Bret Harte
Complete Poetical Works

THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU

     Oh, say, have you seen at the Willows so green—
       So charming and rurally true—
     A singular bird, with a manner absurd,
       Which they call the Australian Emeu?
           Have you
       Ever seen this Australian Emeu?

     It trots all around with its head on the ground,
       Or erects it quite out of your view;
     And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy,
       "Oh! what a sweet pretty Emeu!
           Oh! do
       Just look at that lovely Emeu!"

     One day to this spot, when the weather was hot,
       Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue;
     And beside her there came a youth of high name,—
       Augustus Florell Montague:
           The two
       Both loved that wild, foreign Emeu.

     With two loaves of bread then they fed it, instead
       Of the flesh of the white Cockatoo,
     Which once was its food in that wild neighborhood
       Where ranges the sweet Kangaroo,
           That too
       Is game for the famous Emeu!

     Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whets,
       Like the world-famous bark of Peru;
     There's nothing so hard that the bird will discard,
       And nothing its taste will eschew
           That you
       Can give that long-legged Emeu!

     The time slipped away in this innocent play,
       When up jumped the bold Montague:
     "Where's that specimen pin that I gayly did win
       In raffle, and gave unto you,
           Fortescue?"
       No word spoke the guilty Emeu!

     "Quick! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same,
       Ere these hands in thy blood I imbrue!"
     "Nay, dearest," she cried, as she clung to his side,
       "I'm innocent as that Emeu!"
           "Adieu!"
       He replied, "Miss M. H. Fortescue!"

     Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet,
       As wildly he fled from her view;
     He thought 'twas her sin,—for he knew not the pin
       Had been gobbled up by the Emeu;
          All through
       The voracity of that Emeu!

MRS. JUDGE JENKINS

(BEING THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO "MAUD MULLER")

     Maud Muller all that summer day
     Raked the meadow sweet with hay;

     Yet, looking down the distant lane,
     She hoped the Judge would come again.

     But when he came, with smile and bow,
     Maud only blushed, and stammered, "Ha-ow?"

     And spoke of her "pa," and wondered whether
     He'd give consent they should wed together.

     Old Muller burst in tears, and then
     Begged that the Judge would lend him "ten;"

     For trade was dull, and wages low,
     And the "craps," this year, were somewhat slow.

     And ere the languid summer died,
     Sweet Maud became the Judge's bride.

     But on the day that they were mated,
     Maud's brother Bob was intoxicated;

     And Maud's relations, twelve in all,
     Were very drunk at the Judge's hall.

     And when the summer came again,
     The young bride bore him babies twain;

     And the Judge was blest, but thought it strange
     That bearing children made such a change;

     For Maud grew broad and red and stout,
     And the waist that his arm once clasped about

     Was more than he now could span; and he
     Sighed as he pondered, ruefully,

     How that which in Maud was native grace
     In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place;

     And thought of the twins, and wished that they
     Looked less like the men who raked the hay

     On Muller's farm, and dreamed with pain
     Of the day he wandered down the lane.

     And looking down that dreary track,
     He half regretted that he came back;

     For, had he waited, he might have wed
     Some maiden fair and thoroughbred;

     For there be women fair as she,
     Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.

     Alas for maiden! alas for judge!
     And the sentimental,—that's one-half "fudge;"

     For Maud soon thought the Judge a bore,
     With all his learning and all his lore;

     And the Judge would have bartered Maud's fair face
     For more refinement and social grace.

     If, of all words of tongue and pen,
     The saddest are, "It might have been,"

     More sad are these we daily see:
     "It is, but hadn't ought to be."

A GEOLOGICAL MADRIGAL

     I have found out a gift for my fair;
       I know where the fossils abound,
     Where the footprints of Aves declare
       The birds that once walked on the ground.
     Oh, come, and—in technical speech—
       We'll walk this Devonian shore,
     Or on some Silurian beach
       We'll wander, my love, evermore.

     I will show thee the sinuous track
       By the slow-moving Annelid made,
     Or the Trilobite that, farther back,
       In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid;
     Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb,
       The Plesiosaurus embalmed;
     In his Oolitic prime and his bloom,
       Iguanodon safe and unharmed.

     You wished—I remember it well,
       And I loved you the more for that wish—
     For a perfect cystedian shell
       And a WHOLE holocephalic fish.
     And oh, if Earth's strata contains
       In its lowest Silurian drift,
     Or palaeozoic remains
       The same, 'tis your lover's free gift!

