East and West: Poems
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Part I
A Greyport Legend
(1797.)
They ran through the streets of the seaport town;They peered from the decks of the ships that lay:The cold sea-fog that came whitening downWas never as cold or white as they. "Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden! Run for your shallops, gather your men, Scatter your boats on the lower bay."Good cause for fear! In the thick middayThe hulk that lay by the rotting pier,Filled with the children in happy play,Parted its moorings, and drifted clear,— Drifted clear beyond the reach or call,— Thirteen children they were in all,— All adrift in the lower bay!Said a hard-faced skipper, "God help us all!She will not float till the turning tide!"Said his wife, "My darling will hear my call,Whether in sea or heaven she bide:" And she lifted a quavering voice and high, Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry, Till they shuddered and wondered at her side.The fog drove down on each laboring crew,Veiled each from each and the sky and shore:There was not a sound but the breath they drew,And the lap of water and creak of oar; And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone, But not from the lips that had gone before.They come no more. But they tell the tale,That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef,The mackerel fishers shorten sail;For the signal they know will bring relief: For the voices of children, still at play In a phantom hulk that drifts alway Through channels whose waters never fail.It is but a foolish shipman's tale,A theme for a poet's idle page;But still, when the mists of doubt prevail,And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age, We hear from the misty troubled shore The voice of the children gone before, Drawing the soul to its anchorage.A Newport Romance
They say that she died of a broken heart (I tell the tale as 'twas told to me);But her spirit lives, and her soul is part Of this sad old house by the sea.Her lover was fickle and fine and French: It was nearly a hundred years agoWhen he sailed away from her arms—poor wench— With the Admiral Rochambeau.I marvel much what periwigged phrase Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker,At what golden-laced speech of those modish days She listened—the mischief take her!But she kept the posies of mignonette That he gave; and ever as their bloom failedAnd faded (though with her tears still wet) Her youth with their own exhaled.Till one night, when the sea-fog wrapped a shroud Round spar and spire and tarn and tree,Her soul went up on that lifted cloud From this sad old house by the sea.And ever since then, when the clock strikes two, She walks unbidden from room to room,And the air is filled that she passes through With a subtle, sad perfume.The delicate odor of mignonette, The ghost of a dead and gone bouquet,Is all that tells of her story; yet Could she think of a sweeter way?* * *I sit in the sad old house to-night,— Myself a ghost from a farther sea;And I trust that this Quaker woman might, In courtesy, visit me.For the laugh is fled from porch and lawn, And the bugle died from the fort on the hill,And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone, And the grand piano is still.Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two; And there is no sound in the sad old house,But the long veranda dripping with dew, And in the wainscot a mouse.The light of my study-lamp streams out From the library door, but has gone astrayIn the depths of the darkened hall. Small doubt But the Quakeress knows the way.Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought With outward watching and inward fret?But I swear that the air just now was fraught With the odor of mignonette!I open the window, and seem almost— So still lies the ocean—to hear the beatOf its Great Gulf artery off the coast, And to bask in its tropic heat.In my neighbor's windows the gas-lights flare, As the dancers swing in a waltz of Strauss;And I wonder now could I fit that air To the song of this sad old house.And no odor of mignonette there is But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn;And mayhap from causes as slight as this The quaint old legend is born.But the soul of that subtle, sad perfume, As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlastThe mummy laid in his rocky tomb, Awakens my buried past.And I think of the passion that shook my youth, Of its aimless loves and its idle pains,And am thankful now for the certain truth That only the sweet remains.And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade, And I see no face at my library door;For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, She is viewless forevermore.But whether she came as a faint perfume, Or whether a spirit in stole of white,I feel, as I pass from the darkened room, She has been with my soul to-night!The Hawk's Nest
(Sierras.)
We checked our pace,—the red road sharply rounding; We heard the troubled flowOf the dark olive depths of pines, resounding A thousand feet below.Above the tumult of the cañon lifted, The gray hawk breathless hung;Or on the hill a wingèd shadow drifted Where furze and thorn-bush clung;Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed With many a seam and scar;Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed,— A mole-hill seen so far.We looked in silence down across the distant Unfathomable reach:A silence broken by the guide's consistent And realistic speech."Walker of Murphy's blew a hole through Peters For telling him he lied;Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos Across the long Divide."We ran him out of Strong's, and up through Eden, And 'cross the ford below;And up this cañon (Peters' brother leadin'), And me and Clark and Joe."He fou't us game: somehow, I disremember Jest how the thing kem round;Some say 'twas wadding, some a scattered ember From fires on the ground."But in one minute all the hill below him Was just one sheet of flame;Guardin' the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him. And,—well, the dog was game!"He made no sign: the fires of hell were round him, The pit of hell below.We sat and waited, but never found him; And then we turned to go."And then—you see that rock that's grown so bristly With chaparral and tan—Suthin' crep' out: it might hev been a grizzly, It might hev been a man;"Suthin' that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and shouted In smoke and dust and flame;Suthin' that sprang into the depths about it, Grizzly or man,—but game!"That's all. Well, yes, it does look rather risky, And kinder makes one queerAnd dizzy looking down. A drop of whiskey Ain't a bad thing right here!"In the Mission Garden
(1865.)
