Complete Poetical Works

AT THE HACIENDA

     Know I not whom thou mayst be       Carved upon this olive-tree,—         "Manuela of La Torre,"—     For around on broken walls     Summer sun and spring rain falls,     And in vain the low wind calls         "Manuela of La Torre."     Of that song no words remain       But the musical refrain,—         "Manuela of La Torre."     Yet at night, when winds are still,     Tinkles on the distant hill     A guitar, and words that thrill       Tell to me the old, old story,—     Old when first thy charms were sung,     Old when these old walls were young,         "Manuela of La Torre."

FRIAR PEDRO'S RIDE

     It was the morning season of the year;       It was the morning era of the land;     The watercourses rang full loud and clear;       Portala's cross stood where Portala's hand     Had planted it when Faith was taught by Fear,       When monks and missions held the sole command     Of all that shore beside the peaceful sea,     Where spring-tides beat their long-drawn reveille.     Out of the mission of San Luis Rey,       All in that brisk, tumultuous spring weather,     Rode Friar Pedro, in a pious way,       With six dragoons in cuirasses of leather,     Each armed alike for either prayer or fray;       Handcuffs and missals they had slung together,     And as an aid the gospel truth to scatter     Each swung a lasso—alias a "riata."     In sooth, that year the harvest had been slack,       The crop of converts scarce worth computation;     Some souls were lost, whose owners had turned back       To save their bodies frequent flagellation;     And some preferred the songs of birds, alack!       To Latin matins and their souls' salvation,     And thought their own wild whoopings were less dreary     Than Father Pedro's droning miserere.     To bring them back to matins and to prime,       To pious works and secular submission,     To prove to them that liberty was crime,—       This was, in fact, the Padre's present mission;     To get new souls perchance at the same time,       And bring them to a "sense of their condition,"—     That easy phrase, which, in the past and present,     Means making that condition most unpleasant.     He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow;       He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill;     He saw the gopher working in his burrow;       He saw the squirrel scampering at his will:—     He saw all this, and felt no doubt a thorough       And deep conviction of God's goodness; still     He failed to see that in His glory He     Yet left the humblest of His creatures free.     He saw the flapping crow, whose frequent note       Voiced the monotony of land and sky,     Mocking with graceless wing and rusty coat       His priestly presence as he trotted by.     He would have cursed the bird by bell and rote,       But other game just then was in his eye,—     A savage camp, whose occupants preferred     Their heathen darkness to the living Word.     He rang his bell, and at the martial sound       Twelve silver spurs their jingling rowels clashed;     Six horses sprang across the level ground       As six dragoons in open order dashed;     Above their heads the lassos circled round,       In every eye a pious fervor flashed;     They charged the camp, and in one moment more     They lassoed six and reconverted four.     The Friar saw the conflict from a knoll,       And sang Laus Deo and cheered on his men:     "Well thrown, Bautista,—that's another soul;       After him, Gomez,—try it once again;     This way, Felipe,—there the heathen stole;       Bones of St. Francis!—surely that makes TEN;     Te Deum laudamus—but they're very wild;     Non nobis Domine—all right, my child!"     When at that moment—as the story goes—       A certain squaw, who had her foes eluded,     Ran past the Friar, just before his nose.       He stared a moment, and in silence brooded;     Then in his breast a pious frenzy rose       And every other prudent thought excluded;     He caught a lasso, and dashed in a canter     After that Occidental Atalanta.     High o'er his head he swirled the dreadful noose;       But, as the practice was quite unfamiliar,     His first cast tore Felipe's captive loose,       And almost choked Tiburcio Camilla,     And might have interfered with that brave youth's       Ability to gorge the tough tortilla;     But all things come by practice, and at last     His flying slip-knot caught the maiden fast.     Then rose above the plain a mingled yell       Of rage and triumph,—a demoniac whoop:     The Padre heard it like a passing knell,       And would have loosened his unchristian loop;     But the tough raw-hide held the captive well,       And held, alas! too well the captor-dupe;     For with one bound the savage fled amain,     Dragging horse, Friar, down the lonely plain.     Down the arroyo, out across the mead,       By heath and hollow, sped the flying maid,     Dragging behind her still the panting steed       And helpless Friar, who in vain essayed     To cut the lasso or to check his speed.       He felt himself beyond all human aid,     And trusted to the saints,—and, for that matter,     To some weak spot in Felipe's riata.     Alas! the lasso had been duly blessed,       And, like baptism, held the flying wretch,—     A doctrine that the priest had oft expressed,       Which, like the lasso, might be made to stretch,     But would not break; so neither could divest       Themselves of it, but, like some awful fetch,     The holy Friar had to recognize     The image of his fate in heathen guise.     He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow;       He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill;     He saw the gopher standing in his burrow;       He saw the squirrel scampering at his will:—     He saw all this, and felt no doubt how thorough       The contrast was to his condition; still     The squaw kept onward to the sea, till night     And the cold sea-fog hid them both from sight.     The morning came above the serried coast,       Lighting the snow-peaks with its beacon-fires,     Driving before it all the fleet-winged host       Of chattering birds above the Mission spires,     Filling the land with light and joy, but most       The savage woods with all their leafy lyres;     In pearly tints and opal flame and fire     The morning came, but not the holy Friar.     Weeks passed away.  In vain the Fathers sought       Some trace or token that might tell his story;     Some thought him dead, or, like Elijah, caught       Up to the heavens in a blaze of glory.     In this surmise some miracles were wrought       On his account, and souls in purgatory     Were thought to profit from his intercession;     In brief, his absence made a "deep impression."     A twelvemonth passed; the welcome Spring once more       Made green the hills beside the white-faced Mission,     Spread her bright dais by the western shore,       And sat enthroned, a most resplendent vision.     The heathen converts thronged the chapel door       At morning mass, when, says the old tradition,     A frightful whoop throughout the church resounded,     And to their feet the congregation bounded.     A tramp of hoofs upon the beaten course,       Then came a sight that made the bravest quail:     A phantom Friar on a spectre horse,       Dragged by a creature decked with horns and tail.     By the lone Mission, with the whirlwind's force,       They madly swept, and left a sulphurous trail:     And that was all,—enough to tell the story,     And leave unblessed those souls in purgatory.     And ever after, on that fatal day       That Friar Pedro rode abroad lassoing,     A ghostly couple came and went away       With savage whoop and heathenish hallooing,     Which brought discredit on San Luis Rey,       And proved the Mission's ruin and undoing;     For ere ten years had passed, the squaw and Friar     Performed to empty walls and fallen spire.     The Mission is no more; upon its wall.       The golden lizards slip, or breathless pause,     Still as the sunshine brokenly that falls       Through crannied roof and spider-webs of gauze;     No more the bell its solemn warning calls,—       A holier silence thrills and overawes;     And the sharp lights and shadows of to-day     Outline the Mission of San Luis Rey.

