(SEQUOIA GIGANTEA)Brown foundling of the Western wood,Babe of primeval wildernesses!Long on my table thou hast stoodEncounters strange and rude caresses;Perchance contented with thy lot,Surroundings new, and curious faces,As though ten centuries were notImprisoned in thy shining cases.Thou bring'st me back the halcyon daysOf grateful rest, the week of leisure,The journey lapped in autumn haze,The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure,The morning ride, the noonday halt,The blazing slopes, the red dust rising,And then the dim, brown, columned vault,With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing.Once more I see the rocking mastsThat scrape the sky, their only tenantThe jay-bird, that in frolic castsFrom some high yard his broad blue pennant.I see the Indian files that keepTheir places in the dusty heather,Their red trunks standing ankle-deepIn moccasins of rusty leather.I see all this, and marvel muchThat thou, sweet woodland waif, art ableTo keep the company of suchAs throng thy friend's—the poet's—table:The latest spawn the press hath cast,—The "modern popes," "the later Byrons,"—Why, e'en the best may not outlastThy poor relation—Sempervirens.Thy sire saw the light that shoneOn Mohammed's uplifted crescent,On many a royal gilded throneAnd deed forgotten in the present;He saw the age of sacred treesAnd Druid groves and mystic larches;And saw from forest domes like theseThe builder bring his Gothic arches.And must thou, foundling, still foregoThy heritage and high ambition,To lie full lowly and full low,Adjusted to thy new condition?Not hidden in the drifted snows,But under ink-drops idly spattered,And leaves ephemeral as thoseThat on thy woodland tomb were scattered?Yet lie thou there, O friend! and speakThe moral of thy simple story:Though life is all that thou dost seek,And age alone thy crown of glory,Not thine the only germs that failThe purpose of their high creation,If their poor tenements availFor worldly show and ostentation.
(CEMETERY, SAN FRANCISCO)This is that hill of aweThat Persian Sindbad saw,—The mount magnetic;And on its seaward face,Scattered along its base,The wrecks prophetic.Here come the argosiesBlown by each idle breeze,To and fro shifting;Yet to the hill of FateAll drawing, soon or late,—Day by day drifting;Drifting forever hereBarks that for many a yearBraved wind and weather;Shallops but yesterdayLaunched on yon shining bay,—Drawn all together.This is the end of all:Sun thyself by the wall,O poorer Hindbad!Envy not Sindbad's fame:Here come alike the sameHindbad and Sindbad.
Here's yer toy balloons! All sizes!Twenty cents for that. It risesJest as quick as that 'ere, Miss,Twice as big. Ye see it isSome more fancy. Make it squareFifty for 'em both. That's fair.That's the sixth I've sold since noon.Trade's reviving. Just as soonAs this lot's worked off, I'll takeWholesale figgers. Make or break,—That's my motto! Then I'll buyIn some first-class lotteryOne half ticket, numbered right—As I dreamed about last night.That'll fetch it. Don't tell me!When a man's in luck, you see,All things help him. Every chanceHits him like an avalanche.Here's your toy balloons, Miss. Eh?You won't turn your face this way?Mebbe you'll be glad some day.With that clear ten thousand prizeThis 'yer trade I'll drop, and riseInto wholesale. No! I'll takeStocks in Wall Street. Make or break,—That's my motto! With my luck,Where's the chance of being stuck?Call it sixty thousand, clear,Made in Wall Street in one year.Sixty thousand! Umph! Let's see!Bond and mortgage'll do for me.Good! That gal that passed me byScornful like—why, mebbe ISome day'll hold in pawn—why not?—All her father's prop. She'll spotWhat's my little game, and seeWhat I'm after's HER. He! he!He! he! When she comes to sue—Let's see! What's the thing to do?Kick her? No! There's the perliss!Sorter throw her off like this.Hello! Stop! Help! Murder! Hey!There's my whole stock got away,Kiting on the house-tops! Lost!All a poor man's fortin! Cost?Twenty dollars! Eh! What's this?Fifty cents! God bless ye, Miss!
