Complete Poetical Works

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 Time     That 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 pear     In the vacuum of a glass receiver,     And the snows that seventy winters bring     Melted away in that magic spring.     Such, at least, was the wondrous news     The Padre brought into Santa Cruz.     The Church, of course, had its own views     Of who were worthiest to use     The magic spring; but the prior claim     Fell to the aged, sick, and lame.     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 passed, 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 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 Joaquin     Vanished, and never more was seen!     Two days passed: 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 ARSENIC.

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 lust, nor low ambition              Passes 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 masses              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 passer-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 shifted,—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 ship 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.     Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are,     Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from afar;     Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each     As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech:     "'Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he;'     'Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree;'     "'He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall have flies;'     'In the end God grinds the miller;' 'In the dark the mole has eyes;'     "'He whose father is Alcalde of his trial hath no fear,'—     And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his conduct clear."     Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it would teach     Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech;     And on "Concha" "Conchitita," and "Conchita" he would dwell     With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well.     So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt,     Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and went out.IV     Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately cavalcade,     Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid;     Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport,     Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court.     Vainly then at Concha's lattice, vainly as the idle wind,     Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth too kind;     Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and fleet,     Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their mustang's feet;     So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay serapes blazed,—     Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had        raised.     Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, with patient        mien,     The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull routine,—     Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone,     Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary monotone.V     Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze,     Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas;     Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure decay,     And St. George's cross was lifted in the port of Monterey;     And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gayly drest,     All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveler and guest.     Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set,     And exchanged congratulations with the English baronet;     Till, the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine,     Some one spoke of Concha's lover,—heedless of the warning sign.     Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson: "Speak no ill of him, I pray!     He is dead.  He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day,—     "Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse.     Left a sweetheart, too, they tell me.  Married, I suppose, of course!     "Lives she yet?"  A deathlike silence fell on banquet, guests, and        hall,     And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of all.     Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the nun's white hood;     Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood.     "Lives she yet?" Sir George repeated.  All were hushed as Concha drew     Closer yet her nun's attire.  "Senor, pardon, she died, too!"

"FOR THE KING"

