IXHe had known trials since we saw him last,By sheer good luck had just escaped rejection,Not for his learning, but that it was castIn a spare frame scarce fit for drill inspection;But when he ope'd his lips a stream so vastOf information flooded each professor,They quite forgot his eyeglass,—something pastAll precedent,—accepting the transgressor,Weak eyes and all of which he was possessor.XE'en the first day he touched a blackboard's space—So the tradition of his glory lingers—Two wise professors fainted, each with faceWhite as the chalk within his rapid fingers:All day he ciphered, at such frantic pace,His form was hid in chalk precipitationOf every problem, till they said his caseCould meet from them no fair examinationTill Congress made a new appropriation.XIFamous in molecules, he demonstratedFrom the mess hash to many a listening classful;Great as a botanist, he separatedThree kinds of "Mentha" in one julep's glassful;High in astronomy, it has been statedHe was the first at West Point to discoverMars' missing satellites, and calculatedTheir true positions, not the heavens over,But 'neath the window of Miss Kitty Rover.XIIIndeed, I fear this novelty celestialThat very night was visible and clear;At least two youths of aspect most terrestrial,And clad in uniform, were loitering nearA villa's casement, where a gentle vestalTook 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).XIIIFor when they ceased their ardent strain, Miss KittyGlowed 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 dittyShe 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 YETNot yet, O friend, not yet! the patient starsLean from their lattices, content to wait.All is illusion till the morning barsSlip 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!
XIVThe strain was finished; softly as the nightHer voice died from the window, yet e'en thenFluttered and fell likewise a kerchief white;But that no doubt was accident, for whenShe sought her couch she deemed her conduct quiteBeyond 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.XVShe little knew the youths below, who straightDived for her kerchief, and quite overlookedThe pregnant moral she would inculcate;Nor dreamed the less how little Winthrop brookedHer 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.XVIThey did not quarrel, which no doubt seemed queerTo 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.XVIIIn academic walks and studies grave,In the camp drill and martial occupation,They helped each other: but just here I craveSpace 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 gaveCleaned guns, brought water!—was, in fact, retainerTo Jones, whose uncle was a paper-stainer!XVIIIHow they bore this at home I cannot say:I only know so runs the gossip's tale.It chanced one day that the paternal GreyCame to West Point that he himself might hailThe future hero in some proper wayConsistent with his lineage. With him cameA judge, a poet, and a brave arrayOf 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 playingYou'll notice Winthrop Adams! Greater endsThan these absorb HIS leisure. No doubt strayingWith Caesar's Commentaries, he attendsSome Roman council. Let us ask, however,Yon grimy urchin, who my soul offendsBy wheeling offal, if he will endeavorTo find— What! heaven! Winthrop! Oh! no! never!"XXAlas! too true! The last of all the GreysWas "doing police detail,"—it had comeTo this; in vain the rare historic baysThat crowned the pictured Puritans at home!And yet 'twas certain that in grosser waysOf health and physique he was quite improving.Straighter he stood, and had achieved some praiseIn other exercise, much more behoovingA soldier's taste than merely dirt removing.XXIBut 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 fareWith 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.XXIIThey got to bed with speed: young Grey to dreamOf 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.XXIIISo 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 habituateTo having mind and body well rubbed down,Could read himself in others, and could situateThemselves in him,—except, I grieve to own,He couldn't see what Kitty saw in Brown!XXIVAt last came graduation; Brown receivedIn the One Hundredth Cavalry commission;Then frolic, flirting, parting,—when none grievedSave Brown, who loved our young Academician.And Grey, who felt his friend was still deceivedBy Mistress Kitty, who with other beautiesGraced the occasion, and it was believedHad promised Brown that when he could recruit hisPromised command, she'd share with him those duties.XXVHowe'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.XXVIThere is a spring, whose limpid waters hideSomewhere within the shadows of that pathCalled Kosciusko's. There two figures bide,—Grey and Miss Kitty. Surely Nature hathNo fairer mirror for a might-be brideThan this same pool that caught our gentle belleTo its dark heart one moment. At her sideGrey 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 situationFraught with more meaning. When thy girlish crownWas mirrored there, there was disintegrationOf 