As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest,Looking over the ultimate sea,In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest,And one sails away from the lea:One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track,With pennant and sheet flowing free;One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,—The ship that is waiting for me!But lo! in the distance the clouds break away,The Gate's glowing portals I see;And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bayThe song of the sailors in glee.So I think of the luminous footprints that boreThe comfort o'er dark Galilee,And wait for the signal to go to the shore,To the ship that is waiting for me.
(OPENING OF THE CALIFORNIA THEATRE, SAN FRANCISCO, JANUARY 19, 1870)Brief words, when actions wait, are well:The prompter's hand is on his bell;The coming heroes, lovers, kings,Are idly lounging at the wings;Behind the curtain's mystic foldThe glowing future lies unrolled;And yet, one moment for the Past,One retrospect,—the first and last."The world's a stage," the Master said.To-night a mightier truth is read:Not in the shifting canvas screen,The flash of gas or tinsel sheen;Not in the skill whose signal callsFrom empty boards baronial halls;But, fronting sea and curving bay,Behold the players and the play.Ah, friends! beneath your real skiesThe actor's short-lived triumph dies:On that broad stage of empire won,Whose footlights were the setting sun,Whose flats a distant background roseIn trackless peaks of endless snows;Here genius bows, and talent waitsTo copy that but One creates.Your shifting scenes: the league of sand,An avenue by ocean spanned;The narrow beach of straggling tents,A mile of stately monuments;Your standard, lo! a flag unfurled,Whose clinging folds clasp half the world,—This is your drama, built on facts,With "twenty years between the acts."One moment more: if here we raiseThe oft-sung hymn of local praise,Before the curtain facts must sway;HERE waits the moral of your play.Glassed in the poet's thought, you viewWhat money can, yet cannot do;The faith that soars, the deeds that shine,Above the gold that builds the shrine.And oh! when others take our place,And Earth's green curtain hides our face,Ere on the stage, so silent now,The last new hero makes his bow:So may our deeds, recalled once moreIn Memory's sweet but brief encore,Down all the circling ages run,With the world's plaudit of "Well done!"
Dear Dolly! who does not recallThe thrilling page that pictured allThose charms that held our sense in thrallJust as the artist caught her,—As down that English lane she tripped,In bowered chintz, hat sideways tipped,Trim-bodiced, bright-eyed, roguish-lipped,—The locksmith's pretty daughter?Sweet fragment of the Master's art!O simple faith! O rustic heart!O maid that hath no counterpartIn life's dry, dog-eared pages!Where shall we find thy like? Ah, stay!Methinks I saw her yesterdayIn chintz that flowered, as one might say,Perennial for ages.Her father's modest cot was stone,Five stories high; in style and toneComposite, and, I frankly own,Within its walls revealingSome certain novel, strange ideas:A Gothic door with Roman piers,And floors removed some thousand years,From their Pompeian ceiling.The small salon where she receivedWas Louis Quatorze, and relievedBy Chinese cabinets, conceivedGrotesquely by the heathen;The sofas were a classic sight,—The Roman bench (sedilia hight);The chairs were French in gold and white,And one Elizabethan.And she, the goddess of that shrine,Two ringed fingers placed in mine,—The stones were many carats fine,And of the purest water,—Then dropped a curtsy, far enoughTo fairly fill her cretonne puffAnd show the petticoat's rich stuffThat her fond parent bought her.Her speech was simple as her dress,—Not French the more, but English less,She loved; yet sometimes, I confess,I scarce could comprehend her.Her manners were quite far from shy.There was a quiet in her eyeAppalling to the Hugh who'd tryWith rudeness to offend her."But whence," I cried, "this masquerade?Some figure for to-night's charade,A Watteau shepherdess or maid?"She smiled and begged my pardon:"Why, surely you must know the name,—That woman who was Shakespeare's flameOr Byron's,—well, it's all the same:Why, Lord! I'm Dolly Varden!"