     Then come, love, and never say nay,
       But calm all your maidenly fears;
     We'll note, love, in one summer's day
       The record of millions of years;
     And though the Darwinian plan
       Your sensitive feelings may shock,
     We'll find the beginning of man,
       Our fossil ancestors, in rock!

AVITOR

(AN AERIAL RETROSPECT)

     What was it filled my youthful dreams,
     In place of Greek or Latin themes,
     Or beauty's wild, bewildering beams?
          Avitor!

     What visions and celestial scenes
     I filled with aerial machines,
     Montgolfier's and Mr. Green's!
          Avitor!

     What fairy tales seemed things of course!
     The roc that brought Sindbad across,
     The Calendar's own winged horse!
          Avitor!

     How many things I took for facts,—
     Icarus and his conduct lax,
     And how he sealed his fate with wax!
          Avitor!

     The first balloons I sought to sail,
     Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail,
     Or kites,—but thereby hangs a tail.
          Avitor!

     What made me launch from attic tall
     A kitten and a parasol,
     And watch their bitter, frightful fall?
          Avitor!

     What youthful dreams of high renown
     Bade me inflate the parson's gown,
     That went not up, nor yet came down?
          Avitor!

     My first ascent I may not tell;
     Enough to know that in that well
     My first high aspirations fell.
          Avitor!

     My other failures let me pass:
     The dire explosions, and, alas!
     The friends I choked with noxious gas.
          Avitor!

     For lo! I see perfected rise
     The vision of my boyish eyes,
     The messenger of upper skies.
          Avitor!

THE WILLOWS

(AFTER EDGAR ALLAN POE)

     The skies they were ashen and sober,
       The streets they were dirty and drear;
     It was night in the month of October,
       Of my most immemorial year.
     Like the skies, I was perfectly sober,
       As I stopped at the mansion of Shear,—
     At the Nightingale,—perfectly sober,
       And the willowy woodland down here.

     Here, once in an alley Titanic
       Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul,—
       Of Ten-pins, with Mary, my soul;
     They were days when my heart was volcanic,
       And impelled me to frequently roll,
       And made me resistlessly roll,
     Till my ten-strikes created a panic
       In the realms of the Boreal pole,—
     Till my ten-strikes created a panic
       With the monkey atop of his pole.

     I repeat, I was perfectly sober,
       But my thoughts they were palsied and sear,—
       My thoughts were decidedly queer;
     For I knew not the month was October,
       And I marked not the night of the year;
     I forgot that sweet morceau of Auber
       That the band oft performed down here,
     And I mixed the sweet music of Auber
       With the Nightingale's music by Shear.

     And now as the night was senescent,
       And star-dials pointed to morn,
       And car-drivers hinted of morn,
     At the end of the path a liquescent
       And bibulous lustre was born;
     'Twas made by the bar-keeper present,
       Who mixed a duplicate horn,—
     His two hands describing a crescent
       Distinct with a duplicate horn.

     And I said: "This looks perfectly regal,
       For it's warm, and I know I feel dry,—
       I am confident that I feel dry.
     We have come past the emeu and eagle,
       And watched the gay monkey on high;
     Let us drink to the emeu and eagle,
       To the swan and the monkey on high,—
       To the eagle and monkey on high;
     For this bar-keeper will not inveigle,
       Bully boy with the vitreous eye,—
     He surely would never inveigle,
       Sweet youth with the crystalline eye."

     But Mary, uplifting her finger,
       Said: "Sadly this bar I mistrust,—
       I fear that this bar does not trust.
     Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!
       Oh, fly,—let us fly,—are we must!"
     In terror she cried, letting sink her
       Parasol till it trailed in the dust;
     In agony sobbed, letting sink her
       Parasol till it trailed in the dust,—
       Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

     Then I pacified Mary and kissed her,
       And tempted her into the room,
       And conquered her scruples and gloom;
     And we passed to the end of the vista,
       But were stopped by the warning of doom,—
       By some words that were warning of doom.
     And I said, "What is written, sweet sister,
       At the opposite end of the room?"
     She sobbed, as she answered, "All liquors
       Must be paid for ere leaving the room."

     Then my heart it grew ashen and sober,
       As the streets were deserted and drear,
       For my pockets were empty and drear;
     And I cried: "It was surely October,
       On this very night of last year,
       That I journeyed, I journeyed down here,—
       That I brought a fair maiden down here,
       On this night of all nights in the year!
       Ah! to me that inscription is clear;
     Well I know now, I'm perfectly sober,
       Why no longer they credit me here,—
     Well I know now that music of Auber,
       And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear."