Father FelipeI speak not the English well, but PachitaShe speak for me; is it not so, my Pancha?Eh, little rogue? Come, salute me the stranger Americano.Sir, in my country we say, "Where the heart is,There live the speech." Ah! you not understand? So!Pardon an old man,—what you call "ol fogy,"— Padre Felipe!Old, Señor, old! just so old as the Mission.You see that pear-tree? How old you think, Señor?Fifteen year? Twenty? Ah, Señor, just Fifty Gone since I plant him!You like the wine? It is some at the Mission,Made from the grape of the year Eighteen Hundred;All the same time when the earthquake he come to San Juan Bautista.But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree;And I am the olive, and this is the garden:And Pancha we say; but her name is Francisca, Same like her mother.Eh, you knew her? No? Ah! it is a story;But I speak not, like Pachita, the English:So? If I try, you will sit here beside me, And shall not laugh, eh?When the American come to the Mission,Many arrive at the house of Francisca:One,—he was fine man,—he buy the cattle Of José Castro.So! he came much, and Francisca she saw him:And it was Love,—and a very dry season;And the pears bake on the tree,—and the rain come, But not Francisca;Not for one year; and one night I have walk muchUnder the olive-tree, when comes Francisca:Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca,— Under the olive-tree.Sir, it was sad; … but I speak not the English;So! … she stay here, and she wait for her husbandHe come no more, and she sleep on the hillside; There stands Pachita.Ah! there's the Angelus. Will you not enter?Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha?Go, little rogue—stt—attend to the stranger. Adios, Señor.Pachita (briskly)So, he's been telling that yarn about mother!Bless you, he tells it to every stranger:Folks about yer say the old man's my father; What's your opinion?The Old Major Explains
(Re-Union Army of the Potomac, 12th May, 1871.)
"Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don't know as I can come:For the farm is not half planted, and there's work to do at home;And my leg is getting troublesome,—it laid me up last fall,And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never found the ball."And then, for an old man like me, it's not exactly right,This kind o' playing soldier with no enemy in sight.'The Union,'—that was well enough way up to '66;But this 'Re-Union,'—maybe now it's mixed with politics?"No? Well, you understand it best; but then, you see, my lad,I'm deacon now, and some might think that the example's bad.And week from next is Conference.... You said the 12th of May?Why, that's the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a!"Hot work; eh, Colonel, wasn't it? Ye mind that narrow front:They called it the 'Death-Angle!' Well, well, my lad, we won'tFight that old battle over now: I only meant to sayI really can't engage to come upon the 12th of May."How's Thompson? What! will he be there? Well, now, I want to know!The first man in the rebel works! they called him 'Swearing Joe:'A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was; but then—Well, short of heaven, there wa'n't a place he dursn't lead his men."And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy? ah! it's trueWe buried him at Gettysburg: I mind the spot; do you?A little field below the hill,—it must be green this May;Perhaps that's why the fields about bring him to me to-day."Well, well, excuse me, Colonel! but there are some things that dropThe tail-board out one's feelings; and the only way's to stop.So they want to see the old man; ah, the rascals! do they, eh?Well, I've business down in Boston about the 12th of May.""Seventy-Nine"
Mr. Interviewer Interviewed
Know me next time when you see me, won't you, old smarty?Oh, I mean you, old figger-head,—just the same party!Take out your pensivil, d—n you; sharpen it, do!Any complaints to make? Lots of 'em—one of 'em's you.You! who are you, anyhow, goin' round in that sneakin' way?Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say?Look at it; don't it look pooty? Oh, grin, and be d—d to you, do!But, if I had you this side o' that gratin', I'd just make it lively for you.How did I get in here? Well, what 'ud you give to know?'Twasn't by sneakin' round where I hadn't no call to go.'Twasn't by hangin' round a spyin' unfortnet men.Grin! but I'll stop your jaw if ever you do that agen.Why don't you say suthin', blast you? Speak your mind if you dare.Ain't I a bad lot, sonny? Say it, and call it square.Hain't got no tongue, hey, hev ye. O guard! here's a little swell,A cussin' and swearin' and yellin', and bribin' me not to tell.There, I thought that 'ud fetch ye. And you want to know my name?"Seventy-Nine" they