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GIFT OF 
 
The Call of California 
 
 And Other Poems &f the West 
 
 Francis Barton 
 

THE CALL OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 And Other Poems 
 of the West 
 
 FRANCIS BORTON 
 
 FOURTH EDITION 
 Revised and Enlarged 
 
 RIVERSIDE :: :: CALIFORNIA 
 1921 
 
Copyright, 1917 and 1921, by 
 Francis Borton 
 
 From the 
 
 STUDIO OF CLYDE BROWNE, PRINTER 
 Lot Angrier 
 
en ffirlrn 
 
 444236 
 
THE CALL OF CALIFORNIA 
 
HE CALL OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 And Other Poems of the West 
 By 
 
 FRANCIS BORTON 
 
 The Call of California 
 
 HAVE wandered far away, 
 Many a long and weary day, 
 
 Through the scenes of which I 
 
 dreamed in days of yore ; 
 But I ve turned at last to rest 
 In the land I love the best, 
 
 And it s California now, forevermore, 
 On the margin of her shining, golden 
 
 shore, 
 
 In the land of birds and blossoms, ever 
 more. 
 
 CHORUS 
 
 Oh ! my California land, 
 
 Here I pledge my heart and hand, 
 
 For I love but you forever, love you true ; 
 With the roses in your hair 
 And your lark-songs ev ry where, 
 
 Underneath your dreamy skies of cloud 
 less blue. 
 

 The Call of California 
 
 From your Missions, old and gray, 
 At the crimson close of day 
 
 I can hear the bells a-ringing, soft and 
 
 low; 
 
 While the gay guitar of Spain 
 Lends a plaintive, sweet refrain 
 
 From the dim, romantic days of long 
 
 ago, 
 Long ago, long ago, long ago, 
 
 From the Padres and the Dons of long 
 ago. 
 
 From Sierras, thunder-riven, 
 Shadowy peaks arise to heaven 
 
 Hooded saints, whose names are bene- 
 
 dicite ; 
 
 From the canon s purple rim 
 Downward rolls their matin hymn 
 
 Over golden-fruited valleys to the sea ; 
 
 To the murm ring pines beside the shin 
 ing sea, 
 
 Till it mingles with the music of the sea. 
 
 In this sunny land of mine, 
 With its honey, oil and wine, 
 
 And its poppy fields aflame with living 
 
 gold; 
 
 In this Eden of the earth 
 God is bringing to the birth 
 
 Greater wonders than He wrought in 
 
 days of old; 
 
 In the bold days of old, the days of gold, 
 Than He fashioned through the Argo 
 nauts of old. 
 
 (eight) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 We have wealth upon the seas, 
 Health in every fragrant breeze, 
 
 Rivers bursting from the mountain s 
 
 cloven crest; 
 
 We have leagues of yellow grain 
 Many a cattle-covered plain 
 
 In this orange-blossom kingdom of the 
 
 West, 
 In the free, unfettered, giant-hearted 
 
 West, 
 
 Neath the blue and golden banner of the 
 West. 
 
 And it s where I want to be, 
 California s calling me 
 
 Here to stay forever, never more to roam ; 
 Calling me to come and rest 
 On her glowing, tawny breast, 
 
 When her fields of bloom are like the 
 
 billow s foam; 
 Where the silv ry olives whisper-welcome 
 
 home; 
 
 While along the hills the doves are call 
 ing home. 
 
 (nine) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 At the Old Mission 
 
 C HERE S a sober hush in these solemn 
 woods. 
 
 There s mystery in the air, 
 That seems to pour from the caves of death ; 
 You can feel it everywhere. 
 
 A clear stream brawls through the piney 
 
 dell, 
 
 Where the dove mourns all the day: 
 And the breeze dies down to a whisper 
 
 here 
 Where Padres used to pray. 
 
 The waters gush from the broken fount, 
 
 But sadly, quietly now; 
 For gone are the monks who led them 
 forth, 
 
 The turf is green o er their brow. 
 
