Complete Poetical Works

CADET GREY

CANTO II     Act first, scene first.  A study.  Of a kind       Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave;     Rare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mind       Of common man to compass or to crave;     Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined       The soul at first to trifling, till, dismayed     By text and title, it drew back resigned,       Nor cared with levity to vex a shade       That to itself such perfect concord made.II     Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain       Of Jones, Lawgiver to the Commonwealth,     As on the threshold of this chaste domain       He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth     To darkened canvases that frowned amain,       With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began     To spread their roots in Georgius Primus' reign,       Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan,       Their century fruit,—the perfect Boston man.III     Somewhere within that Russia-scented gloom       A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear:     "Brief is our business, Jones.  Look round this room!       Regard yon portraits!  Read their meaning clear!     These much proclaim MY station.  I presume       YOU are our Congressman, before whose wit     And sober judgment shall the youth appear       Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit       To serve his country and to honor it."IV     "Such is my son!  Elsewhere perhaps 'twere wise       Trial competitive should guide your choice.     There are some people I can well surmise       Themselves must show their merits.  History's voice     Spares me that trouble: all desert that lies       In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day,     Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy's,—       Reverts to him; entailed, as one might say;       In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey!"V     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 classics; 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 classic.  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 indorsement nothing now remained       But counsel, Godspeed, 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 classic 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 III     Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield       Turns the whole river eastward through the pass;     Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed       Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas;     Where buttressed 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 space 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 passes 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 shine       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 eyeglass,—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 space—       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 classful;     Great as a botanist, he separated       Three kinds of "Mentha" in one julep's glassful;     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 casement, where a gentle vestal       Took their impatience somewhat patiently,     Knowing the youths were somewhat green and "bestial"—       (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 casement 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!XIV     The strain was finished; softly as the night       Her voice died from the window, yet e'en then     Fluttered and fell likewise a kerchief white;       But that no doubt was accident, for when     She sought her couch she deemed her conduct quite       Beyond the reach of scandalous commenter,—     Washing her hands of either gallant wight,       Knowing the moralist might compliment her,—       Thus voicing Siren with the words of Mentor.XV     She little knew the youths below, who straight       Dived for her kerchief, and quite overlooked     The pregnant moral she would inculcate;       Nor dreamed the less how little Winthrop brooked     Her right to doubt his soul's maturer state.       Brown—who was Western, amiable, and new—     Might take the moral and accept his fate;       The which he did, but, being stronger too,       Took the white kerchief, also, as his due.XVI     They did not quarrel, which no doubt seemed queer       To those who knew not how their friendship blended;     Each was opposed, and each the other's peer,       Yet each the other in some things transcended.     Where Brown lacked culture, brains,—and oft, I fear,       Cash in his pocket,—Grey of course supplied him;     Where Grey lacked frankness, force, and faith sincere,       Brown of his manhood suffered none to chide him,       But in his faults stood manfully beside him.XVII     In academic walks and studies grave,       In the camp drill and martial occupation,     They helped each other: but just here I crave       Space for the reader's full imagination,—     The fact is patent, Grey became a slave!       A tool, a fag, a "pleb"!  To state it plainer,     All that blue blood and ancestry e'er gave       Cleaned guns, brought water!—was, in fact, retainer       To Jones, whose uncle was a paper-stainer!XVIII     How they bore this at home I cannot say:       I only know so runs the gossip's tale.     It chanced one day that the paternal Grey       Came to West Point that he himself might hail     The future hero in some proper way       Consistent with his lineage.  With him came     A judge, a poet, and a brave array       Of aunts and uncles, bearing each a name,       Eyeglass and respirator with the same.XIX     "Observe!" quoth Grey the elder to his friends,       "Not in these giddy youths at baseball playing     You'll notice Winthrop Adams!  Greater ends       Than these absorb HIS leisure.  No doubt straying     With Caesar's Commentaries, he attends       Some Roman council.  Let us ask, however,     Yon grimy urchin, who my soul offends       By wheeling offal, if he will endeavor       To find—  What! heaven!  Winthrop!  Oh! no! never!"XX     Alas! too true!  The last of all the Greys       Was "doing police detail,"—it had come     To this; in vain the rare historic bays       That crowned the pictured Puritans at home!     And yet 'twas certain that in grosser ways       Of health and physique he was quite improving.     Straighter he stood, and had achieved some praise       In other exercise, much more behooving       A soldier's taste than merely dirt removing.XXI     But to resume: we left the youthful pair,       Some stanzas back, before a lady's bower;     'Tis to be hoped they were no longer there,       For stars were pointing to the morning hour.     Their escapade discovered, ill 'twould fare       With our two heroes, derelict of orders;     But, like the ghost, they "scent the morning air,"       And back again they steal across the borders,       Unseen, unheeded, by their martial warders.XXII     They got to bed with speed: young Grey to dream       Of some vague future with a general's star,     And Mistress Kitty basking in its gleam;       While Brown, content to worship her afar,     Dreamed himself dying by some lonely stream,       Having snatched Kitty from eighteen Nez Perces,     Till a far bugle, with the morning beam,       In his dull ear its fateful song rehearses,       Which Winthrop Adams after put to verses.XXIII     So passed three years of their novitiate,       The first real boyhood Grey had ever known.     His youth ran clear,—not choked like his Cochituate,       In civic pipes, but free and pure alone;     Yet knew repression, could himself habituate       To having mind and body well rubbed down,     Could read himself in others, and could situate       Themselves in him,—except, I grieve to own,       He couldn't see what Kitty saw in Brown!XXIV     At last came graduation; Brown received       In the One Hundredth Cavalry commission;     Then frolic, flirting, parting,—when none grieved       Save Brown, who loved our young Academician.     