Complete Poetical Works by Bret Harte Part 30

When the weather is pleasant, you frequently meet A white-headed man slowly pacing the street; His trembling hand shading his lack-l.u.s.tre eye, Half blind with continually scanning the sky.

Rumor points him as some astronomical sage, Re-perusing by day the celestial page; But the reader, sagacious, will recognize Brown, Trying vainly to conjure his lost sweetheart down, And learn the stern moral this story must teach, That Genius may lift its love out of its reach.

A LEGEND OF COLOGNE

Above the bones St. Ursula owns, And those of the virgins she chaperons; Above the boats, And the bridge that floats, And the Rhine and the steamers' smoky throats; Above the chimneys and quaint-tiled roofs, Above the clatter of wheels and hoofs; Above Newmarket's open s.p.a.ce, Above that consecrated place Where the genuine bones of the Magi seen are, And the dozen shops of the real Farina; Higher than even old Hohestra.s.se, Whose houses threaten the timid pa.s.ser,-- Above them all, Through scaffolds tall, And spires like delicate limbs in splinters, The great Cologne's Cathedral stones Climb through the storms of eight hundred winters.

Unfinished there, In high mid-air The towers halt like a broken prayer; Through years belated, Unconsummated, The hope of its architect quite frustrated.

Its very youth They say, forsooth, With a quite improper purpose mated; And every stone With a curse of its own Instead of that sermon Shakespeare stated, Since the day its choir, Which all admire, By Cologne's Archbishop was consecrated.

Ah! THAT was a day, One well might say, To be marked with the largest, whitest stone To be found in the towers of all Cologne!

Along the Rhine, From old Rheinstein, The people flowed like their own good wine.

From Rudesheim, And Geisenheim, And every spot that is known to rhyme; From the famed Cat's Castle of St. Goarshausen, To the pictured roofs of a.s.smannshausen, And down the track, From quaint Schwalbach To the cl.u.s.tering tiles of Bacharach; From Bingen, hence To old Coblentz: From every castellated crag, Where the robber chieftains kept their "swag,"

The folk flowed in, and Ober-Ca.s.sel Shone with the pomp of knight and va.s.sal; And pouring in from near and far, As the Rhine to its bosom draws the Ahr, Or takes the arm of the sober Mosel, So in Cologne, knight, squire, and losel, Choked up the city's gates with men From old St. Stephen to Zint Marjen.

What had they come to see? Ah me!

I fear no glitter of pageantry, Nor sacred zeal For Church's weal, Nor faith in the virgins' bones to heal; Nor childlike trust in frank confession Drew these, who, dyed in deep transgression, Still in each nest On every crest Kept stolen goods in their possession; But only their gout For something new, More rare than the "roast" of a wandering Jew; Or--to be exact-- To see--in fact-- A Christian soul, in the very act Of being d.a.m.ned, secundum artem, By the devil, before a soul could part 'em.

For a rumor had flown Throughout Cologne That the church, in fact, was the devil's own; That its architect (Being long "suspect") Had confessed to the Bishop that he had wrecked Not only his OWN soul, but had lost The VERY FIRST CHRISTIAN SOUL that crossed The sacred threshold: and all, in fine, For that very beautiful design Of the wonderful choir They were pleased to admire.

And really, he must be allowed to say-- To speak in a purely business way-- That, taking the ruling market prices Of souls and churches, in such a crisis It would be shown-- And his Grace must own-- It was really a BARGAIN for Cologne!

Such was the tale That turned cheeks pale With the thought that the enemy might prevail, And the church doors snap With a thunderclap On a Christian soul in that devil's trap.

But a wiser few, Who thought that they knew Cologne's Archbishop, replied, "Pooh, pooh!

Just watch him and wait, And as sure as fate, You'll find that the Bishop will give checkmate."

One here might note How the popular vote, As shown in all legends and anecdote, Declares that a breach Of trust to o'erreach The devil is something quite proper for each.

And, really, if you Give the devil his due In spite of the proverb--it's something you'll rue.

But to lie and deceive him, To use and to leave him, From Job up to Faust is the way to receive him, Though no one has heard It ever averred That the "Father of Lies" ever yet broke HIS word, But has left this position, In every tradition, To be taken alone by the "truth-loving" Christian!

Bom! from the tower!

It is the hour!

The host pours in, in its pomp and power Of banners and pyx, And high crucifix, And crosiers and other processional sticks, And no end of Marys In quaint reliquaries, To gladden the souls of all true antiquaries; And an Osculum Pacis (A myth to the ma.s.ses Who trusted their bones more to mail and cuira.s.ses)-- All borne by the throng Who are marching along To the square of the Dom with processional song, With the flaring of dips, And bending of hips, And the chanting of hundred perfunctory lips; And some good little boys Who had come up from Neuss And the Quirinuskirche to show off their voice: All march to the square Of the great Dom, and there File right and left, leaving alone and quite bare A covered sedan, Containing--so ran The rumor--the victim to take off the ban.

They have left it alone, They have sprinkled each stone Of the porch with a sanctified Eau de Cologne, Guaranteed in this case To disguise every trace Of a sulphurous presence in that sacred place.

Two Carmelites stand On the right and left hand Of the covered sedan chair, to wait the command Of the prelate to throw Up the cover and show The form of the victim in terror below.

There's a pause and a prayer, Then the signal, and there-- Is a WOMAN!--by all that is good and is fair!

A woman! and known To them all--one must own TOO WELL KNOWN to the many, to-day to be shown As a martyr, or e'en As a Christian! A queen Of pleasance and revel, of glitter and sheen; So bad that the worst Of Cologne spake up first, And declared 'twas an outrage to suffer one curst, And already a fief Of the Satanic chief, To martyr herself for the Church's relief.