IN THE MISSION GARDEN

     (1865)     FATHER FELIPE     I speak not the English well, but Pachita,     She 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 "old fogy,"—          Padre Felipe!     Old, Senor, old! just so old as the Mission.     You see that pear-tree?  How old you think, Senor?     Fifteen year?  Twenty?  Ah, Senor, 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 Jose 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 much     Under 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 husband:     He 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—st! attend to the stranger!          Adios, Senor.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 LOST GALLEON*

     In sixteen hundred and forty-one,     The regular yearly galleon,     Laden with odorous gums and spice,     India cottons and India rice,     And the richest silks of far Cathay,     Was due at Acapulco Bay.     Due she was, and overdue,—     Galleon, merchandise and crew,     Creeping along through rain and shine,     Through the tropics, under the line.     The trains were waiting outside the walls,     The wives of sailors thronged the town,     The traders sat by their empty stalls,     And the Viceroy himself came down;     The bells in the tower were all a-trip,     Te Deums were on each Father's lip,     The limes were ripening in the sun     For the sick of the coming galleon.     All in vain.  Weeks passed away,     And yet no galleon saw the bay.     India goods advanced in price;     The Governor missed his favorite spice;     The Senoritas mourned for sandal     And the famous cottons of Coromandel;     And some for an absent lover lost,     And one for a husband,—Dona Julia,     Wife of the captain tempest-tossed,     In circumstances so peculiar;     Even the Fathers, unawares,     Grumbled a little at their prayers;     And all along the coast that year     Votive candles wore scarce and dear.     Never a tear bedims the eye     That time and patience will not dry;     Never a lip is curved with pain     That can't be kissed into smiles again;     And these same truths, as far as I know,     Obtained on the coast of Mexico     More than two hundred years ago,     In sixteen hundred and fifty-one,—     Ten years after the deed was done,—     And folks had forgotten the galleon:     The divers plunged in the gulf for pearls,     White as the teeth of the Indian girls;     The traders sat by their full bazaars;     The mules with many a weary load,     And oxen dragging their creaking cars,     Came and went on the mountain road.     Where was the galleon all this while?     Wrecked on some lonely coral isle,     Burnt by the roving sea-marauders,     Or sailing north under secret orders?     Had she found the Anian passage famed,     By lying Maldonado claimed,     And sailed through the sixty-fifth degree     Direct to the North Atlantic Sea?     Or had she found the "River of Kings,"     Of which De Fonte told such strange things,     In sixteen forty?  Never a sign,     East or west or under the line,     They saw of the missing galleon;     Never a sail or plank or chip     They found of the long-lost treasure-ship,     Or enough to build a tale upon.     But when she was lost, and where and how,     Are the facts we're coming to just now.     Take, if you please, the chart of that day,     Published at Madrid,—por el Rey;     Look for a spot in the old South Sea,     The hundred and eightieth degree     Longitude west of Madrid: there,     Under the equatorial glare,     Just where the east and west are one,     You'll find the missing galleon,—     You'll find the San Gregorio, yet     Riding the seas, with sails all set,     Fresh as upon the very day     She sailed from Acapulco Bay.     How did she get there?  What strange spell     Kept her two hundred years so well,     Free from decay and mortal taint?     What but the prayers of a patron saint!     A hundred leagues from Manilla town,     The San Gregorio's helm came down;     Round she went on her heel, and not     A cable's length from a galliot     That rocked on the waters just abreast     Of the galleon's course, which was west-sou'-west.     Then said the galleon's commandante,     General Pedro Sobriente     (That was his rank on land and main,     A regular custom of Old Spain),     "My pilot is dead of scurvy: may     I ask the longitude, time, and day?"     The first two given and compared;     The third—the commandante stared!     "The FIRST of June?  I make it second."     Said the stranger, "Then you've wrongly reckoned;     I make it FIRST: as you came this way,     You should have lost, d'ye see, a day;     Lost a day, as plainly see,     On the hundred and eightieth degree."     "Lost a day?"  "Yes; if not rude,     When did you make east longitude?"     "On the ninth of May,—our patron's day."     "On the ninth?—YOU HAD NO NINTH OF MAY!     Eighth and tenth was there; but stay"—     Too late; for the galleon bore away.     Lost was the day they should have kept,     Lost unheeded and lost unwept;     Lost in a way that made search vain,     Lost in a trackless and boundless main;     Lost like the day of Job's awful curse,     In his third chapter, third and fourth verse;     Wrecked was their patron's only day,—     What would the holy Fathers say?     Said the Fray Antonio Estavan,     The galleon's chaplain,—a learned man,—     "Nothing is lost that you can regain;     And the way to look for a thing is plain,     To go where you lost it, back again.     Back with your galleon till you see     The hundred and eightieth degree.     Wait till the rolling year goes round,     And there will the missing day be found;     For you'll find, if computation's true,     That sailing EAST will give to you     Not only one ninth of May, but two,—     One for the good saint's present cheer,     And one for the day we lost last year."     Back to the spot sailed the galleon;     Where, for a twelvemonth, off and on     The hundred and eightieth degree     She rose and fell on a tropic sea.     But lo! when it came to the ninth of May,     All of a sudden becalmed she lay     One degree from that fatal spot,     Without the power to move a knot;     And of course the moment she lost her way,     Gone was her chance to save that day.     To cut a lengthening story short,     She never saved it.  Made the sport     Of evil spirits and baffling wind,     She was always before or just behind,     One day too soon or one day too late,     And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait.     She had two Eighths, as she idly lay,     Two Tenths, but never a NINTH of May;     And there she rides through two hundred years     Of dreary penance and anxious fears;     Yet, through the grace of the saint she served,     Captain and crew are still preserved.     By a computation that still holds good,     Made by the Holy Brotherhood,     The San Gregorio will cross that line     In nineteen hundred and thirty-nine:     Just three hundred years to a day     From the time she lost the ninth of May.     And the folk in Acapulco town,     Over the waters looking down,     Will see in the glow of the setting sun     The sails of the missing galleon,     And the royal standard of Philip Rey,     The gleaming mast and glistening spar,     As she nears the surf of the outer bar.     A Te Deum sung on her crowded deck,     An odor of spice along the shore,     A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck,—     And the yearly galleon sails no more     In or out of the olden bay;     For the blessed patron has found his day.                 –     Such is the legend.  Hear this truth:       Over the trackless past, somewhere,     Lie the lost days of our tropic youth,       Only regained by faith and prayer,     Only recalled by prayer and plaint:     Each lost day has its patron saint!