 The lizard slides on the tottering walls, 
 
 That were once so brave and strong; 
 While the very birds, round these ruins 
 gray, 
 
 Raise but a plaintive song. 
 The cells where brown Franciscans dwelt 
 
 Are ceiled jyith dank, dark moss; 
 So deeply the^tooth of Time hath gone 
 
 We can scarcely find a cross! 
 The cross, the name and the date grow dim, 
 
 Only the faith remains: 
 The monk departs, but his faith endures 
 
 Through the years with their beating 
 rains. 
 
 (ten) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 Seventeen hundred and something I find 
 In a cell half buried by leaves: 
 
 A pine tree shoots from the knee-worn 
 
 stones. 
 And you d almost say it grieves! 
 
 The new must prevail the old give place 
 
 And yet oh heart of mine 
 There is something that speaks to me out of 
 the Past, 
 
 When I stand at this ruined shrine. 
 
 That stirs my heart to its uttermost depths, 
 But the reason I do not know, 
 
 When I muse on these symbols of faith and 
 
 love 
 From the years of long ago. 
 
 Here were gardens of flowers from far-off 
 Spain, 
 
 The olive, the palm and the vine; 
 Where bees and butterflies find today 
 
 But sunlight s golden wine; 
 
 Here bells that clashed in the old gray 
 towers; 
 
 And voices of prayer and praise; 
 Where brown hands wrought in glad content 
 
 In those dim, forgotten days. 
 
 All this and more that may never return, 
 While the tides march up and down; 
 
 The cowl and the cord, and the sandal shoon 
 And the Padres robes of brown. 
 
 (eleven) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 But ever the best of it all shall bide, 
 While rains slant in from the sea; 
 
 The gentleness, kindness and patient faith 
 Live yet for you and me. 
 
 And long as the mercy of God shall pour 
 
 Our sea-fogs from His hands. 
 Will dreams and deeds of the "Mission 
 days" 
 
 Be part of the lore of these lands. 
 
 (twelve) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 Junipero Serra 
 
 HEN weaklings feared and doubted, 
 While unfaith scoffed and flouted. 
 Thou still didst trust, 
 And in the dust, 
 Prone on thy face, didst pray, 
 Till, lo! the sudden ray 
 Of hope, and ev ry lip. 
 Rejoicing cried: "The ship!" 
 Deep in eternal granite be it graved 
 How, in that hour, was California saved. 
 
 T v v 
 
 Junipero Serra sleeps today 
 By the mission walls at Carmel Bay; 
 His task well done, he takes his rest, 
 With thin hands crossed on his saintly 
 
 breast : 
 
 While brown hills welcome the winter rains, 
 Or lark songs ripple o er poppied plains; 
 His dreams and deeds in the days of old 
 Are part of the lore of our land of gold. 
 
 (thirteen) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 The West 
 
 LONG our blue Sierra s wall, 
 
 No moldering castles rest; 
 But there the Redman s Thunder-bird 
 Hath built his lonely nest. 
 
 No hoary donjons, foul with crime, 
 
 Oppress the good, clean sod 
 Where live-oaks meet, with knotted arms, 
 
 The blazing bolts of God. 
 
 Instead of doubtful titles stamped 
 On pride s dim vellumed page. 
 
 The sullen grizzly here hath left 
 The claw marks of his rage. 
 
 No silken halls, no softness here, 
 
 No courtiers, false as hell; 
 But from the echoing granite gorge 
 
 The panther s deadly yell! 
 
 Here, laws unflattering, primal, harsh ; 
 
 The desert s scorching breath; 
 Here, thorn, fang, claw and scalping knife- 
 
 The crimson trail of death! 
 
 And what are man-made kings and courts, 
 
 With cheap, brief honors set, 
 Where, in the red, raw clay of things, 
 
 God s thumb-prints yet are wet? 
 
 (fourteen) 
 
Other Poem 3 of the West 
 
 Amid these awful solitudes. 
 
