"FOR THE KING"
(NORTHERN MEXICO, 1640)
As you look from the plaza at Leon west
You can see her house, but the view is best
From 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 blink
Of the worshiping throng that rise or sink
To 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 begin
To 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 away
On a tomb in the choir: "Por el Rey."
"Por el Rey!" Well, the king is gone
Ages ago, and the Hapsburg one
Shot—but the Rock of the Church lives on.
"Por el Rey!" What matters, indeed,
If king or president succeed
To 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 bring
The 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 be
Of His Most Catholic Majesty;
Yet, from his black plume's curving grace
To 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 take
His humble roof for the royal sake,
And then, as the custom demanded, spake
The usual wish, that his guest would hold
The 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 grace
Of chosen speech and unmoved face;
Nor raised his head till his black plume swept
The hem of the lady's robe, who kept
Her 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 meant
Than 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 prest
The seneschal, but with the rest
Watched, as was due a royal guest,—
Watched from the wall till he saw the square
Fill with the moonlight, white and bare,—
Watched till he saw two shadows fare
Out from his garden, where the shade
That the old church tower and belfry made
Like a benedictory hand was laid.
Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned
To his nearest sentry: "These monks have learned
That stolen fruit is sweetly earned.
"Myself shall punish yon acolyte
Who gathers my garden grapes by night;
Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light."
Yet not till the sun was riding high
Did the sentry meet his commander's eye,
Nor then till the Viceroy stood by.
To the lovers of grave formalities
No 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 confest
That cares of state, and—he dared to say—
Some fears that the King could not repay
The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way
Had marred his rest. Yet he trusted much
None shared his wakefulness; though such
Indeed might be! If he dared to touch
A theme so fine—the bride, perchance,
Still slept! At least, they missed her glance
To give this greeting countenance.
Be sure that the seneschal, in turn,
Was deeply bowed with the grave concern
Of the painful news his guest should learn:
"Last night, to her father's dying bed
By 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 joy
Of a bride so true to her filial trust!
Yet now, as the day waxed on, they must
To 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 aside
To 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 clear
Took 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 last
Into the dusty traveled Past.
Even like this they passed away
Two hundred years ago to-day.
What of the lady? Who shall say?
Do the souls of the dying ever yearn
To 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 fall
Pierced 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 choir
At Leon, where 'neath a shield azure
Should his mortal frame find sepulture:
This much, for the pains Christ did endure.
Be sure that the friar loyally
Fulfilled his trust by land and sea,
Till the spires of Leon silently
Rose through the green of the Almandral,
As if to beckon the seneschal
To his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall.
I wot that the saints on either side
Leaned from their niches open-eyed
To see the doors of the church swing wide;
That the wounds of the Saviour on either flank
Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank,
Went by with the coffin, clank on clank.
For why? When they raised the marble door
Of 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 loveliness
Scarcely 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!"
RAMON
(REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO)
Drunk and senseless in his place,
Prone and sprawling on his face,
More like brute than any man
Alive or dead,
By his great pump out of gear,
Lay the peon engineer,
Waking only just to hear,
Overhead,
Angry tones that called his name,
Oaths and cries of bitter blame,—
Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled!
"To the man who'll bring to me,"
Cried Intendant Harry Lee,—
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—
"Bring the sot alive or dead,
I will give to him," he said,
"Fifteen hundred pesos down,
Just to set the rascal's crown
Underneath this heel of mine:
Since but death
Deserves the man whose deed,
Be it vice or want of heed,
Stops the pumps that give us breath,—
Stops the pumps that suck the death
From the poisoned lower levels of the mine!"
No one answered; for a cry
From the shaft rose up on high,
And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below,
Came the miners each, the bolder
Mounting on the weaker's shoulder,
Grappling, clinging to their hold or
Letting go,
As the weaker gasped and fell
From the ladder to the well,—
To the poisoned pit of hell
Down below!
"To the man who sets them free,"
Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,—
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,—
"Brings them out and sets them free,
I will give that man," said he,
"Twice that sum, who with a rope
Face to face with Death shall cope.
Let him come who dares to hope!"
"Hold your peace!" some one replied,
Standing by the foreman's side;
"There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!"