And Grey, who felt his friend was still deceived       By Mistress Kitty, who with other beauties     Graced the occasion, and it was believed       Had promised Brown that when he could recruit his       Promised command, she'd share with him those duties.XXV     Howe'er this was I know not; all I know,       The night was June's, the moon rode high and clear;     "'Twas such a night as this," three years ago,       Miss Kitty sang the song that two might hear.     There is a walk where trees o'erarching grow,       Too wide for one, not wide enough for three     (A fact precluding any plural beau),       Which quite explained Miss Kitty's company,       But not why Grey that favored one should be.XXVI     There is a spring, whose limpid waters hide       Somewhere within the shadows of that path     Called Kosciusko's.  There two figures bide,—       Grey and Miss Kitty.  Surely Nature hath     No fairer mirror for a might-be bride       Than this same pool that caught our gentle belle     To its dark heart one moment.  At her side       Grey bent.  A something trembled o'er the well,       Bright, spherical—a tear?  Ah no! a button fell!XXVII     "Material minds might think that gravitation,"       Quoth Grey, "drew yon metallic spheroid down.     The soul poetic views the situation       Fraught with more meaning.  When thy girlish crown     Was mirrored there, there was disintegration       Of me, and all my spirit moved to you,     Taking the form of slow precipitation!"       But here came "Taps," a start, a smile, adieu!       A blush, a sigh, and end of Canto II.BUGLE SONG     Fades the light,       And afar     Goeth day, cometh night;       And a star           Leadeth all,           Speedeth all                  To their rest!     Love, good-night!       Must thou go       When the day     And the light           Need thee so,—     Needeth all,     Heedeth all,           That is best?CANTO IIII     Where the sun sinks through leagues of arid sky,       Where the sun dies o'er leagues of arid plain,     Where the dead bones of wasted rivers lie,       Trailed from their channels in yon mountain chain;     Where day by day naught takes the wearied eye       But the low-rimming mountains, sharply based     On the dead levels, moving far or nigh,       As the sick vision wanders o'er the waste,       But ever day by day against the sunset traced:II     There moving through a poisonous cloud that stings       With dust of alkali the trampling band     Of Indian ponies, ride on dusky wings       The red marauders of the Western land;     Heavy with spoil, they seek the trail that brings       Their flaunting lances to that sheltered bank     Where lie their lodges; and the river sings       Forgetful of the plain beyond, that drank       Its life blood, where the wasted caravan sank.III     They brought with them the thief's ignoble spoil,       The beggar's dole, the greed of chiffonnier,     The scum of camps, the implements of toil       Snatched from dead hands, to rust as useless here;     All they could rake or glean from hut or soil       Piled their lean ponies, with the jackdaw's greed     For vacant glitter.  It were scarce a foil       To all this tinsel that one feathered reed       Bore on its barb two scalps that freshly bleed!IV     They brought with them, alas! a wounded foe,       Bound hand and foot, yet nursed with cruel care,     Lest that in death he might escape one throe       They had decreed his living flesh should bear:     A youthful officer, by one foul blow       Of treachery surprised, yet fighting still     Amid his ambushed train, calm as the snow       Above him; hopeless, yet content to spill       His blood with theirs, and fighting but to kill.V     He had fought nobly, and in that brief spell       Had won the awe of those rude border men     Who gathered round him, and beside him fell       In loyal faith and silence, save that when     By smoke embarrassed, and near sight as well,       He paused to wipe his eyeglass, and decide     Its nearer focus, there arose a yell       Of approbation, and Bob Barker cried,       "Wade in, Dundreary!" tossed his cap and—died.VI     Their sole survivor now! his captors bear       Him all unconscious, and beside the stream     Leave him to rest; meantime the squaws prepare       The stake for sacrifice: nor wakes a gleam     Of pity in those Furies' eyes that glare       Expectant of the torture; yet alway     His steadfast spirit shines and mocks them there       With peace they know not, till at close of day       On his dull ear there thrills a whispered "Grey!"VII     He starts!  Was it a trick?  Had angels kind       Touched with compassion some weak woman's breast?     Such things he'd read of!  Faintly to his mind       Came Pocahontas pleading for her guest.     But then, this voice, though soft, was still inclined       To baritone!  A squaw in ragged gown     Stood near him, frowning hatred.  Was he blind?       Whose eye was this beneath that beetling frown?       The frown was painted, but that wink meant—Brown!VIII     "Hush! for your life and mine! the thongs are cut,"       He whispers; "in yon thicket stands my horse.     One dash!—I follow close, as if to glut       My own revenge, yet bar the others' course.     Now!"  And 'tis done.  Grey speeds, Brown follows; but       Ere yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels,     Yet not before Brown's circling arms close shut       His in, uplifting him!  Anon he feels       A horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling heels.IX     Then rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprang       Headlong the savages in swift pursuit;     Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hang       Hot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot.     Long is the chase; Brown hears with inward pang       The short, hard panting of his gallant steed     Beneath its double burden; vainly rang       Both voice and spur.  The heaving flanks may bleed,       Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed!X     Brown saw it—reined his steed; dismounting, stood       Calm and inflexible.  "Old chap! you see     There is but ONE escape.  You know it?  Good!       There is ONE man to take it.  You are he.     The horse won't carry double.  If he could,       'Twould but protract this bother.  I shall stay:     I've business with these devils, they with me;       I will occupy them till you get away.       Hush! quick time, forward.  There! God bless you, Grey!"XI     But as he finished, Grey slipped to his feet,       Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye:     "You do forget yourself when you compete       With him whose RIGHT it is to stay and die:     That's not YOUR duty.  Please regain your seat;       And take my ORDERS—since I rank you here!—     Mount and rejoin your men, and my defeat       Report at quarters.  Take this letter; ne'er       Give it to aught but HER, nor let aught interfere."XII     And, shamed and blushing, Brown the letter took       Obediently and placed it in his pocket;     Then, drawing forth another, said, "I look       For death as you do, wherefore take this locket     And letter."  Here his comrade's hand he shook       In silence.  "Should we both together fall,     Some other man"—but here all speech forsook       His lips, as ringing cheerily o'er all       He heard afar his own dear bugle-call!XIII     'Twas his command and succor, but e'en then       Grey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgot     He likewise had been wounded, and both men       Were picked up quite unconscious of their lot.     Long lay they in extremity, and when       They both grew stronger, and once more exchanged     Old vows and memories, one common "den"       In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged,       Awaiting orders, but no more estranged.XIV     And yet 'twas strange—nor can I end my tale       Without this moral, to be fair and just:     They never sought to know why each did fail       The prompt fulfillment of the other's trust.     It was suggested they could not avail       Themselves of either letter, since they were     Duly dispatched to their address by mail       By Captain X., who knew Miss Rover fair       Now meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank Square.

II. SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS

THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO

     This is the tale that the Chronicle     Tells of the wonderful miracle     Wrought by the pious Padre Serro,     The very reverend Junipero.     The heathen stood on his ancient mound,     Looking over the desert bound     Into the distant, hazy South,     Over the dusty and broad champaign,     Where, with many a gaping mouth     And fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth,     For seven months had the wasted plain     Known no moisture of dew or rain.     The wells were empty and choked with sand;     The rivers had perished from the land;     Only the sea-fogs to and fro     Slipped like ghosts of the streams below.     Deep in its bed lay the river's bones,     Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones,     And tracked o'er the desert faint and far,     Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar.     Thus they stood as the sun went down     Over the foot-hills bare and brown;     Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom     The pale-face medicine-man should come,     Not in anger or in strife,     But to bring—so ran the tale—     The welcome springs of eternal life,     The living waters that should not fail.     Said one, "He will come like Manitou,     Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew."     Said another, "He will come full soon     Out of the round-faced watery moon."     And another said, "He is here!" and lo,     Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow,     Out from the desert's blinding heat     The Padre dropped at the heathen's feet.     They stood and gazed for a little space     Down on his pallid and careworn face,     And a smile of scorn went round the band     As they touched alternate with foot and hand     This mortal waif, that the outer space     Of dim mysterious sky and sand     Flung with so little of Christian grace     Down on their barren, sterile strand.     Said one to him: "It seems thy God     Is a very pitiful kind of God:     He could not shield thine aching eyes     From the blowing desert sands that rise,     Nor turn aside from thy old gray head     The glittering blade that is brandished     By the sun He set in the heavens high;     He could not moisten thy lips when dry;     The desert fire is in thy brain;     Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain.     If this be the grace He showeth thee     Who art His servant, what may we,     Strange to His ways and His commands,     Seek at His unforgiving hands?"     "Drink but this cup," said the Padre, straight,     "And thou shalt know whose mercy bore     These aching limbs to your heathen door,     And purged my soul of its gross estate.     Drink in His name, and thou shalt see     The hidden depths of this mystery.     Drink!" and he held the cup.  One blow     From the heathen dashed to the ground below     The sacred cup that the Padre bore,     And the thirsty soil drank the precious store     Of sacramental and holy wine,     That emblem and consecrated sign     And blessed symbol of blood divine.     Then, says the legend (and they who doubt     The same as heretics be accurst),     From the dry and feverish soil leaped out     A living fountain; a well-spring burst     Over the dusty and broad champaign,     Over the sandy and sterile plain,     Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones     That lay in the valley—the scattered bones—     Moved in the river and lived again!     Such was the wonderful miracle     Wrought by the cup of wine that fell     From the hands of the pious Padre Serro,     The very reverend Junipero.