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 SONGFades the light,And afarGoeth day, cometh night;And a starLeadeth all,Speedeth allTo their rest!Love, good-night!Must thou goWhen the dayAnd the lightNeed thee so,—Needeth all,Heedeth all,That is best?CANTO IIIIWhere 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 eyeBut the low-rimming mountains, sharply basedOn 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:IIThere moving through a poisonous cloud that stingsWith dust of alkali the trampling bandOf Indian ponies, ride on dusky wingsThe red marauders of the Western land;Heavy with spoil, they seek the trail that bringsTheir flaunting lances to that sheltered bankWhere lie their lodges; and the river singsForgetful of the plain beyond, that drankIts life blood, where the wasted caravan sank.IIIThey brought with them the thief's ignoble spoil,The beggar's dole, the greed of chiffonnier,The scum of camps, the implements of toilSnatched from dead hands, to rust as useless here;All they could rake or glean from hut or soilPiled their lean ponies, with the jackdaw's greedFor vacant glitter. It were scarce a foilTo all this tinsel that one feathered reedBore on its barb two scalps that freshly bleed!IVThey brought with them, alas! a wounded foe,Bound hand and foot, yet nursed with cruel care,Lest that in death he might escape one throeThey had decreed his living flesh should bear:A youthful officer, by one foul blowOf treachery surprised, yet fighting stillAmid his ambushed train, calm as the snowAbove him; hopeless, yet content to spillHis blood with theirs, and fighting but to kill.VHe had fought nobly, and in that brief spellHad won the awe of those rude border menWho gathered round him, and beside him fellIn loyal faith and silence, save that whenBy smoke embarrassed, and near sight as well,He paused to wipe his eyeglass, and decideIts nearer focus, there arose a yellOf approbation, and Bob Barker cried,"Wade in, Dundreary!" tossed his cap and—died.VITheir sole survivor now! his captors bearHim all unconscious, and beside the streamLeave him to rest; meantime the squaws prepareThe stake for sacrifice: nor wakes a gleamOf pity in those Furies' eyes that glareExpectant of the torture; yet alwayHis steadfast spirit shines and mocks them thereWith peace they know not, till at close of dayOn his dull ear there thrills a whispered "Grey!"VIIHe starts! Was it a trick? Had angels kindTouched with compassion some weak woman's breast?Such things he'd read of! Faintly to his mindCame Pocahontas pleading for her guest.But then, this voice, though soft, was still inclinedTo baritone! A squaw in ragged gownStood 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 glutMy own revenge, yet bar the others' course.Now!" And 'tis done. Grey speeds, Brown follows; butEre yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels,Yet not before Brown's circling arms close shutHis in, uplifting him! Anon he feelsA horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling heels.IXThen rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprangHeadlong the savages in swift pursuit;Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hangHot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot.Long is the chase; Brown hears with inward pangThe short, hard panting of his gallant steedBeneath its double burden; vainly rangBoth voice and spur. The heaving flanks may bleed,Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed!XBrown saw it—reined his steed; dismounting, stoodCalm and inflexible. "Old chap! you seeThere 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!"XIBut as he finished, Grey slipped to his feet,Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye:"You do forget yourself when you competeWith 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 defeatReport at quarters. Take this letter; ne'erGive it to aught but HER, nor let aught interfere."XIIAnd, shamed and blushing, Brown the letter tookObediently and placed it in his pocket;Then, drawing forth another, said, "I lookFor death as you do, wherefore take this locketAnd letter." Here his comrade's hand he shookIn silence. "Should we both together fall,Some other man"—but here all speech forsookHis lips, as ringing cheerily o'er allHe heard afar his own dear bugle-call!XIII'Twas his command and succor, but e'en thenGrey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgotHe likewise had been wounded, and both menWere picked up quite unconscious of their lot.Long lay they in extremity, and whenThey both grew stronger, and once more exchangedOld vows and memories, one common "den"In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged,Awaiting orders, but no more estranged.XIVAnd yet 'twas strange—nor can I end my taleWithout this moral, to be fair and just:They never sought to know why each did failThe prompt fulfillment of the other's trust.It was suggested they could not availThemselves of either letter, since they wereDuly dispatched to their address by mailBy Captain X., who knew Miss Rover fairNow meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank Square.