Don't mind me, I beg you, old fellow,—I'll do very well here alone;You must not be kept from your "German" because I've dropped in likea stone.Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught butyourself;And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on the shelf.As for me, you will say to your hostess—well, I scarcely need giveyou a cue.Chant my praise! All will list to Apollo, though Mercury pipe to afew.Say just what you please, my dear boy; there's more eloquence liesin youth's rashOutspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this grizzlingmustache.Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant,—youth's panoplied armor forfight,—And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and lastsbut a night;And pray the Nine Gods to avert you what time the Three Sistersshall frown,And you'll lose your high-comedy figure, and sit more at ease inyour gown.He's off! There's his foot on the staircase. By Jove, what a bound!Really nowDid I ever leap like this springald, with Love's chaplet green on mybrow?Was I such an ass? No, I fancy. Indeed, I remember quite plainA gravity mixed with my transports, a cheerfulness softened my pain.He's gone! There's the slam of his cab door, there's the clatterof hoofs and the wheels;And while he the light toe is tripping, in this armchair I'll tiltup my heels.He's gone, and for what? For a tremor from a waist like a teetotumspun;For a rosebud that's crumpled by many before it is gathered by one.Is there naught in the halo of youth but the glow of a passionaterace—'Midst the cheers and applause of a crowd—to the goal of abeautiful face?A race that is not to the swift, a prize that no merits enforce,But is won by some faineant youth, who shall simply walk over thecourse?Poor boy! shall I shock his conceit? When he talks of her cheek'sloveliness,Shall I say 'twas the air of the room, and was due to carbonic excess?That when waltzing she drooped on his breast, and the veins of hereyelids grew dim,'Twas oxygen's absence she felt, but never the presence of him?Shall I tell him first love is a fraud, a weakling that's strangledin birth,Recalled with perfunctory tears, but lost in unsanctified mirth?Or shall I go bid him believe in all womankind's charm, and forgetIn the light ringing laugh of the world the rattlesnake's gaycastanet?Shall I tear out a leaf from my heart, from that book that foreveris shutOn the past? Shall I speak of my first love—Augusta—my Lalage?ButI forget. Was it really Augusta? No. 'Twas Lucy! No. Mary!No. Di!Never mind! they were all first and faithless, and yet—I've forgottenjust why.No, no! Let him dream on and ever. Alas! he will waken too soon;And it doesn't look well for October to always be preaching at June.Poor boy! All his fond foolish trophies pinned yonder—a bow fromHER hair,A few billets-doux, invitations, and—what's this? My name, Ideclare!Humph! "You'll come, for I've got you a prize, with beauty and moneyno end:You know her, I think; 'twas on dit she once was engaged to yourfriend;But she says that's all over." Ah, is it? Sweet Ethel! incomparablemaid!Or—what if the thing were a trick?—this letter so freely displayed!—My opportune presence! No! nonsense! Will nobody answer the bell?Call a cab! Half past ten. Not too late yet. Oh, Ethel! Why don'tyou go? Well?"Master said you would wait"— Hang your master! "Have I ever amessage to send?"Yes, tell him I've gone to the German to dance with the friend ofhis friend.
Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair,Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare?"Why are my eyelids so open and wild?"Only the better to see with, my child!Only the better and clearer to viewCheeks that are rosy and eyes that are blue.Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these armsFill thy soft bosom with tender alarms,Swaying so wickedly? Are they misplacedClasping or shielding some delicate waist?Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fearOnly the better protect you, my dear!Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street,Why do I press your small hand when we meet?Why, when you timidly offered your cheek,Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak?Why, well: you see—if the truth must appear—I'm not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear!
"So she's here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you met on the train,And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet heragain?""Of course," he replied, "she would know me; there never waswomankind yetForgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not forget.""Then you told her your love?" asked the elder. The younger lookedup with a smile:"I sat by her side half an hour—what else was I doing the while?"What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky,And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from your own toher eye?"No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and as bold asthe look,And I held up herself to herself,—that was more than she got fromher book.""Young blood!" laughed the elder; "no doubt you are voicing the modeof To-Day:But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance for delay."There's my wife (you must know),—we first met on the journey fromFlorence to Rome:It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where was her home;"Three more to be duly presented; three more ere I saw her again;And a year ere my romance BEGAN where yours ended that day on thetrain.""Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach; we travel to-day byexpress;Forty miles to the hour," he answered, "won't admit of a passionthat's less.""But what if you make a mistake?" quoth the elder. The younger halfsighed."What happens when signals are wrong or switches misplaced?" hereplied."Very well, I must bow to your wisdom," the elder returned, "butsubmitYour chances of winning this woman your boldness has bettered no whit."Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I try your idealWith something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regle and real?"Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist—you shall follow—this way.My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid to stay?"My wife, Mr. Rapid— Eh, what! Why, he's gone—yet he said hewould come.How rude! I don't wonder, my dear, you are properly crimson anddumb!"