 With skies so still and blue, 
 Are held such deadly, fierce debates 
 
 As minstrels never knew. 
 
 Here howling winds of ocean meet 
 
 The wild winds of the sky, 
 While vast, dim shapes from desert wastes 
 
 Their spirals wheel on high. 
 
 Cliff calls to cliff; th avalanche 
 
 Replies in thunders loud, 
 While shafts of blinding lightning split 
 
 The swirling, inky cloud, 
 
 That bursts, and ploughs the mountains 
 
 down, 
 
 The salt plain s hissing sands, 
 Till fresh-torn canon gulfs reveal 
 Earth s granite swaddling bands! 
 * * * 
 
 And here are men, sons of thy strength, 
 
 Oh, western land of mine, 
 Gay, tender, careless, swift and wild, 
 
 But upright as the pine. 
 
 Serene, clear-eyed, of Spartan speech. 
 
 The breed of men out here, 
 Who ve trailed with hunger, thirst and 
 death, 
 
 But never met with fear. 
 
 The wide, free winds are in their hearts, 
 The deep-voiced torrent s roar, 
 
 (fifteen) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 The solemn stillness of the woods, 
 Beside the lonely shore. 
 
 They need no finger-posts for faith; 
 
 No self -sure go-between; 
 They look God in the face and smile; 
 
 Their rugged hearts are clean. 
 
 They pluck the gray wolf from his den; 
 
 They tire the grizzly down, 
 Or peacefully their harvests reap 
 
 Along the foothills brown. 
 
 They beat the mountain into dust; 
 
 They burst its ribs apart; 
 Their laughter rings Homeric when 
 
 They clutch its golden heart! 
 
 Alone they win the chill, still heights, 
 
 By mountain sheep untrod; 
 They gaze abroad, they bare their brows 
 
 And shout, "Hurrah for God!" 
 
 Oh, little folk, who cringe and hedge. 
 
 Who cannot understand, 
 They tread a broader trail than yours 
 
 Across our Sunset Land, 
 
 Where man is kin to peak and star, 
 J he wide P lain s lonely space; 
 Where oft they ride so close to God 
 They meet Him face to face ! 
 
 (sixteen) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 Mt. Rubidoux at Dawn 
 
 HE mocking birds are singing in the 
 
 euoalvptus tops, 
 It s early in the morning, and the fog is 
 
 everywhere ; 
 The sounds of nature s wakening come to us 
 
 tunefully 
 All softly muffled by the misty air. 
 
 The "cotton tails" are hopping in the barley 
 
 by the road ; 
 Behind a bush the clucking quail are 
 
 bunched about to fly; 
 The liquid, melting melody of joyous meadow 
 
 larks 
 
 Like silvery bubbles floats along the sky. 
 The "ragged robin" roses spill their nectar 
 
 on the grass 
 Before the robber bees, who love the sun, 
 
 are out of bed: 
 While drowsy poppies wait to pour libations 
 
 to their lord, 
 When in the East he rears his radiant 
 
 head. 
 The shimmering, emerald laces of the 
 
 queenly pepper tree 
 Are strewn with dewy pearls and fringed 
 
 with flakes of scarlet flame; 
 While the orange, dark and lustrous, in her 
 
 robes of green and gold, 
 Hath sent through all the earth this val 
 ley s name. 
 
 (seventeen) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 The golden-dusted mustard pours its fra 
 grance down the hill. 
 To where, in marshy tule beds, the noisy 
 
 blackbirds throng: 
 The jangle of the cattle bells comes faintly 
 
 from below 
 Where the lazy Santa Ana rolls along. 
 
 How sweet the button-sage s breath upon 
 
 the quiet air; 
 How fresh and clean the odor from the 
 
 haunting, whispering pines: 
 While, spread in wild profusion, where the 
 
 gray old boulders cling, 
 The splendor of the morning-glory vines ! 
 
 But now the fog is ebbing fast along Juru- 
 
 pa s hills, 
 As over San Jacinto gleam the banners of 
 
 the sun: 
 Far up on foot-worn Rubidoux a shining 
 
 cross appears, 
 
 The symbol that the earth s long night is 
 done. 
 
