Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 6

He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled, On the cropped head of one who stood beside.

Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy child Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride; 'Twas but a Mind that somehow had beguiled From soulless Matter processes that served For speech and motion and digestion mild, Content if all one moral purpose nerved, Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved.

VI

He was scarce eighteen. Yet ere he was eight He had despoiled the cla.s.sics; much he knew Of Sanskrit; not that he placed undue weight On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew, His favorite tongue. He learned, alas! too late, One can't begin too early,--would regret That boyish whim to ascertain the state Of Venus' atmosphere made him forget That philologic goal on which his soul was set.

VII

He too had traveled; at the age of ten Found Paris empty, dull except for art And accent. "Mabille" with its glories then Less than Egyptian "Almees" touched a heart Nothing if not pure cla.s.sic. If some men Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit, But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen, The better to instruct them, through some sheet Published in Boston, and signed "Beacon Street."

VIII

From premises so plain the blind could see But one deduction, and it came next day.

"In times like these, the very name of G.

Speaks volumes," wrote the Honorable J.

"Inclosed please find appointment." Presently Came a reception to which Harvard lent Fourteen professors, and, to give esprit, The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent, Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment.

IX

Four poets came who loved each other's song, And two philosophers, who thought that they Were in most things impractical and wrong; And two reformers, each in his own way Peculiar,--one who had waxed strong On herbs and water, and such simple fare; Two foreign lions, "Ram See" and "Chy Long,"

And several artists claimed attention there, Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere.

X

With this indors.e.m.e.nt nothing now remained But counsel, G.o.dspeed, and some calm adieux; No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained, And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew.

A slight publicity, such as obtained In cla.s.sic Rome, these few last hours attended.

The day arrived, the train and depot gained, The mayor's own presence this last act commended The train moved off and here the first act ended.

CANTO II

I

Where West Point crouches, and with lifted s.h.i.+eld Turns the whole river eastward through the pa.s.s; Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas; Where b.u.t.tressed low against the storms that wield Their summer lightnings where her eaglets swarm, By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeled Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm Of leveled lances bares her bosom warm.

II

But not to-night. The air and woods are still, The faintest rustle in the trees below, The lowest tremor from the mountain rill, Come to the ear as but the trailing flow Of spirit robes that walk unseen the hill; The moon low sailing o'er the upland farm, The moon low sailing where the waters fill The lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm, Gleams like a chevron on the river's arm.

III

All s.p.a.ce breathes languor: from the hilltop high, Where Putnam's bastion crumbles in the past, To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lie And wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast; Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and die On the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream; Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by, Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleam Far on the level plain, then pa.s.ses as a dream.

IV

Soft down the line of darkened battlements, Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls, Where the low arching sallyport indents, Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam falls.

All is repose save where the camping tents Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound No morning guns for reveille, nor whence No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found Waiting and present on each sentry's round.

V

Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave, Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame, Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave; Bred to fear nothing but reproach and blame, Ascetic dandies o'er whom vestals rave, Clean-limbed young Spartans, disciplined young elves, Taught to destroy, that they may live to save, Students embattled, soldiers at their shelves, Heroes whose conquests are at first themselves.

VI

Within the camp they lie, in dreams are freed From the grim discipline they learn to love; In dreams no more the sentry's challenge heed, In dreams afar beyond their pickets rove; One treads once more the piny paths that lead To his green mountain home, and pausing hears The cattle call; one treads the tangled weed Of slippery rocks beside Atlantic piers; One smiles in sleep, one wakens wet with tears.

VII

One scents the breath of jasmine flowers that twine The pillared porches of his Southern home; One hears the coo of pigeons in the pine Of Western woods where he was wont to roam; One sees the sunset fire the distant line Where the long prairie sweeps its levels down; One treads the snow-peaks; one by lamps that s.h.i.+ne Down the broad highways of the sea-girt town; And two are missing,--Cadets Grey and Brown!

VIII

Much as I grieve to chronicle the fact, That selfsame truant known as "Cadet Grey"

Was the young hero of our moral tract, Shorn of his twofold names on entrance-day.

"Winthrop" and "Adams" dropped in that one act Of martial curtness, and the roll-call thinned Of his ancestors, he with youthful tact Indulgence claimed, since Winthrop no more sinned, Nor sainted Adams winced when he, plain Grey, was "skinned."

IX

He had known trials since we saw him last, By sheer good luck had just escaped rejection, Not for his learning, but that it was cast In a spare frame scarce fit for drill inspection; But when he ope'd his lips a stream so vast Of information flooded each professor, They quite forgot his eyegla.s.s,--something past All precedent,--accepting the transgressor, Weak eyes and all of which he was possessor.

X

E'en the first day he touched a blackboard's s.p.a.ce-- So the tradition of his glory lingers-- Two wise professors fainted, each with face White as the chalk within his rapid fingers: All day he ciphered, at such frantic pace, His form was hid in chalk precipitation Of every problem, till they said his case Could meet from them no fair examination Till Congress made a new appropriation.

XI

Famous in molecules, he demonstrated From the mess hash to many a listening cla.s.sful; Great as a botanist, he separated Three kinds of "Mentha" in one julep's gla.s.sful; High in astronomy, it has been stated He was the first at West Point to discover Mars' missing satellites, and calculated Their true positions, not the heavens over, But 'neath the window of Miss Kitty Rover.

XII

Indeed, I fear this novelty celestial That very night was visible and clear; At least two youths of aspect most terrestrial, And clad in uniform, were loitering near A villa's cas.e.m.e.nt, where a gentle vestal Took their impatience somewhat patiently, Knowing the youths were somewhat green and "b.e.s.t.i.a.l"-- (A certain slang of the Academy, I beg the reader won't refer to me).

XIII

For when they ceased their ardent strain, Miss Kitty Glowed not with anger nor a kindred flame, But rather flushed with an odd sort of pity, Half matron's kindness, and half coquette's shame; Proud yet quite blameful, when she heard their ditty She gave her soul poetical expression, And being clever too, as she was pretty, From her high cas.e.m.e.nt warbled this confession,-- Half provocation and one half repression:--

NOT YET

Not yet, O friend, not yet! the patient stars Lean from their lattices, content to wait.

All is illusion till the morning bars Slip from the levels of the Eastern gate.

Night is too young, O friend! day is too near; Wait for the day that maketh all things clear.

Not yet, O friend, not yet!

Not yet, O love, not yet! all is not true, All is not ever as it seemeth now.

Soon shall the river take another blue, Soon dies yon light upon the mountain brow.

What lieth dark, O love, bright day will fill; Wait for thy morning, be it good or ill.

Not yet, O love, not yet!