NORTH BEACH

(AFTER SPENSER)

     Lo! where the castle of bold Pfeiffer throws
     Its sullen shadow on the rolling tide,—
     No more the home where joy and wealth repose,
     But now where wassailers in cells abide;
     See yon long quay that stretches far and wide,
     Well known to citizens as wharf of Meiggs:
     There each sweet Sabbath walks in maiden pride
     The pensive Margaret, and brave Pat, whose legs
     Encased in broadcloth oft keep time with Peg's.

     Here cometh oft the tender nursery-maid,
     While in her ear her love his tale doth pour;
     Meantime her infant doth her charge evade,
     And rambleth sagely on the sandy shore,
     Till the sly sea-crab, low in ambush laid,
     Seizeth his leg and biteth him full sore.
     Ah me! what sounds the shuddering echoes bore
     When his small treble mixed with Ocean's roar!

     Hard by there stands an ancient hostelrie,
     And at its side a garden, where the bear,
     The stealthy catamount, and coon agree
     To work deceit on all who gather there;
     And when Augusta—that unconscious fair—
     With nuts and apples plieth Bruin free,
     Lo! the green parrot claweth her back hair,
     And the gray monkey grabbeth fruits that she
     On her gay bonnet wears, and laugheth loud in glee!

THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS

     High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover,
     Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian streamlet,
     She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr
     Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his chestnuts.

     Vainly the Maenid and the Bassarid gamboled about her,
     The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan—the renowned, the
     accomplished—Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their
        gambols and dances;
     High o'er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shepherdess,
        wailing:

     "Ai! for the fleecy flocks, the meek-nosed, the passionless faces;
     Ai! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high-stepping;
     Ai! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, sagacious,
     Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion!"

     Her then Zeus answered slow: "O daughter of song and sorrow,
     Hapless tender of sheep, arise from thy long lamentation!
     Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes a Greek maiden,
     Look and behold thy sheep." And lo! they returned to her tailless!

THE RITUALIST

(BY A COMMUNICANT OF "ST. JAMES'S")

     He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met;
     A stole and snowy alb likewise,—I recollect it yet.
     He called me "daughter," as he raised his jeweled hand to bless;
     And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, "Would I confess?"

     O mother dear! blame not your child, if then on bended knees
     I dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise;
     Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx,
     I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix.

     The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps may deem me weak,
     And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct "cheek;"
     And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes,
     May term his mixed chalice "grog," his vestments "petticoats;"

     But, whatsoe'er they do or say, I'll build a Christian's hope
     On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope.
     Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess:
     "His can't be wrong" that's symbolized by such becoming dress.

A MORAL VINDICATOR

     If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B.,
     Had one peculiar quality,
     'Twas his severe advocacy
     Of conjugal fidelity.

     His views of heaven were very free;
     His views of life were painfully
     Ridiculous; but fervently
     He dwelt on marriage sanctity.

     He frequently went on a spree;
     But in his wildest revelry,
     On this especial subject he
     Betrayed no ambiguity.

     And though at times Lycurgus B.
     Did lay his hands not lovingly
     Upon his wife, the sanctity
     Of wedlock was his guaranty.

     But Mrs. Jones declined to see
     Affairs in the same light as he,
     And quietly got a decree
     Divorcing her from that L. B.

     And what did Jones, Lycurgus B.,
     With his known idiosyncrasy?
     He smiled,—a bitter smile to see,—
     And drew the weapon of Bowie.

     He did what Sickles did to Key,—
     What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he;
     In fact, on persons twenty-three
     He proved the marriage sanctity.

     The counselor who took the fee,
     The witnesses and referee,
     The judge who granted the decree,
     Died in that wholesale butchery.

     And then when Jones, Lycurgus B.,
     Had wiped the weapon of Bowie,
     Twelve jurymen did instantly
     Acquit and set Lycurgus free.

CALIFORNIA MADRIGAL

(ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING)

     Oh, come, my beloved, from thy winter abode,
     From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed;
     For the waters have fallen, the winter has fled,
     And the river once more has returned to its bed.

     Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near!
     How the fences and tules once more reappear!
     How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon slough
     By the hole in the levee the waters broke through!