III. IN DIALECT

"JIM"

     Say there!  P'r'aps     Some on you chaps       Might know Jim Wild?     Well,—no offense:     Thar ain't no sense       In gittin' riled!     Jim was my chum       Up on the Bar:     That's why I come       Down from up yar,     Lookin' for Jim.     Thank ye, sir!  YOU     Ain't of that crew,—     Blest if you are!     Money?  Not much:       That ain't my kind;     I ain't no such.       Rum?  I don't mind,     Seein' it's you.     Well, this yer Jim,—     Did you know him?     Jes' 'bout your size;     Same kind of eyes;—     Well, that is strange:       Why, it's two year       Since he came here,     Sick, for a change.     Well, here's to us:         Eh?     The h– you say!         Dead?     That little cuss?     What makes you star',     You over thar?     Can't a man drop     's glass in yer shop     But you must r'ar?       It wouldn't take       D–d much to break     You and your bar.         Dead!     Poor—little—Jim!     Why, thar was me,     Jones, and Bob Lee,     Harry and Ben,—     No-account men:     Then to take HIM!     Well, thar—  Good-by—     No more, sir—I—         Eh?     What's that you say?     Why, dern it!—sho!—     No?  Yes!  By Joe!         Sold!     Sold!  Why, you limb,     You ornery,         Derned old     Long-legged Jim.

CHIQUITA

     Beautiful!  Sir, you may say so.  Thar isn't her match in the county;     Is thar, old gal,—Chiquita, my darling, my beauty?     Feel of that neck, sir,—thar's velvet!  Whoa! steady,—ah, will you,        you vixen!     Whoa! I say.  Jack, trot her out; let the gentleman look at her paces.     Morgan!—she ain't nothing else, and I've got the papers to prove it.     Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't buy her.     Briggs of Tuolumne owned her.  Did you know Briggs of Tuolumne?     Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down in 'Frisco?     Hedn't no savey, hed Briggs.  Thar, Jack! that'll do,—quit that        foolin'!     Nothin' to what she kin do, when she's got her work cut out before her.     Hosses is hosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is jockeys:     And 'tain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows what a hoss has got in him.     Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan's leaders?     Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low water!     Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his nevey     Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water all        round us;     Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek just a-bilin',     Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river.     I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, Chiquita;     And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of the        canyon.     Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita     Buckled right down to her work, and, a fore I could yell to her rider,     Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and me standing,     And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and a-driftin' to        thunder!     Would ye b'lieve it?  That night, that hoss, that 'ar filly, Chiquita,     Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and dripping:     Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness,     Just as she swam the Fork,—that hoss, that 'ar filly, Chiquita.     That's what I call a hoss! and—  What did you say?–  Oh, the nevey?     Drownded, I reckon,—leastways, he never kem beck to deny it.     Ye see the derned fool had no seat, ye couldn't have made him a        rider;     And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses—well, hosses is        hosses!

