East and West: Poems

by Bret Harte

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."