     All nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greet
     The glance of your eye and the tread of your feet;
     For the trails are all open, the roads are all free,
     And the highwayman's whistle is heard on the lea.

     Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail,
     And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale;
     The oath and the jest ringing high o'er the plain,
     Where the smut is not always confined to the grain.

     Once more glares the sunlight on awning and roof,
     Once more the red clay's pulverized by the hoof,
     Once more the dust powders the "outsides" with red,
     Once more at the station the whiskey is spread.

     Then fly with me, love, ere the summer's begun,
     And the mercury mounts to one hundred and one;
     Ere the grass now so green shall be withered and sear,
     In the spring that obtains but one month in the year.

WHAT THE ENGINES SAID

(OPENING OF THE PACIFIC RAILROAD)

     What was it the Engines said,
     Pilots touching,—head to head
     Facing on the single track,
     Half a world behind each back?
     This is what the Engines said,
     Unreported and unread.

     With a prefatory screech,
     In a florid Western speech,
     Said the Engine from the WEST:
     "I am from Sierra's crest;
     And if altitude's a test,
     Why, I reckon, it's confessed
     That I've done my level best."

     Said the Engine from the EAST:
     "They who work best talk the least.
     S'pose you whistle down your brakes;
     What you've done is no great shakes,
     Pretty fair,—but let our meeting
     Be a different kind of greeting.
     Let these folks with champagne stuffing,
     Not their Engines, do the PUFFING.

     "Listen! Where Atlantic beats
     Shores of snow and summer heats;
     Where the Indian autumn skies
     Paint the woods with wampum dyes,—
     I have chased the flying sun,
     Seeing all he looked upon,
     Blessing all that he has blessed,
     Nursing in my iron breast
     All his vivifying heat,
     All his clouds about my crest;
     And before my flying feet
     Every shadow must retreat."

     Said the Western Engine, "Phew!"
     And a long, low whistle blew.
     "Come, now, really that's the oddest
     Talk for one so very modest.
     You brag of your East! YOU do?
     Why, I bring the East to YOU!
     All the Orient, all Cathay,
     Find through me the shortest way;
     And the sun you follow here
     Rises in my hemisphere.
     Really,—if one must be rude,—
     Length, my friend, ain't longitude."

     Said the Union: "Don't reflect, or
     I'll run over some Director."
     Said the Central: "I'm Pacific;
     But, when riled, I'm quite terrific.
     Yet to-day we shall not quarrel,
     Just to show these folks this moral,
     How two Engines—in their vision—
     Once have met without collision."

     That is what the Engines said,
     Unreported and unread;
     Spoken slightly through the nose,
     With a whistle at the close.

THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE

     Beetling walls with ivy grown,
     Frowning heights of mossy stone;
     Turret, with its flaunting flag
     Flung from battlemented crag;
     Dungeon-keep and fortalice
     Looking down a precipice
     O'er the darkly glancing wave
     By the Lurline-haunted cave;
     Robber haunt and maiden bower,
     Home of Love and Crime and Power,—
     That's the scenery, in fine,
     Of the Legends of the Rhine.

     One bold baron, double-dyed
     Bigamist and parricide,
     And, as most the stories run,
     Partner of the Evil One;
     Injured innocence in white,
     Fair but idiotic quite,
     Wringing of her lily hands;
     Valor fresh from Paynim lands,
     Abbot ruddy, hermit pale,
     Minstrel fraught with many a tale,—
     Are the actors that combine
     In the Legends of the Rhine.

     Bell-mouthed flagons round a board;
     Suits of armor, shield, and sword;
     Kerchief with its bloody stain;
     Ghosts of the untimely slain;
     Thunder-clap and clanking chain;
     Headsman's block and shining axe;
     Thumb-screw, crucifixes, racks;
     Midnight-tolling chapel bell,
     Heard across the gloomy fell,—
     These and other pleasant facts
     Are the properties that shine
     In the Legends of the Rhine.

     Maledictions, whispered vows
     Underneath the linden boughs;
     Murder, bigamy, and theft;
     Travelers of goods bereft;
     Rapine, pillage, arson, spoil,—
     Everything but honest toil,
     Are the deeds that best define
     Every Legend of the Rhine.

     That Virtue always meets reward,
     But quicker when it wears a sword;
     That Providence has special care
     Of gallant knight and lady fair;
     That villains, as a thing of course,
     Are always haunted by remorse,—
     Is the moral, I opine,
     Of the Legends of the Rhine.