Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 9

Far and wide the people came: Some from the healthful Aptos Creek Hastened to bring their helpless sick; Even the fishers of rude Soquel Suddenly found they were far from well; The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo Said, in fact, they had never been so; And all were ailing,--strange to say,-- From Pescadero to Monterey.

Over the mountain they poured in, With leathern bottles and bags of skin; Through the canyons a motley throng Trotted, hobbled, and limped along.

The Fathers gazed at the moving scene With pious joy and with souls serene; And then--a result perhaps foreseen-- They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin.

Not in the eyes of faith alone The good effects of the water shone; But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, Of rough vaquero and muleteer; Angular forms were rounded out, Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout; And as for the girls,--for miles about They had no equal! To this day, From Pescadero to Monterey, You'll still find eyes in which are seen The liquid graces of San Joaquin.

There is a limit to human bliss, And the Mission of San Joaquin had this; None went abroad to roam or stay But they fell sick in the queerest way,-- A singular maladie du pays, With gastric symptoms: so they spent Their days in a sensuous content, Caring little for things unseen Beyond their bowers of living green, Beyond the mountains that lay between The world and the Mission of San Joaquin.

Winter pa.s.sed, and the summer came The trunks of madrono, all aflame, Here and there through the underwood Like pillars of fire starkly stood.

All of the breezy solitude Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay And resinous odors mixed and blended; And dim and ghostlike, far away, The smoke of the burning woods ascended.

Then of a sudden the mountains swam, The rivers piled their floods in a dam, The ridge above Los Gatos Creek Arched its spine in a feline fas.h.i.+on; The forests waltzed till they grew sick, And Nature shook in a speechless pa.s.sion; And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen, The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin Vanished, and never more was seen!

Two days pa.s.sed: the Mission folk Out of their rosy dream awoke; Some of them looked a trifle white, But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright.

Three days: there was sore distress, Headache, nausea, giddiness.

Four days: faintings, tenderness Of the mouth and fauces; and in less Than one week--here the story closes; We won't continue the prognosis-- Enough that now no trace is seen Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin.

MORAL

You see the point? Don't be too quick To break bad habits: better stick, Like the Mission folk, to your a.r.s.eNIC.

THE ANGELUS

(HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868)

Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music Still fills the wide expanse, Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present With color of romance!

I hear your call, and see the sun descending On rock and wave and sand, As down the coast the Mission voices, blending, Girdle the heathen land.

Within the circle of your incantation No blight nor mildew falls; Nor fierce unrest, nor l.u.s.t, nor low ambition Pa.s.ses those airy walls.

Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, I touch the farther Past; I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, The sunset dream and last!

Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers, The white Presidio; The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, The priest in stole of snow.

Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting Above the setting sun; And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting, The freighted galleon.

O solemn bells! whose consecrated ma.s.ses Recall the faith of old; O tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight music The spiritual fold!

Your voices break and falter in the darkness,-- Break, falter, and are still; And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending, The sun sinks from the hill!

CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO

(PRESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO, 1800)

I

Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and quaint, By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint,--

Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed, On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel's golden reed;

All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed away; And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day.

Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering eye, Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious pa.s.ser-by;

Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of gold With the plain and homespun present, and a love that ne'er grows old;

Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner dust,-- Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and trust.

II

Count von Resanoff, the Russian, envoy of the mighty Czar, Stood beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are.

He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene debate On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state;

He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk apart With the Commandante's daughter on the questions of the heart,

Until points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one, And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun;

Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar;

Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothed bade adieu, And from sallyport and gateway north the Russian eagles flew.

III

Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of the Czar;

Day by day on wall and bastion beat the hollow, empty breeze,-- Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling seas:

Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty leather cloaks,-- Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing plain of oaks;

Till the rains came, and far breaking, on the fierce southwester tost, Dashed the whole long coast with color, and then vanished and were lost.

So each year the seasons s.h.i.+fted,--wet and warm and drear and dry Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and sky.

Still it brought no s.h.i.+p nor message,--brought no tidings, ill or meet, For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair and sweet.

Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears beside: "He will come," the flowers whispered; "Come no more," the dry hills sighed.

Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning breeze,-- Still she lost him with the folding of the great white-tented seas;

Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive brown, And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet lashes down;

Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied caress, And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress.