Complete Poetical Works

A LEGEND OF COLOGNE

             Above the bones             St. Ursula owns,     And those of the virgins she chaperons;             Above the boats,             And the bridge that floats,     And the Rhine and the steamers' smoky throats;         Above the chimneys and quaint-tiled roofs,         Above the clatter of wheels and hoofs;         Above Newmarket's open space,         Above that consecrated place     Where the genuine bones of the Magi seen are,     And the dozen shops of the real Farina;         Higher than even old Hohestrasse,         Whose houses threaten the timid passer,—             Above them all,             Through scaffolds tall,     And spires like delicate limbs in splinters,             The great Cologne's             Cathedral stones     Climb through the storms of eight hundred winters.             Unfinished there,             In high mid-air         The towers halt like a broken prayer;             Through years belated,             Unconsummated,         The hope of its architect quite frustrated.             Its very youth             They say, forsooth,         With a quite improper purpose mated;             And every stone             With a curse of its own         Instead of that sermon Shakespeare stated,             Since the day its choir,             Which all admire,         By Cologne's Archbishop was consecrated.             Ah! THAT was a day,             One well might say,     To be marked with the largest, whitest stone     To be found in the towers of all Cologne!             Along the Rhine,             From old Rheinstein,     The people flowed like their own good wine.             From Rudesheim,             And Geisenheim,     And every spot that is known to rhyme;     From the famed Cat's Castle of St. Goarshausen,     To the pictured roofs of Assmannshausen,             And down the track,             From quaint Schwalbach         To the clustering tiles of Bacharach;             From Bingen, hence             To old Coblentz:     From every castellated crag,     Where the robber chieftains kept their "swag,"     The folk flowed in, and Ober-Cassel     Shone with the pomp of knight and vassal;         And pouring in from near and far,         As the Rhine to its bosom draws the Ahr,         Or takes the arm of the sober Mosel,         So in Cologne, knight, squire, and losel,         Choked up the city's gates with men         From old St. Stephen to Zint Marjen.         What had they come to see?  Ah me!         I fear no glitter of pageantry,             Nor sacred zeal             For Church's weal,     Nor faith in the virgins' bones to heal;         Nor childlike trust in frank confession         Drew these, who, dyed in deep transgression,             Still in each nest             On every crest     Kept stolen goods in their possession;             But only their gout             For something new,     More rare than the "roast" of a wandering Jew;             Or—to be exact—             To see—in fact—         A Christian soul, in the very act         Of being damned, secundum artem,         By the devil, before a soul could part 'em.             For a rumor had flown             Throughout Cologne     That the church, in fact, was the devil's own;             That its architect             (Being long "suspect")     Had confessed to the Bishop that he had wrecked         Not only his OWN soul, but had lost         The VERY FIRST CHRISTIAN SOUL that crossed         The sacred threshold: and all, in fine,         For that very beautiful design             Of the wonderful choir             They were pleased to admire.         And really, he must be allowed to say—         To speak in a purely business way—         That, taking the ruling market prices         Of souls and churches, in such a crisis             It would be shown—             And his Grace must own—         It was really a BARGAIN for Cologne!             Such was the tale             That turned cheeks pale     With the thought that the enemy might prevail,             And the church doors snap             With a thunderclap     On a Christian soul in that devil's trap.             But a wiser few,             Who thought that they knew     Cologne's Archbishop, replied, "Pooh, pooh!             Just watch him and wait,             And as sure as fate,     You'll find that the Bishop will give checkmate."             One here might note             How the popular vote,     As shown in all legends and anecdote,             Declares that a breach             Of trust to o'erreach     The devil is something quite proper for each.             And, really, if you             Give the devil his due     In spite of the proverb—it's something you'll rue.             But to lie and deceive him,             To use and to leave him,     From Job up to Faust is the way to receive him,             Though no one has heard             It ever averred     That the "Father of Lies" ever yet broke HIS word,             But has left this position,             In every tradition,     To be taken alone by the "truth-loving" Christian!             Bom! from the tower!             It is the hour!     The host pours in, in its pomp and power             Of banners and pyx,             And high crucifix,     And crosiers and other processional sticks,             And no end of Marys             In quaint reliquaries,     To gladden the souls of all true antiquaries;             And an Osculum Pacis             (A myth to the masses     Who trusted their bones more to mail and cuirasses)—             All borne by the throng             Who are marching along     To the square of the Dom with processional song,             With the flaring of dips,             And bending of hips,     And the chanting of hundred perfunctory lips;             And some good little boys             Who had come up from Neuss     And the Quirinuskirche to show off their voice:             All march to the square             Of the great Dom, and there     File right and left, leaving alone and quite bare             A covered sedan,             Containing—so ran     The rumor—the victim to take off the ban.             They have left it alone,             They have sprinkled each stone     Of the porch with a sanctified Eau de Cologne,             Guaranteed in this case             To disguise every trace     Of a sulphurous presence in that sacred place.             Two Carmelites stand             On the right and left hand     Of the covered sedan chair, to wait the command             Of the prelate to throw             Up the cover and show     The form of the victim in terror below.             There's a pause and a prayer,             Then the signal, and there—     Is a WOMAN!—by all that is good and is fair!             A woman! and known             To them all—one must own     TOO WELL KNOWN to the many, to-day to be shown             As a martyr, or e'en             As a Christian!  A queen     Of pleasance and revel, of glitter and sheen;             So bad that the worst             Of Cologne spake up first,     And declared 'twas an outrage to suffer one curst,             And already a fief             Of the Satanic chief,     To martyr herself for the Church's relief.             But in vain fell their sneer             On the mob, who I fear     On the whole felt a strong disposition to cheer.             A woman! and there             She stands in the glare     Of the pitiless sun and their pitying stare,—             A woman still young,             With garments that clung     To a figure, though wasted with passion and wrung             With remorse and despair,             Yet still passing fair,     With jewels and gold in her dark shining hair,             And cheeks that are faint             'Neath her dyes and her paint.     A woman most surely—but hardly a saint!             She moves.  She has gone             From their pity and scorn;             She has mounted alone             The first step of stone,     And the high swinging doors she wide open has thrown,             Then pauses and turns,             As the altar blaze burns     On her cheeks, and with one sudden gesture she spurns             Archbishop and Prior,             Knight, ladye, and friar,     And her voice rings out high from the vault of the choir.             "O men of Cologne!             What I WAS ye have known;     What I AM, as I stand here, One knoweth alone.             If it be but His will             I shall pass from Him still,     Lost, curst, and degraded, I reckon no ill;             If still by that sign             Of His anger divine     One soul shall be saved, He hath blessed more than mine.             O men of Cologne!             Stand forth, if ye own     A faith like to this, or more fit to atone,             And take ye my place,             And God give you grace     To stand and confront Him, like me, face to face!"             She paused.  Yet aloof             They all stand.  No reproof     Breaks the silence that fills the celestial roof.             One instant—no more—             She halts at the door,     Then enters!… A flood from the roof to the floor             Fills the church rosy red.             She is gone!                           But instead,     Who is this leaning forward with glorified head             And hands stretched to save?             Sure this is no slave     Of the Powers of Darkness, with aspect so brave!             They press to the door,             But too late!  All is o'er.     Naught remains but a woman's form prone on the floor;             But they still see a trace             Of that glow in her face     That they saw in the light of the altar's high blaze             On the image that stands             With the babe in its hands     Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands.             A Te Deum sung,             A censer high swung,     With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung,             Proclaim that the CURSE             IS REMOVED—and no worse     Is the Dom for the trial—in fact, the REVERSE;             For instead of their losing             A soul in abusing     The Evil One's faith, they gained one of his choosing.             Thus the legend is told:             You will find in the old     Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold             In iron and brass,             In gown and cuirass,     The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Mass;             And high o'er the rest,             With her babe at her breast,     The image of Mary Madonna the blest.             But you look round in vain,             On each high pictured pane,     For the woman most worthy to walk in her train.             Yet, standing to-day             O'er the dust and the clay,     'Midst the ghosts of a life that has long passed away,             With the slow-sinking sun             Looking softly upon     That stained-glass procession, I scarce miss the one             That it does not reveal,             For I know and I feel     That these are but shadows—the woman was real!

THE TALE OF A PONY

     Name of my heroine, simply "Rose;"     Surname, tolerable only in prose;     Habitat, Paris,—that is where     She resided for change of air;     Aetat twenty; complexion fair;     Rich, good looking, and debonnaire;     Smarter than Jersey lightning.  There!     That's her photograph, done with care.     In Paris, whatever they do besides,EVERY LADY IN FULL DRESS RIDES!     Moire antiques you never meet     Sweeping the filth of a dirty street     But every woman's claim to ton         Depends upon     The team she drives, whether phaeton,     Landau, or britzka.  Hence it's plain     That Rose, who was of her toilet vain,     Should have a team that ought to be     Equal to any in all Paris!     "Bring forth the horse!"  The commissaire     Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair     Leading an equipage rich and rare.     Why doth that lovely lady stare?     Why?  The tail of the off gray mare     Is bobbed, by all that's good and fair!     Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear,     Scarcely showing as much back hair     As Tam O'Shanter's "Meg,"—and there,     Lord knows, she'd little enough to spare.     That stare and frown the Frenchman knew,     But did as well-bred Frenchmen do:     Raised his shoulders above his crown,     Joined his thumbs with the fingers down,     And said, "Ah, Heaven!"—then, "Mademoiselle,     Delay one minute, and all is well!"     He went—returned; by what good chance     These things are managed so well in France     I cannot say, but he made the sale,     And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail.     All that is false in this world below     Betrays itself in a love of show;     Indignant Nature hides her lash     In the purple-black of a dyed mustache;     The shallowest fop will trip in French,     The would-be critic will misquote Trench;     In short, you're always sure to detect     A sham in the things folks most affect;     Bean-pods are noisiest when dry,     And you always wink with your weakest eye:     And that's the reason the old gray mare     Forever had her tail in the air,     With flourishes beyond compare,         Though every whisk         Incurred the risk     Of leaving that sensitive region bare.     She did some things that you couldn't but feel     She wouldn't have done had her tail been real.     Champs Elysees: time, past five.     There go the carriages,—look alive!     Everything that man can drive,     Or his inventive skill contrive,—     Yankee buggy or English "chay,"     Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coupe,     A desobligeante quite bulky     (French idea of a Yankee sulky);     Band in the distance playing a march,     Footman standing stiff as starch;     Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch-     Bishops, and there together range     Sous-lieutenants and cent-gardes (strange     Way these soldier-chaps make change),     Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames,     With unpronounceable awful names;     Laces tremble and ribbons flout,     Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout—     Bless us! what is the row about?     Ah! here comes Rosy's new turnout!     Smart!  You bet your life 'twas that!     Nifty! (short for magnificat).     Mulberry panels,—heraldic spread,—     Ebony wheels picked out with red,     And two gray mares that were thoroughbred:     No wonder that every dandy's head     Was turned by the turnout,—and 'twas said     That Caskowhisky (friend of the Czar),     A very good whip (as Russians are),     Was tied to Rosy's triumphal car,     Entranced, the reader will understand,     By "ribbons" that graced her head and hand.     Alas! the hour you think would crown     Your highest wishes should let you down!     Or Fate should turn, by your own mischance,     Your victor's car to an ambulance,     From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance!     (And these things happen, even in France.)     And so Miss Rose, as she trotted by,     The cynosure of every eye,     Saw to her horror the off mare shy,     Flourish her tail so exceedingly high     That, disregarding the closest tie,     And without giving a reason why,     She flung that tail so free and frisky     Off in the face of Caskowhisky.       Excuses, blushes, smiles: in fine,       End of the pony's tail, and mine!

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 tenant     The 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 able     To keep the company of such       As throng thy friend's—the poet's—table:     The latest spawn the press hath cast,—       The "modern popes," "the later Byrons,"—     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.

LONE MOUNTAIN

(CEMETERY, SAN FRANCISCO)     This is that hill of awe     That Persian Sindbad saw,—         The mount magnetic;     And on its seaward face,     Scattered along its base,         The wrecks prophetic.     Here come the argosies     Blown by each idle breeze,         To and fro shifting;     Yet to the hill of Fate     All drawing, soon or late,—         Day by day drifting;     Drifting forever here     Barks that for many a year         Braved wind and weather;     Shallops but yesterday     Launched on yon shining bay,—         Drawn all together.     This is the end of all:     Sun thyself by the wall,         O poorer Hindbad!     Envy not Sindbad's fame:     Here come alike the same         Hindbad and Sindbad.

ALNASCHAR

     Here's yer toy balloons!  All sizes!     Twenty cents for that.  It rises     Jest as quick as that 'ere, Miss,     Twice as big.  Ye see it is     Some more fancy.  Make it square     Fifty for 'em both.  That's fair.     That's the sixth I've sold since noon.     Trade's reviving.  Just as soon     As this lot's worked off, I'll take     Wholesale figgers.  Make or break,—     That's my motto!  Then I'll buy     In some first-class lottery     One half ticket, numbered right—     As I dreamed about last night.     That'll fetch it.  Don't tell me!     When a man's in luck, you see,     All things help him.  Every chance     Hits him like an avalanche.     Here's your toy balloons, Miss.  Eh?     You won't turn your face this way?     Mebbe you'll be glad some day.     With that clear ten thousand prize     This 'yer trade I'll drop, and rise     Into wholesale.  No!  I'll take     Stocks in Wall Street.  Make or break,—     That's my motto!  With my luck,     Where's the chance of being stuck?     Call it sixty thousand, clear,     Made in Wall Street in one year.     Sixty thousand!  Umph!  Let's see!     Bond and mortgage'll do for me.     Good!  That gal that passed me by     Scornful like—why, mebbe I     Some day'll hold in pawn—why not?—     All her father's prop.  She'll spot     What's my little game, and see     What I'm after's HER.  He! he!     He! he!  When she comes to sue—     Let's see!  What's the thing to do?     Kick her?  No!  There's the perliss!     Sorter throw her off like this.     Hello!  Stop!  Help!  Murder!  Hey!     There's my whole stock got away,     Kiting on the house-tops!  Lost!     All a poor man's fortin!  Cost?     Twenty dollars!  Eh!  What's this?     Fifty cents!  God bless ye, Miss!

THE TWO SHIPS

     As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest,         Looking over the ultimate sea,     In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest,         And one sails away from the lea:     One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track,         With pennant and sheet flowing free;     One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,—         The ship that is waiting for me!     But lo! in the distance the clouds break away,         The Gate's glowing portals I see;     And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay         The song of the sailors in glee.     So I think of the luminous footprints that bore         The comfort o'er dark Galilee,     And wait for the signal to go to the shore,         To the ship that is waiting for me.

ADDRESS

(OPENING OF THE CALIFORNIA THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JANUARY 19, 1870)     Brief words, when actions wait, are well:     The prompter's hand is on his bell;     The coming heroes, lovers, kings,     Are idly lounging at the wings;     Behind the curtain's mystic fold     The glowing future lies unrolled;     And yet, one moment for the Past,     One retrospect,—the first and last.     "The world's a stage," the Master said.     To-night a mightier truth is read:     Not in the shifting canvas screen,     The flash of gas or tinsel sheen;     Not in the skill whose signal calls     From empty boards baronial halls;     But, fronting sea and curving bay,     Behold the players and the play.     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 shifting 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.     Glassed in the poet's thought, you view     What money can, yet cannot do;     The faith that soars, the deeds that shine,     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 classic sight,—     The Roman bench (sedilia hight);     The chairs were French in gold and white,       And one Elizabethan.     And she, the goddess 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!"