call me; but that is their little game.For I'm werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can understand;And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in the land.For 'twas all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like me;And the jury was bribed a puppos, and aftdrst they couldn't agree.And I sed to the judge, sez I,—Oh, grin! it's all right my son!But you're a werry lively young pup, and you ain't to be played upon!Wot's that you got—tobacco? I'm cussed but I thought 'twas a tract.Thank ye. A chap t'other day—now, look'ee, this is a fact,Slings me a tract on the evils o' keepin' bad company,As if all the saints was howlin' to stay here along's we.No: I hain't no complaints. Stop, yes; do you see that chap,—Him standin' over there,—a hidin' his eves in his cap?Well, that man's stumick is weak, and he can't stand the pris'n fare;For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar ain't no where.Perhaps it's his bringin' up; but he sickens day by day,And he doesn't take no food, and I'm seein' him waste away.And it isn't the thing to see; for, whatever he's been and done,Starvation isn't the plan as he's to be saved upon.For he cannot rough it like me; and he hasn't the stamps, I guess,To buy him his extry grub outside o' the pris'n mess.And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I've been sorter free,Would—thank you! But, say, look here! Oh, blast it, don't give it to ME!Don't you give it to me; now, don't ye, don't ye, don't!You think it's a put-up job; so I'll thank ye, sir, if you won't.But hand him the stamps yourself: why, he isn't even my pal;And if it's a comfort to you, why, I don't intend that he shall.His Answer to "Her Letter"
Reported by Truthful James
Being asked by an intimate party,— Which the same I would term as a friend,—Which his health it were vain to call hearty, Since the mind to deceit it might lend;For his arm it was broken quite recent, And has something gone wrong with his lung,—Which is why it is proper and decent I should write what he runs off his tongue:First, he says, Miss, he's read through your letter To the end,—and the end came too soon;That a slight illness kept him your debtor (Which for weeks he was wild as a loon);That his spirits are buoyant as yours is; That with you, Miss, he challenges Fate(Which the language that invalid uses At times it were vain to relate).And he says that the mountains are fairer For once being held in your thought;That each rock holds a wealth that is rarer Than ever by gold-seeker sought(Which are words he would put in these pages, By a party not given to guile;Which the same not, at date, paying wages, Might produce in the sinful a smile).He remembers the ball at the Ferry, And the ride, and the gate, and the vow,And the rose that you gave him,—that very Same rose he is treasuring now(Which his blanket he's kicked on his trunk, Miss, And insists on his legs being free;And his language to me from his bunk, Miss, Is frequent and painful and free);He hopes you are wearing no willows, But are happy and gay all the while;That he knows (which this dodging of pillows Imparts but small ease to the style,And the same you will pardon),—he knows, Miss, That, though parted by many a mile,Yet were he lying under the snows, Miss, They'd melt into tears at your smile.And you'll still think of him in your pleasures, In your brief twilight dreams of the past;In this green laurel-spray that he treasures, It was plucked where your parting was last;In this specimen,—but a small trifle,— It will do for a pin for your shawl(Which the truth not to wickedly stifle Was his last week's "clean up,"—and his all).He's asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss, Were it not that I scorn to denyThat I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss, In view that his fever was high;But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive. And now, my respects, Miss, to you;Which my language, although comprehensive, Might seem to be freedom,—it's true.Which I have a small favor to ask you, As concerns a bull-pup, which the same,—If the duty would not overtask you,— You would please to procure for me, game;And send per express to the Flat, Miss, Which they say York is famed for the breed,Which though words of deceit may be that, Miss, I'll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed.P.S.—Which this same interfering Into other folks' way I despise;Yet if it so be I was hearing That it's just empty pockets as liesBetwixt you and Joseph, it follers, That, having no family claims,Here's my pile; which it's six hundred dollars, As is yours, with respects,Truthful James.Further Language from Truthful James
(Nye's Ford, Stanislaus)
(1870.)