(NORTHERN MEXICO, 1640)     As you look from the plaza at Leon west     You can see her house, but the view is best     From the porch of the church where she lies at rest;     Where much of her past still lives, I think,     In the scowling brows and sidelong blink     Of the worshiping throng that rise or sink     To the waxen saints that, yellow and lank,     Lean out from their niches, rank on rank,     With a bloodless Saviour on either flank;     In the gouty pillars, whose cracks begin     To show the adobe core within,—     A soul of earth in a whitewashed skin.     And I think that the moral of all, you'll say,     Is the sculptured legend that moulds away     On a tomb in the choir: "Por el Rey."     "Por el Rey!"  Well, the king is gone     Ages ago, and the Hapsburg one     Shot—but the Rock of the Church lives on.     "Por el Rey!"  What matters, indeed,     If king or president succeed     To a country haggard with sloth and greed,     As long as one granary is fat,     And yonder priest, in a shovel hat,     Peeps out from the bin like a sleek brown rat?     What matters?  Naught, if it serves to bring     The legend nearer,—no other thing,—     We'll spare the moral, "Live the king!"     Two hundred years ago, they say,     The Viceroy, Marquis of Monte-Rey,     Rode with his retinue that way:     Grave, as befitted Spain's grandee;     Grave, as the substitute should be     Of His Most Catholic Majesty;     Yet, from his black plume's curving grace     To his slim black gauntlet's smaller space,     Exquisite as a piece of lace!     Two hundred years ago—e'en so—     The Marquis stopped where the lime-trees blow,     While Leon's seneschal bent him low,     And begged that the Marquis would that night take     His humble roof for the royal sake,     And then, as the custom demanded, spake     The usual wish, that his guest would hold     The house, and all that it might enfold,     As his—with the bride scarce three days old.     Be sure that the Marquis, in his place,     Replied to all with the measured grace     Of chosen speech and unmoved face;     Nor raised his head till his black plume swept     The hem of the lady's robe, who kept     Her place, as her husband backward stept.     And then (I know not how nor why)     A subtle flame in the lady's eye—     Unseen by the courtiers standing by—     Burned through his lace and titled wreath,     Burned through his body's jeweled sheath,     Till it touched the steel of the man beneath!     (And yet, mayhap, no more was meant     Than to point a well-worn compliment,     And the lady's beauty, her worst intent.)     Howbeit, the Marquis bowed again:     "Who rules with awe well serveth Spain,     But best whose law is love made plain."     Be sure that night no pillow prest     The seneschal, but with the rest     Watched, as was due a royal guest,—     Watched from the wall till he saw the square     Fill with the moonlight, white and bare,—     Watched till he saw two shadows fare     Out from his garden, where the shade     That the old church tower and belfry made     Like a benedictory hand was laid.     Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned     To his nearest sentry: "These monks have learned     That stolen fruit is sweetly earned.     "Myself shall punish yon acolyte     Who gathers my garden grapes by night;     Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light."     Yet not till the sun was riding high     Did the sentry meet his commander's eye,     Nor then till the Viceroy stood by.     To the lovers of grave formalities     No greeting was ever so fine, I wis,     As this host's and guest's high courtesies!     The seneschal feared, as the wind was west,     A blast from Morena had chilled his rest;     The Viceroy languidly confest     That cares of state, and—he dared to say—     Some fears that the King could not repay     The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way     Had marred his rest.  Yet he trusted much     None shared his wakefulness; though such     Indeed might be!  If he dared to touch     A theme so fine—the bride, perchance,     Still slept!  At least, they missed her glance     To give this greeting countenance.     Be sure that the seneschal, in turn,     Was deeply bowed with the grave concern     Of the painful news his guest should learn:     "Last night, to her father's dying bed     By a priest was the lady summoned;     Nor know we yet how well she sped,     "But hope for the best."  The grave Viceroy     (Though grieved his visit had such alloy)     Must still wish the seneschal great joy     Of a bride so true to her filial trust!     Yet now, as the day waxed on, they must     To horse, if they'd 'scape the noonday dust.     "Nay," said the seneschal, "at least,     To mend the news of this funeral priest,     Myself shall ride as your escort east."     The Viceroy bowed.  Then turned aside     To his nearest follower: "With me ride—     You and Felipe—on either side.     "And list!  Should anything me befall,     Mischance of ambush or musket-ball,     Cleave to his saddle yon seneschal!     "No more."  Then gravely in accents clear     Took formal leave of his late good cheer;     Whiles the seneschal whispered a musketeer,     Carelessly stroking his pommel top:     "If from the saddle ye see me drop,     Riddle me quickly yon solemn fop!"     So these, with many a compliment,     Each on his own dark thought intent,     With grave politeness onward went,     Riding high, and in sight of all,     Viceroy, escort, and seneschal,     Under the shade of the Almandral;     Holding their secret hard and fast,     Silent and grave they ride at last     Into the dusty traveled Past.     Even like this they passed away     Two hundred years ago to-day.     What of the lady?  Who shall say?     Do the souls of the dying ever yearn     To some favored spot for the dust's return,     For the homely peace of the family urn?     I know not.  Yet did the seneschal,     Chancing in after-years to fall     Pierced by a Flemish musket-ball,     Call to his side a trusty friar,     And bid him swear, as his last desire,     To bear his corse to San Pedro's choir     At Leon, where 'neath a shield azure     Should his mortal frame find sepulture:     This much, for the pains Christ did endure.     Be sure that the friar loyally     Fulfilled his trust by land and sea,     Till the spires of Leon silently     Rose through the green of the Almandral,     As if to beckon the seneschal     To his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall.     I wot that the saints on either side     Leaned from their niches open-eyed     To see the doors of the church swing wide;     That the wounds of the Saviour on either flank     Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank,     Went by with the coffin, clank on clank.     For why?  When they raised the marble door     Of the tomb, untouched for years before,     The friar swooned on the choir floor;     For there, in her laces and festal dress,     Lay the dead man's wife, her loveliness     Scarcely changed by her long duress,—     As on the night she had passed away;     Only that near her a dagger lay,     With the written legend, "Por el Rey."     What was their greeting, the groom and bride,     They whom that steel and the years divide?     I know not.  Here they lie side by side.     Side by side!  Though the king has his way,     Even the dead at last have their day.     Make you the moral.  "Por el Rey!"

RAMON

     (REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO)         Drunk and senseless in his place,         Prone and sprawling on his face,     More like brute than any man                Alive or dead,         By his great pump out of gear,         Lay the peon engineer,         Waking only just to hear,                Overhead,         Angry tones that called his name,         Oaths and cries of bitter blame,—     Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled!         "To the man who'll bring to me,"         Cried Intendant Harry Lee,—     Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—         "Bring the sot alive or dead,         I will give to him," he said,         "Fifteen hundred pesos down,         Just to set the rascal's crown     Underneath this heel of mine:                Since but death         Deserves the man whose deed,         Be it vice or want of heed,         Stops the pumps that give us breath,—         Stops the pumps that suck the death     From the poisoned lower levels of the mine!"         No one answered; for a cry         From the shaft rose up on high,     And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below,         Came the miners each, the bolder         Mounting on the weaker's shoulder,         Grappling, clinging to their hold or                Letting go,         As the weaker gasped and fell         From the ladder to the well,—         To the poisoned pit of hell                Down below!         "To the man who sets them free,"         Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,—     Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—         "Brings them out and sets them free,         I will give that man," said he,         "Twice that sum, who with a rope         Face to face with Death shall cope.         Let him come who dares to hope!"         "Hold your peace!" some one replied,         Standing by the foreman's side;     "There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!"         Then they held their breath with awe,         Pulling on the rope, and saw         Fainting figures reappear,         On the black rope swinging clear,     Fastened by some skillful hand from below;         Till a score the level gained,         And but one alone remained,—         He the hero and the last,         He whose skillful hand made fast     The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!         Haggard, gasping, down dropped he         At the feet of Harry Lee,—     Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine.         "I have come," he gasped, "to claim         Both rewards.  Senor, my name                Is Ramon!         I'm the drunken engineer,         I'm the coward, Senor"–  Here         He fell over, by that sign,                Dead as stone!

DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH

     (REFECTORY, MISSION SAN GABRIEL, 1869)     Good!—said the Padre,—believe me still,     "Don Giovanni," or what you will,     The type's eternal!  We knew him here     As Don Diego del Sud.  I fear     The story's no new one!  Will you hear?     One of those spirits you can't tell why     God has permitted.  Therein I     Have the advantage, for I hold     That wolves are sent to the purest fold,     And we'd save the wolf if we'd get the lamb.     You're no believer?  Good!  I am.     Well, for some purpose, I grant you dim,     The Don loved women, and they loved him.     Each thought herself his LAST love!  Worst,     Many believed that they were his FIRST!     And, such are these creatures since the Fall,     The very doubt had a charm for all!     You laugh!  You are young, but I—indeed     I have no patience…  To proceed:—     You saw, as you passed through the upper town,     The Eucinal where the road goes down     To San Felipe!  There one morn     They found Diego,—his mantle torn,     And as many holes through his doublet's band     As there were wronged husbands—you understand!     "Dying," so said the gossips.  "Dead"     Was what the friars who found him said.     May be.  Quien sabe?  Who else should know?     It was a hundred years ago.     There was a funeral.  Small indeed—     Private.  What would you?  To proceed:—     Scarcely the year had flown.  One night     The Commandante awoke in fright,     Hearing below his casement's bar     The well-known twang of the Don's guitar;     And rushed to the window, just to see     His wife a-swoon on the balcony.     One week later, Don Juan Ramirez     Found his own daughter, the Dona Inez,     Pale as a ghost, leaning out to hear     The song of that phantom cavalier.     Even Alcalde Pedro Blas     Saw, it was said, through his niece's glass,     The shade of Diego twice repass.     What these gentlemen each confessed     Heaven and the Church only knows.  At best     The case was a bad one.  How to deal     With Sin as a Ghost, they couldn't but feel     Was an awful thing.  Till a certain Fray     Humbly offered to show the way.     And the way was this.  Did I say before     That the Fray was a stranger?  No, Senor?     Strange! very strange!  I should have said     That the very week that the Don lay dead     He came among us.  Bread he broke     Silent, nor ever to one he spoke.     So he had vowed it!  Below his brows     His face was hidden.  There are such vows!     Strange! are they not?  You do not use     Snuff?  A bad habit!                           Well, the views     Of the Fray were these: that the penance done     By the caballeros was right; but one     Was due from the CAUSE, and that, in brief,     Was Dona Dolores Gomez, chief,     And Inez, Sanchicha, Concepcion,     And Carmen,—well, half the girls in town     On his tablets the Friar had written down.     These were to come on a certain day     And ask at the hands of the pious Fray     For absolution.  That done, small fear     But the shade of Diego would disappear.     They came; each knelt in her turn and place     To the pious Fray with his hidden face     And voiceless lips, and each again     Took back her soul freed from spot or stain,     Till the Dona Inez, with eyes downcast     And a tear on their fringes, knelt her last.     And then—perhaps that her voice was low     From fear or from shame—the monks said so—     But the Fray leaned forward, when, presto! all     Were thrilled by a scream, and saw her fall     Fainting beside the confessional.     And so was the ghost of Diego laid     As the Fray had said.  Never more his shade     Was seen at San Gabriel's Mission.  Eh!     The girl interests you?  I dare say!     "Nothing," said she, when they brought her to—     "Only a faintness!"  They spoke more true     Who said 'twas a stubborn soul. But then—     Women are women, and men are men!     So, to return.  As I said before,     Having got the wolf, by the same high law     We saved the lamb in the wolf's own jaw,     And that's my moral.  The tale, I fear,     But poorly told.  Yet it strikes me here     Is stuff for a moral.  What's your view?     You smile, Don Pancho.  Ah! that's like you!