This is the tale that the ChronicleTells of the wonderful miracleWrought by the pious Padre Serro,The very reverend Junipero.The heathen stood on his ancient mound,Looking over the desert boundInto the distant, hazy South,Over the dusty and broad champaign,Where, with many a gaping mouthAnd fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth,For seven months had the wasted plainKnown 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 froSlipped 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 downOver the foot-hills bare and brown;Thus they looked to the South, wherefromThe 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 soonOut 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 heatThe Padre dropped at the heathen's feet.They stood and gazed for a little spaceDown on his pallid and careworn face,And a smile of scorn went round the bandAs they touched alternate with foot and handThis mortal waif, that the outer spaceOf dim mysterious sky and sandFlung with so little of Christian graceDown on their barren, sterile strand.Said one to him: "It seems thy GodIs a very pitiful kind of God:He could not shield thine aching eyesFrom the blowing desert sands that rise,Nor turn aside from thy old gray headThe glittering blade that is brandishedBy 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 theeWho 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 boreThese aching limbs to your heathen door,And purged my soul of its gross estate.Drink in His name, and thou shalt seeThe hidden depths of this mystery.Drink!" and he held the cup. One blowFrom the heathen dashed to the ground belowThe sacred cup that the Padre bore,And the thirsty soil drank the precious storeOf sacramental and holy wine,That emblem and consecrated signAnd blessed symbol of blood divine.Then, says the legend (and they who doubtThe same as heretics be accurst),From the dry and feverish soil leaped outA living fountain; a well-spring burstOver the dusty and broad champaign,Over the sandy and sterile plain,Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stonesThat lay in the valley—the scattered bones—Moved in the river and lived again!Such was the wonderful miracleWrought by the cup of wine that fellFrom the hands of the pious Padre Serro,The very reverend Junipero.
Of all the fountains that poets sing,—Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring,Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth,Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth,—In short, of all the springs of TimeThat ever were flowing in fact or rhyme,That ever were tasted, felt, or seen,There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin.Anno Domini eighteen-seven,Father Dominguez (now in heaven,—Obiit eighteen twenty-seven)Found the spring, and found it, too,By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe;For his beast—a descendant of Balaam's ass—Stopped on the instant, and would not pass.The Padre thought the omen good,And bent his lips to the trickling flood;Then—as the Chronicles declare,On the honest faith of a true believer—His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare,Filled like a withered russet pearIn the vacuum of a glass receiver,And the snows that seventy winters bringMelted away in that magic spring.Such, at least, was the wondrous newsThe Padre brought into Santa Cruz.The Church, of course, had its own viewsOf who were worthiest to useThe magic spring; but the prior claimFell to the aged, sick, and lame.Far and wide the people came:Some from the healthful Aptos CreekHastened to bring their helpless sick;Even the fishers of rude SoquelSuddenly found they were far from well;The brawny dwellers of San LorenzoSaid, in fact, they had never been so;And all were ailing,—strange to say,—From Pescadero to Monterey.Over the mountain they poured in,With leathern bottles and bags of skin;Through the canyons a motley throngTrotted, hobbled, and limped along.The Fathers gazed at the moving sceneWith pious joy and with souls serene;And then—a result perhaps foreseen—They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin.Not in the eyes of faith aloneThe good effects of the 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 aboutThey had no equal! To this day,From Pescadero to Monterey,You'll still find eyes in which are seenThe liquid graces of San Joaquin.There is a limit to human bliss,And the Mission of San Joaquin had this;None went abroad to roam or stayBut they fell sick in the queerest way,—A singular maladie du pays,With gastric symptoms: so they spentTheir days in a sensuous content,Caring little for things unseenBeyond their bowers of living green,Beyond the mountains that lay betweenThe world and the Mission of San Joaquin.Winter passed, and the summer cameThe trunks of madrono, all aflame,Here and there through the underwoodLike pillars of fire starkly stood.All of the breezy solitudeWas filled with the spicing of pine and bayAnd 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 CreekArched its spine in a feline fashion;The forests waltzed till they grew sick,And Nature shook in a speechless passion;And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen,The wonderful Spring of San JoaquinVanished, and never more was seen!Two days passed: the Mission folkOut of their rosy dream awoke;Some of them looked a trifle white,But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright.Three days: there was sore distress,Headache, nausea, giddiness.Four days: faintings, tendernessOf the mouth and fauces; and in lessThan one week—here the story closes;We won't continue the prognosis—Enough that now no trace is seenOf Spring or Mission of San Joaquin.MORALYou see the point? Don't be too quickTo break bad habits: better stick,Like the Mission folk, to your ARSENIC.
(HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868)Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten musicStill fills the wide expanse,Tingeing the sober twilight of the PresentWith color of romance!I hear your call, and see the sun descendingOn rock and wave and sand,As down the coast the Mission voices, blending,Girdle the heathen land.Within the circle of your incantationNo blight nor mildew falls;Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambitionPasses 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 upliftingAbove the setting sun;And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting,The freighted galleon.O solemn bells! whose consecrated massesRecall the faith of old;O tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight musicThe 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!
(PRESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO, 1800)ILooking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old andquaint,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 goldWith 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.IICount 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 debateOn the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state;He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk apartWith 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.IIILong 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 werelost.So each year the seasons shifted,—wet and warm and drear and dryHalf 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 hillssighed.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, eachAs 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 teachLost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech;And on "Concha" "Conchitita," and "Conchita" he would dwellWith 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.IVYearly, 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 hadraised.Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, with patientmien,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.VForty 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, andhall,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 drewCloser yet her nun's attire. "Senor, pardon, she died, too!"
(NORTHERN MEXICO, 1640)As you look from the plaza at Leon westYou can see her house, but the view is bestFrom 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 blinkOf the worshiping throng that rise or sinkTo 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 beginTo 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 awayOn a tomb in the choir: "Por el Rey.""Por el Rey!" Well, the king is goneAges ago, and the Hapsburg oneShot—but the Rock of the Church lives on."Por el Rey!" What matters, indeed,If king or president succeedTo 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 bringThe 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 beOf His Most Catholic Majesty;Yet, from his black plume's curving graceTo 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 takeHis humble roof for the royal sake,And then, as the custom demanded, spakeThe usual wish, that his guest would holdThe 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 graceOf chosen speech and unmoved face;Nor raised his head till his black plume sweptThe hem of the lady's robe, who keptHer 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 meantThan 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 prestThe seneschal, but with the restWatched, as was due a royal guest,—Watched from the wall till he saw the squareFill with the moonlight, white and bare,—Watched till he saw two shadows fareOut from his garden, where the shadeThat the old church tower and belfry madeLike a benedictory hand was laid.Few words spoke the seneschal as he turnedTo his nearest sentry: "These monks have learnedThat stolen fruit is sweetly earned."Myself shall punish yon acolyteWho gathers my garden grapes by night;Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light."Yet not till the sun was riding highDid the sentry meet his commander's eye,Nor then till the Viceroy stood by.To the lovers of grave formalitiesNo 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 confestThat cares of state, and—he dared to say—Some fears that the King could not repayThe thoughtful zeal of his host, some wayHad marred his rest. Yet he trusted muchNone shared his wakefulness; though suchIndeed might be! If he dared to touchA theme so fine—the bride, perchance,Still slept! At least, they missed her glanceTo give this greeting countenance.Be sure that the seneschal, in turn,Was deeply bowed with the grave concernOf the painful news his guest should learn:"Last night, to her father's dying bedBy 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 joyOf a bride so true to her filial trust!Yet now, as the day waxed on, they mustTo 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 asideTo 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 clearTook 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 lastInto the dusty traveled Past.Even like this they passed awayTwo hundred years ago to-day.What of the lady? Who shall say?Do the souls of the dying ever yearnTo 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 fallPierced 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 choirAt Leon, where 'neath a shield azureShould his mortal frame find sepulture:This much, for the pains Christ did endure.Be sure that the friar loyallyFulfilled his trust by land and sea,Till the spires of Leon silentlyRose through the green of the Almandral,As if to beckon the seneschalTo his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall.I wot that the saints on either sideLeaned from their niches open-eyedTo see the doors of the church swing wide;That the wounds of the Saviour on either flankBled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank,Went by with the coffin, clank on clank.For why? When they raised the marble doorOf 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 lovelinessScarcely 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!"