East and West: Poems

by Bret Harte

A Legend of the Cliff House, San Francisco.

Where the sturdy ocean breeze Drives the spray of roaring seas That the Cliff-House balconies Overlook:

There, in spite of rain that balked, With his sandals duly chalked, Once upon a tight-rope walked Mr. Cooke.

But the jester's lightsome mien, And his spangles and his sheen, All had vanished, when the scene He forsook;——

Yet in some delusive hope, In some vague desire to cope, One still came to view the rope Walked by Cooke.

Amid Beauty's bright array, On that strange eventful day, Partly hidden from the spray, In a nook,

Stood Florinda Vere de Vere; Who with wind-dishevelled hair, And a rapt, distracted air, Gazed on Cooke.

Then she turned, and quickly cried To her lover at her side, While her form with love and pride Wildly shook,

"Clifford Snook! oh, hear me now! Here I break each plighted vow: There's but one to whom I bow, And that's Cooke!"

Haughtily that young man spoke: "I descend from noble folk. 'Seven Oaks,' and then 'Se'nnoak,' Lastly Snook,

Is the way my name I trace: Shall a youth of noble race In affairs of love give place To a Cooke?"

"Clifford Snook, I know thy claim To that lineage and name, And I think I've read the same In Horne Tooke;

But I swear, by all divine, Never, never to be thine, 'Till thou canst upon yon line Walk like Cooke."

Though to that gymnastic feat He no closer might compete Than to strike a balance-sheet In a book;

Yet thenceforward, from that day, He his figure would display In some wild athletic way, After Cooke.

On some household eminence, On a clothes-line or a fence, Over ditches, drains, and thence O'er a brook,

He, by high ambition led, Ever walked and balanced; Till the people, wondering, said, "How like Cooke!"

Step by step did he proceed, Nerved by valor, not by greed, And at last the crowning deed Undertook:

Misty was the midnight air, And the cliff was bleak and bare, When he came to do and dare Just like Cooke.

Through the darkness, o'er the flow, Stretched the line where he should go Straight across, as flies the crow Or the rook:

One wild glance around he cast; Then he faced the ocean blast, And he strode the cable last Touched by Cooke.

Vainly roared the angry seas; Vainly blew the ocean breeze; But, alas! the walker's knees Had a crook;

And before he reached the rock Did they both together knock, And he stumbled with a shock— Unlike Cooke!

Downward dropping in the dark, Like an arrow to its mark, Or a fish-pole when a shark Bites the hook,

Dropped the pole he could not save, Dropped the walker, and the wave Swift ingulfed the rival brave Of J. Cooke!

Came a roar across the sea Of sea-lions in their glee, In a tongue remarkably Like Chinnook;

And the maddened sea-gull seemed Still to utter, as he screamed, "Perish thus the wretch who deemed Himself Cooke!"

But, on misty moonlit nights, Comes a skeleton in tights, Walks once more the giddy heights He mistook;

And unseen to mortal eyes, Purged of grosser earthly ties, Now at last in spirit guise Outdoes Cooke.

Still the sturdy ocean breeze Sweeps the spray of roaring seas, Where the Cliff-House balconies Overlook;

And the maidens in their prime,
Reading of this mournful rhyme,
Weep where, in the olden time,
Walked J. Cooke.

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;
Thumbscrews, 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;
Travellers of goods bereft;
Rapine, pillage, arson, spoil,—
Every thing 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.

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 man 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."

Avitor.