 (eighteen) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 The Mission Inn 
 
 its ivied walls and .its cloistered halls 
 And a coolness and quietness all its own; 
 From its shady bowers to its tuneful towers 
 It s a fair dream fashioned in good gray 
 
 stone ; 
 
 With a high ideal everywhere, 
 With a fineness of sentiment in the air. 
 And music that soothes like the soul 
 of prayer. 
 
 There s bread and meat for a man must 
 
 eat 
 But there s more than that to make one 
 
 whole : 
 
 The builder s dream had a broader theme 
 In this caravansarai for the soul. 
 "Sursum corda, "we seem to hear 
 From good St. Francis, standing near, 
 "Lift up your hearts, and make good 
 cheer." 
 
 The saints are gone, yet they still live on; 
 
 Still is their gentle influence felt; 
 From niche and nook they kindly look, 
 As when Junipero Serra knelt 
 
 And told to Indians swart and wild 
 The wondrous tale of the dear Christ- 
 child 
 And the love of Mary, the mother mild. 
 
 When the day grows dim. and the vesper 
 hymn 
 
 (nineteen) . 
 
The Call of Californi 
 
 So tunefully sounds in the silvery chimes, 
 
 I seem to hear far away and clear 
 
 Voices that speak from the olden times: 
 
 Of sacrifice, better than gold or fame, 
 
 Of love that burned like a fragrant 
 
 flame 
 Till my selfish heart is faint for shame. 
 
 Not for me alone is this sermon in stone, 
 Nor only to me do these mute things 
 
 speak : 
 
 Full many a heart has received its part, 
 The quiet tear glistened on many a 
 
 cheek ; 
 
 Many a pilgrim has paused to say: 
 "I m glad my heart ever found the way 
 To the Mission Inn at the close of day. 1 
 
 (twenty) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 Down the Grade with "Bob" 
 
 (1874) 
 
 >T<E VE topped the grade, now for the 
 
 Vly other side; 
 
 Sling the buckskin in em let er slide. 
 
 We re full of Frisco folks and tenderfeet 
 That wants some early stagin here s their 
 treat. 
 
 Straighten them tugs don t let em drag 
 
 the dust 
 Hi there! you trottin pinto, lope er bust. 
 
 A bunch of broncs, and hellions every one- 
 Hoop-la, git out-fergit yer shoulder s skun. 
 
 Oh we re all right: my lady, dry yer tears, 
 Sit down, my lord, and chase away yer 
 fears ; 
 
 The road is twelve feet wide from bluff to 
 
 ledge 
 With manzaniller strung along the edge. 
 
 Why. man alive, a Chinymun at night 
 Could strike the trail here why it s out o 
 sight! 
 
 Git out p here you leaders, switch yer 
 
 tails, 
 Yer haulin Uncle Sammy s sacred mails; 
 
 Stretch them there traces, limber up yer 
 
 heels, 
 No moseyin er I ll show you how it feels. 
 
 (twenty-one) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 No bitin now you lop-eared antelope 
 You old kyoty bust it down the slope; 
 
 Jump through them collars hump yer 
 
 backs n git 
 You haven t turned a hair now chaw the 
 
 bit. 
 
 Thanks, stranger, yes, I surely guess I 
 
 could 
 Smoke a cigar-gimme a light-that s good; 
 
 There haint no tin-foil cabbage leaves to 
 
 that^ 
 A Mexican cigar I ll bet my hat! 
 
 You see, I used tuh run em through, you 
 
 know 
 Over the Rio Grande from Mexico, 
 
 Some years before that old wheel plug was 
 
 born 
 But here s our hangout Gabriel toot yer 
 
 horn; 
 
 Grubstake Junction, where they ll treat you 
 
 white, 
 The bar-room s blazin strangers, will you 
 
 light? 
 
 (twenty-two) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 The Road by Panama 
 
 E old road, the gold road, the road by 
 Panama, 
 
 As lurid, ghastly as the path that Dante 
 dimly saw, 
 
 Hemmed about by nameless terrors, haunted 
 by alarms, 
 
 The ghosts of treasure-seekers spent, of 
 spectral men-at-arms. 
 
 A narrow way and rugged, wild, where jun 
 gle shadows spread 
 
 O er many a bubbling, slimy pool and hide 
 ous blotch of red. 
 
 Amid its ooze the rotting bones of famished 
 Spanish mules, 
 
 The grinning skulls of picaroons and for 
 tune s cheated fools. 
 
 The venomed snake, the vulture keen, the 
 deadly fly are there, 
 
 And fetid heaps whose breath is death upon 
 the sickly air. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Along the hot, dark forest aisles again we 
 seem to hear 
 
 The rush of feet, the clash of blades, the 
 hoarse-voiced buccaneer, 
 
 The whistle of the slaver s whip, the screams 
 of tortured men, 
 
 Who sink beneath the bloody lash to never 
 rise again; 
 
 The silver-laden, grunting mules, with plun 
 der from Peru, 
 
 (twenty-three) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 The shouts of conquering Cortez men, of 
 
 Drake and Morgan s crew; 
 Pizarro s Spaniards, haggard, weak, with 
 
 fear in every eye, 
 
 Who may not stay nor sleep for ever "on 
 ward" is the cry; 
 Who fear the gloom where glows the 
 
 hounded Indian s sleepless hate, 
 Where mutilated galley-slaves like panthers 
 
 lie in wait; 
 And so full oft they cross themselves, to 
 
 stout San Yago pray, 
 As on they urge with curses foul through 
 
 the hot, weary way, 
 Hugging tight their hard-won spoils and 
 
 fainting with desire 
 To tread the streets of Panama and lap its 
 
 liquid fire; 
 Where painted harpies watch for them, with 
 
 baleful eyes and bold, 
 To strip them clean with iron claws and 
 
 leave them stark and cold. 
 
 Oh! the old road, the gold road, the road by 
 
 Panama, 
 A rosary of every crime, where lawlessness 
 
 was law, 
 Where harvestings of piracies on sea and 
 
 land went by, 
 Thrice cursed treasure black with groans 
 
 and ravished women s cry; 
 The minted sweat and blood of branded, 
 
 scarred, Peruvian slaves, 
 
 (twenty-four) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 The riflings of their temples, yea, the win- 
 no wings of their graves! 
 
 * * * 
 
 And later, by this wild highway, with daunt 
 less hearts aflame, 
 
 The boisterous, bearded Argonauts from 
 California came; 
 
 In motley rags with belts and bags of un 
 stained virgin ore 
 
 Stripped from the shining, granite ribs of 
 Eldorado s shore! 
 
 * * * 
 
 Aye, many a golden trickle ran, through 
 
 many a fearful year 
 To swell the rich Pactolus tide of this Hell s 
 
 gullet here. 
 But all is hushed and quiet now: they 
 
 passed and left no trace, 
 And in the solemn forest shade no eye may 
 
 mark their place. 
 They dreamed their dream, they wrought 
 
 their deed of valor or of shame, 
 To share alike, some few brief years, an 
 
 infamy of fame! 
 
 (twenty-five) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 Mexico 
 
 [HE is circled with lakes, she is shad 
 owed hy mountains, 
 5now-mantled, pine-plumed, under-girded 
 
 with flame; 
 
 She is young, she is old as her sister of Egypt, 
 She is ever, forever, yet never the same. 
 
 Fresh is her cheek as her green curving 
 
 valleys, 
 Care free her heart as her brown babes at 
 
 rest; 
 Bright are her hopes as the eyes of her 
 
 daughters, 
 
 Her passion as fierce as her storms from 
 the West. 
 
 Her story as sad as the gloom of her "northers," 
 Her struggle as epic as ever was told; 
 
 Her heroes are laureled in valor s Valhalla, 
 With coronals woven of nopal and gold. 
 