O joy of creationTo be!O rapture to flyAnd be free!Be the battle lost or won,Though its smoke shall hide the sun,I shall find my love,—the oneBorn for me!I shall know him where he stands,All alone,With the power in his handsNot o'erthrown;I shall know him by his face,By his godlike front and grace;I shall hold him for a space,All my own!It is he—O my love!So bold!It is I—all thy loveForetold!It is I. O love! what bliss!Dost thou answer to my kiss?O sweetheart! what is thisLieth there so cold?
Now shift the blanket pad before your saddle back you fling,And draw your cinch up tighter till the sweat drops from the ring:We've a dozen miles to cover ere we reach the next divide.Our limbs are stiffer now than when we first set out to ride,And worse, the horses know it, and feel the leg-grip tire,Since in the days when, long ago, we sought the old camp-fire.Yes, twenty years! Lord! how we'd scent its incense down the trail,Through balm of bay and spice of spruce, when eye and ear would fail,And worn and faint from useless quest we crept, like this, to rest,Or, flushed with luck and youthful hope, we rode, like this, abreast.Ay! straighten up, old friend, and let the mustang think he's nigher,Through looser rein and stirrup strain, the welcome old camp-fire.You know the shout that would ring out before us down the glade,And start the blue jays like a flight of arrows through the shade,And sift the thin pine needles down like slanting, shining rain,And send the squirrels scampering back to their holes again,Until we saw, blue-veiled and dim, or leaping like desire,That flame of twenty years ago, which lit the old camp-fire.And then that rest on Nature's breast, when talk had dropped, and slowThe night wind went from tree to tree with challenge soft and low!We lay on lazy elbows propped, or stood to stir the flame,Till up the soaring redwood's shaft our shadows danced and came,As if to draw us with the sparks, high o'er its unseen spire,To the five stars that kept their ward above the old camp-fire,—Those picket stars whose tranquil watch half soothed, half shamedour sleep.What recked we then what beasts or men around might lurk or creep?We lay and heard with listless ears the far-off panther's cry,The near coyote's snarling snap, the grizzly's deep-drawn sigh,The brown bear's blundering human tread, the gray wolves' yelpingchoirBeyond the magic circle drawn around the old camp-fire.And then that morn! Was ever morn so filled with all things new?The light that fell through long brown aisles from out the kindlingblue,The creak and yawn of stretching boughs, the jay-bird's early call,The rat-tat-tat of woodpecker that waked the woodland hall,The fainter stir of lower life in fern and brake and brier,Till flashing leaped the torch of Day from last night's old camp-fire!Well, well! we'll see it once again; we should be near it now;It's scarce a mile to where the trail strikes off to skirt the slough,And then the dip to Indian Spring, the wooded rise, and—strange!Yet here should stand the blasted pine that marked our farther range;And here—what's this? A ragged swab of ruts and stumps and mire!Sure this is not the sacred grove that hid the old camp-fire!Yet here's the "blaze" I cut myself, and there's the stumbling ledge,With quartz "outcrop" that lay atop, now leveled to its edge,And mounds of moss-grown stumps beside the woodman's rotting chips,And gashes in the hillside, that gape with dumb red lips.And yet above the shattered wreck and ruin, curling higher—Ah yes!—still lifts the smoke that marked the welcome old camp-fire!Perhaps some friend of twenty years still lingers there to raiseTo weary hearts and tired eyes that beacon of old days.Perhaps but stay; 'tis gone! and yet once more it lifts as thoughTo meet our tardy blundering steps, and seems to MOVE, and lo!Whirls by us in a rush of sound,—the vanished funeral pyreOf hopes and fears that twenty years burned in the old camp-fire!For see, beyond the prospect spreads, with chimney, spire, and roof,—Two iron bands across the trail clank to our mustang's hoof;Above them leap two blackened threads from limb-lopped tree to tree,To where the whitewashed station speeds its message to the sea.Rein in! Rein in! The quest is o'er. The goal of our desireIs but the train whose track has lain across the old camp-fire!
