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
