broke out, And I was a schoolgirl fresh from Paris; Papa had contracts, and roamed about, And I--did nothing--for I was an heiress.

Picked some lint, now I think; perhaps Knitted some stockings--a dozen nearly: Havelocks made for the soldiers' caps; Stood at fair-tables and peddled traps Quite at a profit. The "shoulder-straps"

Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you! really?

Still it was stupid. Rata-tat-tat!

Those were the sounds of that battle summer, Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat, And every footfall the tap of a drummer; And day by day down the Avenue went Cavalry, infantry, all together, Till my pitying angel one day sent My fate in the shape of a regiment, That halted, just as the day was spent, Here at our door in the bright June weather.

None of your dandy warriors they,-- Men from the West, but where I know not; Haggard and travel-stained, worn and gray, With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot: And I opened the window, and, leaning there, I felt in their presence the free winds blowing.

My neck and shoulders and arms were bare,-- I did not dream they might think me fair, But I had some flowers that night in my hair, And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing.

And I looked from the window along the line, Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn, Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine, And a dark face shone from the darkening column, And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair, Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together, And the next I found myself standing there With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair, And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air, Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather.

Then I drew back quickly: there came a cheer, A rush of figures, a noise and tussle, And then it was over, and high and clear My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle.

Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried, And slowly and steadily, all together, Shoulder to shoulder and side to side, Rising and falling and swaying wide, But bearing above them the rose, my pride, They marched away in the twilight weather.

And I leaned from my window and watched my rose Tossed on the waves of the surging column, Warmed from above in the sunset glows, Borne from below by an impulse solemn.

Then I shut the window. I heard no more Of my soldier friend, nor my flower neither, But lived my life as I did before.

I did not go as a nurse to the war,-- Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore,-- So I didn't go to the hospital either.

You smile, O poet, and what do you?

You lean from your window, and watch life's column Trampling and struggling through dust and dew, Filled with its purposes grave and solemn; And an act, a gesture, a face--who knows?-- Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you, And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows And down it flies like my red, red rose, And you sit and dream as away it goes, And think that your duty is done,--now don't you?

I know your answer. I'm not yet through.

Look at this photograph,--"In the Trenches"!

That dead man in the coat of blue Holds a withered rose in his hand. That clenches Nothing!--except that the sun paints true, And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded.

And that's my romance. And, poet, you Take it and mould it to suit your view; And who knows but you may find it too Come to your heart once more, as mine did.

AN ARCTIC VISION

Where the short-legged Esquimaux Waddle in the ice and snow, And the playful Polar bear Nips the hunter unaware; Where by day they track the ermine, And by night another vermin,-- Segment of the frigid zone, Where the temperature alone Warms on St. Elias' cone; Polar dock, where Nature slips From the ways her icy s.h.i.+ps; Land of fox and deer and sable, Sh.o.r.e end of our western cable,-- Let the news that flying goes Thrill through all your Arctic floes, And reverberate the boast From the cliffs off Beechey's coast, Till the tidings, circling round Every bay of Norton Sound, Throw the vocal tide-wave back To the isles of Kodiac.

Let the stately Polar bears Waltz around the pole in pairs, And the walrus, in his glee, Bare his tusk of ivory; While the bold sea-unicorn Calmly takes an extra horn; All ye Polar skies, reveal your Very rarest of parhelia; Trip it, all ye merry dancers, In the airiest of "Lancers;"

Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide, One inch farther to the tide, Nor in rash precipitation Upset Tyndall's calculation.

Know you not what fate awaits you, Or to whom the future mates you?

All ye icebergs, make salaam,-- You belong to Uncle Sam!

On the spot where Eugene Sue Led his wretched Wandering Jew, Stands a form whose features strike Russ and Esquimaux alike.

He it is whom Skalds of old In their Runic rhymes foretold; Lean of flank and lank of jaw, See the real Northern Thor!

See the awful Yankee leering Just across the Straits of Behring; On the drifted snow, too plain, Sinks his fresh tobacco stain, Just beside the deep inden- Tation of his Number 10.

Leaning on his icy hammer Stands the hero of this drama, And above the wild-duck's clamor, In his own peculiar grammar, With its linguistic disguises, La! the Arctic prologue rises: "Wall, I reckon 'tain't so bad, Seein' ez 'twas all they had.

True, the Springs are rather late, And early Falls predominate; But the ice-crop's pretty sure, And the air is kind o' pure; 'Tain't so very mean a trade, When the land is all surveyed.

There's a right smart chance for fur-chase All along this recent purchase, And, unless the stories fail, Every fish from cod to whale; Rocks, too; mebbe quartz; let's see,-- 'Twould be strange if there should be,-- Seems I've heerd such stories told; Eh!--why, bless us,--yes, it's gold!"

While the blows are falling thick From his California pick, You may recognize the Thor Of the vision that I saw,-- Freed from legendary glamour, See the real magician's hammer.

ST. THOMAS

(A GEOGRAPHICAL SURVEY, 1868)

Very fair and full of promise Lay the island of St. Thomas: Ocean o'er its reefs and bars Hid its elemental scars; Groves of cocoanut and guava Grew above its fields of lava.

So the gem of the Antilles-- "Isles of Eden," where no ill is-- Like a great green turtle slumbered On the sea that it enc.u.mbered.

Then said William Henry Seward, As he cast his eye to leeward, "Quite important to our commerce Is this island of St. Thomas."

Said the Mountain ranges, "Thank'ee, But we cannot stand the Yankee O'er our scars and fissures poring, In our very vitals boring, In our sacred caverns prying, All our secret problems trying,-- Digging, blasting, with dynamit Mocking all our thunders! d.a.m.n it!

Other lands may be more civil; Bust our lava crust if we will!"

Said the Sea, its white teeth gnas.h.i.+ng Through its coral-reef lips flas.h.i.+ng, "Shall I let this scheming mortal Shut with stone my s.h.i.+ning portal, Curb my tide and check my play, Fence with wharves my s.h.i.+ning bay?

Rather let me be drawn out In one awful waterspout!"