But in vain fell their sneer On the mob, who I fear On the whole felt a strong disposition to cheer.

A woman! and there She stands in the glare Of the pitiless sun and their pitying stare,-- A woman still young, With garments that clung To a figure, though wasted with pa.s.sion and wrung With remorse and despair, Yet still pa.s.sing fair, With jewels and gold in her dark shining hair, And cheeks that are faint 'Neath her dyes and her paint.

A woman most surely--but hardly a saint!

She moves. She has gone From their pity and scorn; She has mounted alone The first step of stone, And the high swinging doors she wide open has thrown, Then pauses and turns, As the altar blaze burns On her cheeks, and with one sudden gesture she spurns Archbishop and Prior, Knight, ladye, and friar, And her voice rings out high from the vault of the choir.

"O men of Cologne!

What I WAS ye have known; What I AM, as I stand here, One knoweth alone.

If it be but His will I shall pa.s.s from Him still, Lost, curst, and degraded, I reckon no ill; If still by that sign Of His anger divine One soul shall be saved, He hath blessed more than mine.

O men of Cologne!

Stand forth, if ye own A faith like to this, or more fit to atone, And take ye my place, And G.o.d give you grace To stand and confront Him, like me, face to face!"

She paused. Yet aloof They all stand. No reproof Breaks the silence that fills the celestial roof.

One instant--no more-- She halts at the door, Then enters!... A flood from the roof to the floor Fills the church rosy red.

She is gone!

But instead, Who is this leaning forward with glorified head And hands stretched to save?

Sure this is no slave Of the Powers of Darkness, with aspect so brave!

They press to the door, But too late! All is o'er.

Naught remains but a woman's form p.r.o.ne on the floor; But they still see a trace Of that glow in her face That they saw in the light of the altar's high blaze On the image that stands With the babe in its hands Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands.

A Te Deum sung, A censer high swung, With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung, Proclaim that the CURSE IS REMOVED--and no worse Is the Dom for the trial--in fact, the REVERSE; For instead of their losing A soul in abusing The Evil One's faith, they gained one of his choosing.

Thus the legend is told: You will find in the old Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold In iron and bra.s.s, In gown and cuira.s.s, The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Ma.s.s; And high o'er the rest, With her babe at her breast, The image of Mary Madonna the blest.

But you look round in vain, On each high pictured pane, For the woman most worthy to walk in her train.

Yet, standing to-day O'er the dust and the clay, 'Midst the ghosts of a life that has long pa.s.sed away, With the slow-sinking sun Looking softly upon That stained-gla.s.s procession, I scarce miss the one That it does not reveal, For I know and I feel That these are but shadows--the woman was real!

THE TALE OF A PONY

Name of my heroine, simply "Rose;"

Surname, tolerable only in prose; Habitat, Paris,--that is where She resided for change of air; Aetat twenty; complexion fair; Rich, good looking, and debonnaire; Smarter than Jersey lightning. There!

That's her photograph, done with care.

In Paris, whatever they do besides, EVERY LADY IN FULL DRESS RIDES!

Moire antiques you never meet Sweeping the filth of a dirty street But every woman's claim to ton Depends upon The team she drives, whether phaeton, Landau, or britzka. Hence it's plain That Rose, who was of her toilet vain, Should have a team that ought to be Equal to any in all Paris!

"Bring forth the horse!" The commissaire Bowed, and brought Miss Rose a pair Leading an equipage rich and rare.

Why doth that lovely lady stare?

Why? The tail of the off gray mare Is bobbed, by all that's good and fair!

Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear, Scarcely showing as much back hair As Tam O'Shanter's "Meg,"--and there, Lord knows, she'd little enough to spare.

That stare and frown the Frenchman knew, But did as well-bred Frenchmen do: Raised his shoulders above his crown, Joined his thumbs with the fingers down, And said, "Ah, Heaven!"--then, "Mademoiselle, Delay one minute, and all is well!"

He went--returned; by what good chance These things are managed so well in France I cannot say, but he made the sale, And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail.

All that is false in this world below Betrays itself in a love of show; Indignant Nature hides her lash In the purple-black of a dyed mustache; The shallowest fop will trip in French, The would-be critic will misquote Trench; In short, you're always sure to detect A sham in the things folks most affect; Bean-pods are noisiest when dry, And you always wink with your weakest eye: And that's the reason the old gray mare Forever had her tail in the air, With flourishes beyond compare, Though every whisk Incurred the risk Of leaving that sensitive region bare.

She did some things that you couldn't but feel She wouldn't have done had her tail been real.

Champs Elysees: time, past five.

There go the carriages,--look alive!

Everything that man can drive, Or his inventive skill contrive,-- Yankee buggy or English "chay,"

Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coupe, A desobligeante quite bulky (French idea of a Yankee sulky); Band in the distance playing a march, Footman standing stiff as starch; Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch- Bishops, and there together range Sous-lieutenants and cent-gardes (strange Way these soldier-chaps make change), Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames, With unp.r.o.nounceable awful names; Laces tremble and ribbons flout, Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout-- Bless us! what is the row about?

Ah! here comes Rosy's new turnout!

Smart! You bet your life 'twas that!

Nifty! (short for magnificat).

Mulberry panels,--heraldic spread,-- Ebony wheels picked out with red, And two gray mares that were thoroughbred: No wonder that every dandy's head Was turned by the turnout,--and 'twas said That Caskowhisky (friend of the Czar), A very good whip (as Russians are), Was tied to Rosy's triumphal car, Entranced, the reader will understand, By "ribbons" that graced her head and hand.