DOW'S FLAT

     (1856)

     Dow's Flat.  That's its name;       And I reckon that you     Are a stranger?  The same?       Well, I thought it was true,—     For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot the place at first         view.     It was called after Dow,—       Which the same was an ass,—     And as to the how       Thet the thing kem to pass,—     Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here in the         grass.     You see this 'yer Dow       Hed the worst kind of luck;     He slipped up somehow       On each thing thet he struck.     Why, ef he'd a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing'd get up         and buck.     He mined on the bar       Till he couldn't pay rates;     He was smashed by a car       When he tunneled with Bates;     And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five kids from         the States.     It was rough,—mighty rough;       But the boys they stood by,     And they brought him the stuff       For a house, on the sly;     And the old woman,—well, she did washing, and took on when no one         was nigh.     But this 'yer luck of Dow's       Was so powerful mean     That the spring near his house       Dried right up on the green;     And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to be seen.     Then the bar petered out,       And the boys wouldn't stay;     And the chills got about,       And his wife fell away;     But Dow in his well kept a peggin' in his usual ridikilous way.     One day,—it was June,       And a year ago, jest—     This Dow kem at noon       To his work like the rest,     With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and derringer hid in his         breast.     He goes to the well,       And he stands on the brink,     And stops for a spell       Jest to listen and think:     For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir!), you see, kinder made         the cuss blink.     His two ragged gals       In the gulch were at play,     And a gownd that was Sal's       Kinder flapped on a bay:     Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all,—as I've heer'd the         folks say.     And—That's a peart hoss       Thet you've got,—ain't it now?     What might be her cost?       Eh?  Oh!—Well, then, Dow—     Let's see,—well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day,         anyhow.     For a blow of his pick       Sorter caved in the side,     And he looked and turned sick,       Then he trembled and cried.     For you see the dern cuss had struck—"Water?"—Beg your parding,         young man,—there you lied!     It was GOLD,—in the quartz,       And it ran all alike;     And I reckon five oughts       Was the worth of that strike;     And that house with the coopilow's his'n,—which the same isn't bad         for a Pike.     Thet's why it's Dow's Flat;       And the thing of it is     That he kinder got that       Through sheer contrairiness:     For 'twas WATER the derned cuss was seekin', and his luck made him         certain to miss.     Thet's so!  Thar's your way,       To the left of yon tree;     But—a—look h'yur, say?       Won't you come up to tea?     No?  Well, then the next time you're passin'; and ask after Dow,—         and thet's ME.

IN THE TUNNEL

     Didn't know Flynn,—     Flynn of Virginia,—     Long as he's been 'yar?     Look 'ee here, stranger,     Whar HEV you been?     Here in this tunnel       He was my pardner,     That same Tom Flynn,—       Working together,       In wind and weather,     Day out and in.     Didn't know Flynn!       Well, that IS queer;     Why, it's a sin     To think of Tom Flynn,—       Tom with his cheer,       Tom without fear,—       Stranger, look 'yar!     Thar in the drift,       Back to the wall,     He held the timbers       Ready to fall;     Then in the darkness     I heard him call:       "Run for your life, Jake!       Run for your wife's sake!       Don't wait for me."     And that was all       Heard in the din,       Heard of Tom Flynn,—         Flynn of Virginia.     That's all about       Flynn of Virginia.     That lets me out.       Here in the damp,—     Out of the sun,—       That 'ar derned lamp     Makes my eyes run.     Well, there,—I'm done!     But, sir, when you'll     Hear the next fool       Asking of Flynn,—     Flynn of Virginia,—       Just you chip in,     Say you knew Flynn;     Say that you've been 'yar.