An empty bench, a sky of grayest etching,A bare, bleak shed in blackest silhouette,Twelve years of platform, and before them stretchingTwelve miles of prairie glimmering through the wet.North, south, east, west,—the same dull gray persistence,The tattered vapors of a vanished train,The narrowing rails that meet to pierce the distance,Or break the columns of the far-off rain.Naught but myself; nor form nor figure breakingThe long hushed level and stark shining waste;Nothing that moves to fill the vision aching,When the last shadow fled in sullen haste.Nothing beyond. Ah yes! From out the stationA stiff, gaunt figure thrown against the sky,Beckoning me with some wooden salutationCaught from his signals as the train flashed by;Yielding me place beside him with dumb gestureBorn of that reticence of sky and air.We sit apart, yet wrapped in that one vestureOf silence, sadness, and unspoken care:Each following his own thought,—around us darkeningThe rain-washed boundaries and stretching track,—Each following those dim parallels and hearkeningFor long-lost voices that will not come back.Until, unasked,—I knew not why or wherefore,—He yielded, bit by bit, his dreary past,Like gathered clouds that seemed to thicken there forSome dull down-dropping of their care at last.Long had he lived there. As a boy had startedFrom the stacked corn the Indian's painted face;Heard the wolves' howl the wearying waste that partedHis father's hut from the last camping-place.Nature had mocked him: thrice had claimed the reaping,With scythe of fire, of lands she once had sown;Sent the tornado, round his hearthstone heapingRafters, dead faces that were like his own.Then came the War Time. When its shadow beckonedHe had walked dumbly where the flag had ledThrough swamp and fen,—unknown, unpraised, unreckoned,—To famine, fever, and a prison bed.Till the storm passed, and the slow tide returningCast him, a wreck, beneath his native sky;Here, at his watch, gave him the chance of earningScant means to live—who won the right to die.All this I heard—or seemed to hear—half blendingWith the low murmur of the coming breeze,The call of some lost bird, and the unendingAnd tireless sobbing of those grassy seas.Until at last the spell of desolationBroke with a trembling star and far-off cry.The coming train! I glanced around the station,All was as empty as the upper sky!Naught but myself; nor form nor figure wakingThe long hushed level and stark shining waste;Naught but myself, that cry, and the dull shakingOf wheel and axle, stopped in breathless haste!"Now, then—look sharp! Eh, what? The Station-Master?THAR'S NONE! We stopped here of our own accord.The man got killed in that down-train disasterThis time last evening. Right there! All aboard!"
O bells that rang, O bells that sangAbove the martyrs' wilderness,Till from that reddened coast-line sprangThe Gospel seed to cheer and bless,What are your garnered sheaves to-day?O Mission bells! Eleison bells!O Mission bells of Monterey!O bells that crash, O bells that clashAbove the chimney-crowded plain,On wall and tower your voices dash,But never with the old refrain;In mart and temple gone astray!Ye dangle bells! Ye jangle bells!Ye wrangle bells of Monterey!O bells that die, so far, so nigh,Come back once more across the sea;Not with the zealot's furious cry,Not with the creed's austerity;Come with His love alone to stay,O Mission bells! Eleison bells!O Mission bells of Monterey!
* This poem was set to music by Monsieur Charles Gounod.