Then they held their breath with awe,
Pulling on the rope, and saw
Fainting figures reappear,
On the black rope swinging clear,
Fastened by some skillful hand from below;
Till a score the level gained,
And but one alone remained,—
He the hero and the last,
He whose skillful hand made fast
The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer!
Haggard, gasping, down dropped he
At the feet of Harry Lee,—
Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine.
"I have come," he gasped, "to claim
Both rewards. Senor, my name
Is Ramon!
I'm the drunken engineer,
I'm the coward, Senor"— Here
He fell over, by that sign,
Dead as stone!
DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH
(REFECTORY, MISSION SAN GABRIEL, 1869)
Good!—said the Padre,—believe me still,
"Don Giovanni," or what you will,
The type's eternal! We knew him here
As Don Diego del Sud. I fear
The story's no new one! Will you hear?
One of those spirits you can't tell why
God has permitted. Therein I
Have the advantage, for I hold
That wolves are sent to the purest fold,
And we'd save the wolf if we'd get the lamb.
You're no believer? Good! I am.
Well, for some purpose, I grant you dim,
The Don loved women, and they loved him.
Each thought herself his LAST love! Worst,
Many believed that they were his FIRST!
And, such are these creatures since the Fall,
The very doubt had a charm for all!
You laugh! You are young, but I—indeed
I have no patience... To proceed:—
You saw, as you passed through the upper town,
The Eucinal where the road goes down
To San Felipe! There one morn
They found Diego,—his mantle torn,
And as many holes through his doublet's band
As there were wronged husbands—you understand!
"Dying," so said the gossips. "Dead"
Was what the friars who found him said.
May be. Quien sabe? Who else should know?
It was a hundred years ago.
There was a funeral. Small indeed—
Private. What would you? To proceed:—
Scarcely the year had flown. One night
The Commandante awoke in fright,
Hearing below his casement's bar
The well-known twang of the Don's guitar;
And rushed to the window, just to see
His wife a-swoon on the balcony.
One week later, Don Juan Ramirez
Found his own daughter, the Dona Inez,
Pale as a ghost, leaning out to hear
The song of that phantom cavalier.
Even Alcalde Pedro Blas
Saw, it was said, through his niece's glass,
The shade of Diego twice repass.
What these gentlemen each confessed
Heaven and the Church only knows. At best
The case was a bad one. How to deal
With Sin as a Ghost, they couldn't but feel
Was an awful thing. Till a certain Fray
Humbly offered to show the way.
And the way was this. Did I say before
That the Fray was a stranger? No, Senor?
Strange! very strange! I should have said
That the very week that the Don lay dead
He came among us. Bread he broke
Silent, nor ever to one he spoke.
So he had vowed it! Below his brows
His face was hidden. There are such vows!
Strange! are they not? You do not use
Snuff? A bad habit!
Well, the views
Of the Fray were these: that the penance done
By the caballeros was right; but one
Was due from the CAUSE, and that, in brief,
Was Dona Dolores Gomez, chief,
And Inez, Sanchicha, Concepcion,
And Carmen,—well, half the girls in town
On his tablets the Friar had written down.
These were to come on a certain day
And ask at the hands of the pious Fray
For absolution. That done, small fear
But the shade of Diego would disappear.
They came; each knelt in her turn and place
To the pious Fray with his hidden face
And voiceless lips, and each again
Took back her soul freed from spot or stain,
Till the Dona Inez, with eyes downcast
And a tear on their fringes, knelt her last.
And then—perhaps that her voice was low
From fear or from shame—the monks said so—
But the Fray leaned forward, when, presto! all
Were thrilled by a scream, and saw her fall
Fainting beside the confessional.
And so was the ghost of Diego laid
As the Fray had said. Never more his shade
Was seen at San Gabriel's Mission. Eh!
The girl interests you? I dare say!
"Nothing," said she, when they brought her to—
"Only a faintness!" They spoke more true
Who said 'twas a stubborn soul. But then—
Women are women, and men are men!
So, to return. As I said before,
Having got the wolf, by the same high law
We saved the lamb in the wolf's own jaw,
And that's my moral. The tale, I fear,
But poorly told. Yet it strikes me here
Is stuff for a moral. What's your view?
You smile, Don Pancho. Ah! that's like you!