| |
Concepcion de Arguello
I. LOOKING seaward, o’er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and quaint, | |
| By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint,— | |
| |
| Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed, | |
| On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel’s golden reed; | |
| |
| All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed away, | 5 |
| And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day. | |
| |
| Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering eye,— | |
| Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer by; | |
| |
| Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of gold | |
| With the plain and homespun present, and a love that ne’er grows old; | 10 |
| |
| Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner dust,— | |
| Listen to the simple story of a woman’s love and trust. | |
| |
II. Count von Resanoff, the Russian, envoy of the mighty Czar, | |
| Stood beside the deep embrasures where the brazen cannon are; | |
| |
| He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene debate | 15 |
| On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state; | |
| |
| He, from grave provincial magnates, oft had turned to talk apart | |
| With the Commandante’s daughter, on the questions of the heart, | |
| |
| Until points of gravest import yielded slowly, one by one, | |
| And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun; | 20 |
| |
| Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, | |
| He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar; | |
| |
| Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothèd bade adieu, | |
| And, from sallyport and gateway, north the Russian eagles flew. | |
| |
III. Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are, | 25 |
| Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of the Czar; | |
| |
| Day by day on wall and bastion beat the hollow empty breeze,— | |
| Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling seas; | |
| |
| Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty leather cloaks,— | |
| Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing plain of oaks; | 30 |
| |
| Till the rains came, and far-breaking, on the fierce southwester tost, | |
| Dashed the whole long coast with color, and then vanished and were lost. | |
| |
| So each year the seasons shifted,—wet and warm and drear and dry; | |
| Half a year of clouds and flowers,—half a year of dust and sky. | |
| |
| Still it brought no ship nor message,—brought no tidings ill nor meet, | 35 |
| For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair and sweet. | |
| |
| Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears beside: | |
| “He will come,” the flowers whispered; “Come no more,” the dry hills sighed. | |
| |
| Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning breeze,— | |
| Still she lost him with the folding of the great white-tented seas; | 40 |
| |
| Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive brown, | |
| And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet lashes down; | |
| |
| Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied caress, | |
| And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress. | |
| |
| Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are, | 45 |
| Comforted the maid with proverbs,—wisdom gathered from afar; | |
| |
| Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each | |
| As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech: | |
| |
| “‘Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he’; | |
| ‘Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree’; | 50 |
| |
| “‘He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall have flies’; | |
| ‘In the end God grinds the miller’; ‘In the dark the mole has eyes’; | |
| |
| “‘He whose father is Alcalde, of his trial hath no fear,’— | |
| And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his conduct clear.” | |
| |
| Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it would teach | 55 |
| Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech; | |
| |
| And on “Concha,” “Conchitita,” and “Conchita” he would dwell | |
| With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well. | |
| |
| So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in doubt, | |
| Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and went out. | 60 |
| |
IV. Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately cavalcade, | |
| Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid; | |
| |
| Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport; | |
| Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court. | |
| |
| Vainly then at Concha’s lattice,—vainly as the idle wind, | 65 |
| Rose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth too kind; | |
| |
| Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and fleet, | |
| Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their mustang’s feet; | |
| |
| So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay serapes blazed, | |
| Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying hoofs had raised. | 70 |
| |
| Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, with patient mien, | |
| The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull routine,— | |
| |
| Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone, | |
| Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary monotone. | |
| |
V. Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle breeze, | 75 |
| Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas; | |
| |
| Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure decay; | |
| And St. George’s cross was lifted in the port of Monterey; | |
| |
| And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gayly drest, | |
| All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveller and guest. | 80 |
| |
| Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set, | |
| And exchanged congratulation with the English baronet; | |
| |
| Till the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and wine, | |
| Some one spoke of Concha’s lover,—heedless of the warning sign. | |
| |
| Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson: “Speak no ill of him, I pray— | 85 |
| He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this day. | |
| |
| “Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a fractious horse. | |
| Left a sweetheart too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, of course! | |
| |
| “Lives she yet?” A death-like silence fell on banquet, guests, and hall, | |
| And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of all. | 90 |
| |
| Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the nun’s white hood; | |
| Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken where it stood. | |
| |
| “Lives she yet?” Sir George repeated. All were hushed as Concha drew | |
| Closer yet her nun’s attire. “Señor, pardon, she died too!” | |
| |