Do I sleep? do I dream?Do I wonder and doubt?Are things what they seem?Or is visions about?Is our civilization a failure?Or is the Caucasian played out?Which expressions are strong;Yet would feebly implySome account of a wrong—Not to call it a lie—As was worked off on William, my pardner,And the same being W. Nye.He came down to the FordOn the very same dayOf that lottery drawedBy those sharps at the Bay;And he says to me, "Truthful, how goes it?"I replied, "It is far, far from gay;"For the camp has gone wildOn this lottery game,And has even beguiled'Injin Dick' by the same."Which said Nye to me, "Injins is pizen:Do you know what his number is, James?"I replied "7,2,9,8,4, is his hand;"When he started, and drewOut a list, which he scanned;Then he softly went for his revolverWith language I cannot command.Then I said, "William Nye!"But he turned upon me,And the look in his eyeWas quite painful to see;And he says, "You mistake: this poor InjinI protects from such sharps as you be!"I was shocked and withdrew;But I grieve to relate,When he next met my viewInjin Dick was his mate,And the two around town was a-lyingIn a frightfully dissolute state.Which the war-dance they hadRound a tree at the BendWas a sight that was sad;And it seemed that the endWould not justify the proceedings,As I quiet remarked to a friend.For that Injin he fledThe next day to his band;And we found William spreadVery loose on the strand,With a peaceful-like smile on his features,And a dollar greenback in his hand;Which, the same when rolled out,We observed with surprise,That that Injin, no doubt,Had believed was the prize,—Them figures in red in the corner,Which the number of notes specifies.Was it guile, or a dream?Is it Nye that I doubt?Are things what they seem?Or is visions about?Is our civilization a failure?Or is the Caucasian played out?The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin
Of all the fountains that poets sing,—Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring;Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth;Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth;In short, of all the springs of TimeThat ever were flowing in fact or rhyme,That ever were tasted, felt, or seen,—There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin.Anno Domini Eighteen-Seven,Father Dominguez (now in heaven,—Obiit, Eighteen twenty-seven)Found the spring, and found it, too,By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe;For his beast—a descendant of Balaam's ass—Stopped on the instant, and would not pass.The Padre thought the omen good,And bent his lips to the trickling flood;Then—as the chronicles declare,On the honest faith of a true believer—His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare,Filled like a withered russet-pearIn the vacuum of a glass receiver,And the snows that seventy winters bringMelted away in that magic spring.Such, at least, was the wondrous newsThe Padre brought into Santa Cruz.The Church, of course, had its own viewsOf who were worthiest to useThe magic spring; but the prior claimFell to the aged, sick, and lame.Far and wide the people came:Some from the healthful Aptos creekHastened to bring their helpless sick;Even the fishers of rude SoquelSuddenly found they were far from well;The brawny dwellers of San LorenzoSaid, in fact, they had never been so:And all were-ailing,—strange to say,—From Pescadero to Monterey.Over the mountain they poured inWith leathern bottles, and bags of skin;Through the cañons a motley throngTrotted, hobbled, and limped along.The fathers gazed at the moving sceneWith 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 aloneThe good effects of the waters shone;But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear,Of rough vacquero and muleteer;Angular forms were rounded out,Limbs grew supple, and waists grew stout;And as for the girls,—for miles aboutThey had no equal! To this day,From Pescadero to Monterey,You'll still find eyes in which are seenThe 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 spentTheir days in a sensuous content;Caring little for things unseenBeyond their bowers of living green,—Beyond the mountains that lay betweenThe world and the Mission of San Joaquin.Winter passed, and the summer came:The trunks of madroño all aflame,Here and there through the underwoodLike pillars of fire starkly stood.All of the breezy solitude Was filled with the spicing of pine and bayAnd resinous odors mixed and blended, And dim and ghost-like far awayThe 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 fashion;The forests waltzed till they grew sick, And Nature shook in a speechless passion;And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen,The wonderful Spring of San JoaquinVanished, and never more was seen!Two days passed: the Mission folkOut 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, tendernessOf the mouth and fauces; and in lessThan one week,—here the story closes;We won't continue the prognosis,—Enough that now no trace is seenOf Spring or Mission of San Joaquin.MoralYou see the point? Don't be too quickTo break bad habits: better stick,Like the Mission folk, to your arsenic.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 shining 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 scrape the sky, their only tenantThe 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 ableTo keep the company of such As throng thy friend's—the poet's—table:The latest spawn the press hath cast,— The "modern Pope's," "the later Byron's,"—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.A Sanitary Message
Last night, above the whistling wind, I heard the welcome rain,—A fusillade upon the roof, A tattoo on the pane:The key-hole piped; the chimney-top A warlike trumpet blew;Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife, A softer voice stole through."Give thanks, O brothers!" said the voice, "That He who sent the rainsHath spared your fields the scarlet dew That drips from patriot veins:I've seen the grass on Eastern graves In brighter verdure rise;But, oh! the rain that gave it life Sprang first from human eyes."I come to wash away no stain Upon your wasted lea;I raise no banners, save the ones The forest wave to me:Upon the mountain side, where Spring Her farthest picket sets,My reveille awakes a host Of grassy bayonets."I visit every humble roof; I mingle with the low:Only upon the highest peaks My blessings fall in snow;Until, in tricklings of the stream And drainings of the lea,My unspent bounty comes at last To mingle with the sea."And thus all night, above the wind, I heard the welcome rain,—A fusillade upon the roof, A tattoo on the pane:The key-hole piped; the chimney-top A warlike trumpet blew;But, mingling with these sounds of strife, This hymn of peace stole through.