(RATTLESNAKE BAR, SIERRAS)No life in earth, or air, or sky;The sunbeams, broken silently,On the bared rocks around me lie,—Cold rocks with half-warmed lichens scarred,And scales of moss; and scarce a yardAway, one long strip, yellow-barred.Lost in a cleft! 'Tis but a strideTo reach it, thrust its roots aside,And lift it on thy stick astride!Yet stay! That moment is thy grace!For round thee, thrilling air and space,A chattering terror fills the place!A sound as of dry bones that stirIn the dead Valley! By yon firThe locust stops its noonday whir!The wild bird hears; smote with the sound,As if by bullet brought to ground,On broken wing, dips, wheeling round!The hare, transfixed, with trembling lip,Halts, breathless, on pulsating hip,And palsied tread, and heels that slip.Enough, old friend!—'tis thou. ForgetMy heedless foot, nor longer fretThe peace with thy grim castanet!I know thee! Yes! Thou mayst foregoThat lifted crest; the measured blowBeyond which thy pride scorns to go,Or yet retract! For me no spellLights those slit orbs, where, some think, dwellMachicolated fires of hell!I only know thee humble, bold,Haughty, with miseries untold,And the old Curse that left thee cold,And drove thee ever to the sun,On blistering rocks; nor made thee shunOur cabin's hearth, when day was done,And the spent ashes warmed thee best;We knew thee,—silent, joyless guestOf our rude ingle. E'en thy questOf the rare milk-bowl seemed to beNaught but a brother's poverty,And Spartan taste that kept thee freeFrom lust and rapine. Thou! whose fameSearchest the grass with tongue of flame,Making all creatures seem thy game;When the whole woods before thee run,Asked but—when all was said and done—To lie, untrodden, in the sun!
DEAD AT PITTSFIELD, MASS., 1876O poor Romancer—thou whose printed page,Filled with rude speech and ruder forms of strife,Was given to heroes in whose vulgar rageNo trace appears of gentler ways and life!—Thou who wast wont of commoner clay to buildSome rough Achilles or some Ajax tall;Thou whose free brush too oft was wont to gildSome single virtue till it dazzled all;—What right hast thou beside this laureled bierWhereon all manhood lies—whereon the wreathOf Harvard rests, the civic crown, and hereThe starry flag, and sword and jeweled sheath?Seest thou these hatchments? Knowest thou this bloodNourished the heroes of Colonial days—Sent to the dim and savage-haunted woodThose sad-eyed Puritans with hymns of praise?Look round thee! Everywhere is classic ground.There Greylock rears. Beside yon silver "Bowl"Great Hawthorne dwelt, and in its mirror foundThose quaint, strange shapes that filled his poet's soul.Still silent, Stranger? Thou who now and thenTouched the too credulous ear with pathos, canst not speak?Hast lost thy ready skill of tongue and pen?What, Jester! Tears upon that painted cheek?Pardon, good friends! I am not here to marHis laureled wreaths with this poor tinseled crown—This man who taught me how 'twas better farTo be the poem than to write it down.I bring no lesson. Well have others preachedThis sword that dealt full many a gallant blow;I come once more to touch the hand that reachedIts knightly gauntlet to the vanquished foe.O pale Aristocrat, that liest there,So cold, so silent! Couldst thou not in graceHave borne with us still longer, and so spareThe scorn we see in that proud, placid face?"Hail and farewell!" So the proud Roman criedO'er his dead hero. "Hail," but not "farewell."With each high thought thou walkest side by side;We feel thee, touch thee, know who wrought the spell!
