Choice Specimens of American Literature, and Literary Reader Part 69

Kind was my friend who, in the Eastern land, Remembered me with such a gracious hand, And sent this Moorish Crescent which has been Worn on the tawny bosom of a queen.

No more it sinks and rises in unrest To the soft music of her heathen breast; No barbarous chief shall bow before it more, No turbaned slave shall envy and adore!

I place beside this relic of the Sun A cross of Cedar brought from Lebanon, Once 'borne, perchance, by some pale monk who trod The desert to Jerusalem--and his G.o.d!

Here do they lie, two symbols of two creeds, Each meaning something to our human needs, Both stained with blood, and sacred made by faith, By tears, and prayers, and martyrdom, and death.

That for the Moslem is, but this for me!

The waning Crescent lacks divinity: It gives me dreams of battles, and the woes Of women shut in hushed seraglios.

But when this Cross of simple wood I see, The Star of Bethlehem s.h.i.+nes again for me, And glorious visions break upon my gloom-- The patient Christ, and Mary at the Tomb!

[Footnote 102: Born in New Hamps.h.i.+re, but long connected with the press in New York. Has produced several volumes of poetry of unusual beauty and finish.]

=_Francis Bret Harte._=

From his "Poems."

=_428._= d.i.c.kENS IN CAMP.

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river ran below; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow.

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tints of health, On haggard face, and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth;

Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A h.o.a.rded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure, To hear the tale anew;

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of "Little Nell."

Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy,--for the reader Was youngest of them all,-- But, as he read, from cl.u.s.tering pine and cedar, A silence seemed to fall.

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, Listened in every spray, While the whole camp, with "Nell" on English meadows, Wandered, and lost their way.

And so in mountain solitudes--o'ertaken As by some spell divine-- Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine.

Lost is that camp I and wasted all its fire: And he who wrought that spell?-- Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell!

Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills.

And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths intwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,-- This spray of Western pine!

From "East and West Poems."

=_429._= THE TWO s.h.i.+PS.

As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain's crest, Looking over the ultimate sea, In the gloom of the mountain a s.h.i.+p lies at rest, And one sails away from the lea: One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track, With pennant and sheet flowing free; One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback,-- The s.h.i.+p that is waiting for me!

But lo, in the distance the clouds break away!

The Gate's glowing portals I see; And I hear from the outgoing s.h.i.+p in the bay The song of the sailors in glee: So I think of the luminous footprints that bore The comfort o'er dark Galilee, And wait for the signal to go to the sh.o.r.e, To the s.h.i.+p that is waiting for me.

=_Charles Dimitry,[103] 1838-._=

=_430._= "THE SERGEANT'S STORY."

Our army lay, At break of day, A full league from the foe away.

At set of sun, The battle done, We cheered our triumph, dearly won.

All night before, We marked the roar Of hostile guns that on us bore; And 'here and there, The sudden blare Of fitful bugles smote the air.

No idle word The quiet stirred Among us as the morning neared; And brows were bent, As silent went Unto its post each regiment.

Blank broke the day, And wan and gray The drifting clouds went on their way.

So sad the morn, Our colors torn, Upon the ramparts drooped forlorn!

At early sun, The vapors dun Were lifted by a nearer gun; At stroke of nine, Auspicious sign The sun shone out along the line.

Then loud and clear, From cannoneer And rifleman arose a cheer; For as the gray Mists cleared away, We saw the charging foe's array.

[Footnote 103: Of a Louisiana family: is considered one of the most promising of the young writers of the South. The present is a favorable specimen of the poetry of the secession writers.]

=_John Hay._=[104]

From "Pike County Ballads."

=_431._= THE PRAIRIE.

The skies are blue above my head, The prairie green below, And flickering o'er the tufted gra.s.s The s.h.i.+fting shadows go, Vague-sailing, where the feathery clouds Fleck white the tranquil skies, Black javelins darting where aloft The whirring pheasant flies.

A glimmering plain in drowsy trance The dim horizon bounds, Where all the air is resonant With sleepy summer sounds,-- The life that sings among the flowers, The lisping of the breeze, The hot cicada's sultry cry, The murmurous dream of bees.

The b.u.t.terfly--a flying flower-- Wheels swift in flas.h.i.+ng rings, And flutters round his quiet kin With brave flame-mottled wings.

The wild Pinks burst in crimson fire, The Phlox' bright cl.u.s.ters s.h.i.+ne, And Prairie-cups are swinging free To spill their airy wine.

Far in the East, like low-hung clouds The waving woodlands lie; Far in the West, the glowing plain Melts warmly in the sky; No accent wounds the reverent air, No foot-print dints the sod,-- Lone in the light the prairie lies, Rapt in a dream of G.o.d.