Did I ever tell you, my dears, the wayThat the birds of Cisseter—"Cisseter!" eh?Well "Ciren-cester"—one OUGHT to say,From "Castra," or "Caster,"As your Latin masterWill further explain to you some day;Though even the wisest err,And Shakespeare writes "Ci-cester,"While every visitorWho doesn't say "Cissiter"Is in "Ciren-cester" considered astray.A hundred miles from London town—Where the river goes curving and broadening downFrom tree-top to spire, and spire to mast,Till it tumbles outright in the Channel at last—A hundred miles from that flat foreshoreThat the Danes and the Northmen haunt no more—There's a little cup in the Cotswold hillsWhich a spring in a meadow bubbles and fills,Spanned by a heron's wing—crossed by a stride—Calm and untroubled by dreams of pride,Guiltless of Fame or ambition's aims,That is the source of the lordly Thames!Remark here again that custom contemnsBoth "Tames" and Thames—you must SAY "Tems!"But WHY? no matter!—from them you can seeCirencester's tall spires loom up o'er the lea.A. D. Five Hundred and Fifty-two,The Saxon invaders—a terrible crew—Had forced the lines of the Britons through;And Cirencester, half mud and thatch,Dry and crisp as a tinder match,Was fiercely beleaguered by foes, who'd catchAt any device that could harry and routThe folk that so boldly were holding out.For the streets of the town—as you'll see to-day—Were twisted and curved in a curious wayThat kept the invaders still at bay;And the longest bolt that a Saxon drewWas stopped ere a dozen of yards it flew,By a turn in the street, and a law so trueThat even these robbers—of all laws scorners!—Knew you couldn't shoot arrows AROUND street corners.So they sat them down on a little knoll,And each man scratched his Saxon poll,And stared at the sky, where, clear and high,The birds of that summer went singing by,As if, in his glee, each motley jesterWere mocking the foes of Cirencester,Till the jeering crow and the saucy linnetSeemed all to be saying: "Ah! you're not in it!"High o'er their heads the mavis flew,And the "ouzel-cock so black of hue;"And the "throstle," with his "note so true"(You remember what Shakespeare says—HE knew);And the soaring lark, that kept dropping throughLike a bucket spilling in wells of blue;And the merlin—seen on heraldic panes—With legs as vague as the Queen of Spain's;And the dashing swift that would ricochetFrom the tufts of grasses before them, yet—Like bold Antaeus—would each time bringNew life from the earth, barely touched by his wing;And the swallow and martlet that always knewThe straightest way home. Here a Saxon churl drewHis breath—tapped his forehead—an idea had got through!So they brought them some nets, which straightway they filledWith the swallows and martlets—the sweet birds who buildIn the houses of man—all that innocent guildWho sing at their labor on eaves and in thatch—And they stuck on their feathers a rude lighted matchMade of resin and tow. Then they let them all goTo be free! As a child-like diversion? Ah, no!To work Cirencester's red ruin and woe.For straight to each nest they flew, in wild questOf their homes and their fledgelings—that they loved the best;And straighter than arrow of Saxon e'er spedThey shot o'er the curving streets, high overhead,Bringing fire and terror to roof tree and bed,Till the town broke in flame, wherever they came,To the Briton's red ruin—the Saxon's red shame!Yet they're all gone together! To-day you'll dig upFrom "mound" or from "barrow" some arrow or cup.Their fame is forgotten—their story is ended—'Neath the feet of the race they have mixed with and blended.But the birds are unchanged—the ouzel-cock sings,Still gold on his crest and still black on his wings;And the lark chants on high, as he mounts to the sky,Still brown in his coat and still dim in his eye;While the swallow or martlet is still a free nesterIn the eaves and the roofs of thrice-built Cirencester.
When I bought you for a song,Years ago—Lord knows how long!—I was struck—I may be wrong—By your features,And—a something in your airThat I couldn't quite compareTo my other plain or fairFellow creatures.In your simple, oval frameYou were not well known to fame,But to me—'twas all the same—Whoe'er drew you;For your face I can't forget,Though I oftentimes regretThat, somehow, I never yetSaw quite through you.Yet each morning, when I rise,I go first to greet your eyes;And, in turn, YOU scrutinizeMy presentment.And when shades of evening fall,As you hang upon my wall,You're the last thing I recallWith contentment.It is weakness, yet I knowThat I never turned to goAnywhere, for weal or woe,But I lingeredFor one parting, thrilling flashFrom your eyes, to give that dashTo the curl of my mustache,That I fingered.If to some you may seem plain,And when people glance againWhere you hang, their lips refrain.From confession;Yet they turn in stealth aside,And I note, they try to hideHow much they are satisfiedIn expression.Other faces I have seen;Other forms have come between;Other things I have, I ween,Done and dared for!But OUR ties they cannot sever,And, though I should say it never,You're the only one I everReally cared for!And you'll still be hanging thereWhen we're both the worse for wear,And the silver's on my hairAnd off your backing;Yet my faith shall never passIn my dear old shaving-glass,Till my face and yours, alas!Both are lacking!