 Oh, Mexico! heiress of cycles of sorrow, 
 Of jungle-grown hieroglyphs, meaningless 
 now, 
 
 Of histories, cities, dumb, buried forever, 
 Of mysteries dark as the runes on thy brow. 
 
 Glorious with rare carven gems from the ages, 
 
 Waiting the wonderful years yet to be, 
 Clasping thy brown hand we hail thee, our 
 
 sister, 
 
 Thou queen, silver throned by thine opal 
 esque sea. 
 
 (twenty-six) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 The Land of the Arriero 
 
 valleys are deep and mountains 
 are high 
 And the mule-track hangs like a streak in 
 
 the sky 
 Like a vulture s path through the thin, still 
 
 air 
 
 Far over the "hot lands," shimmering there; 
 Where afar and faintly the music swells 
 Of quick-stepping, grey mules silvery bells; 
 Where pine trees yield to the pine-apple s 
 
 gold 
 And billows of bloom o er the earth are 
 
 rolled; 
 Where the trees drip honey, the sod sweats 
 
 death 
 And sucks out your life with its vampire 
 
 breath; 
 Where the warm, green heart of that lotus 
 
 land 
 
 Gives all with a care-free, generous hand, 
 Tis there that the gay arriero s found, 
 Where he takes his ease on his own home 
 
 ground. 
 
 Where cataracts thunder, the parrots scream, 
 And gorgeous, wonderful butterflies gleam, 
 While marvelous birds in their glowing wings 
 Wear the royal splendors of Aztec kings; 
 Where the wild orange drops its acrid fruit 
 Near the strangled, writhing ceiba s root; 
 Where the hiss is heard of the spotted snake 
 
 (twenty-seven) 
 
The Call of Californi 
 
 As iguanas slide through the bamboo brake ; 
 Where the tapir crunches the river reeds 
 And the jaguar leaps as the red deer feeds; 
 And the cayman basks on the sun-baked bar, 
 While life, as you knew it, seems dim and 
 
 far; 
 
 From there do the swart arrieros come, 
 To those mystical beauties blind and dumb. 
 
 They laden their mules with rich, fragrant 
 
 freights : 
 
 Coffee, vanilla, fruits, parrots in crates, 
 Sugar, tobacco, raw liquor in casks, 
 A mouthful of which arriero asks 
 To lighten his heart up the steep, rough road, 
 Neath the scorching sun and the heavy load. 
 
 Lithe as a tigre and tireless of limb, 
 Clean moulded in bronze, ev ry inch of him, 
 Son of the sunland, gay, careless and wild, 
 Aztec, fierce, passionate, nature s own child, 
 His thirty stout mules upward grunting go 
 Over the narrow trail, steady and slow; 
 Snuffing the pathway that clings to the edge 
 Of the sheer down-dropping, slippery ledge; 
 The trail that was known to Cortez of old 
 Who dreamed of dim valleys paven with gold, 
 While crushing the land neath his iron-shod 
 
 heel 
 When the red years rang to the clash of 
 
 steel! 
 
 How silvery sweet ring the mule-bells there, 
 When the dew yet freshens the morning air! 
 
 (twenty-eight) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 How merrily sound the songs of the South, 
 As carelessly flung from the muleteer s 
 
 mouth: 
 
 Songs of the soil, of the heart, of the sun, 
 Of dulce amor or partida won, 
 With many a sighing and ay de mi, 
 In the high-pitched, Mexican nasal key! 
 
 He s a good paisano, I know him well, 
 
 He hopes there s a heaven, is sure there s a 
 
 hell, 
 
 Trusts in the padre, remembers to pray 
 To the blessed saints in his own blind way, 
 And slaves for his amo for scanty pay. 
 He climbs the wild mountains in sun or 
 
 shower 
 And cares for his mules in the darkest 
 
 hour; 
 
 His * amo would grieve for an injured mule, 
 As for him, why, he is only a fool, 
 Like a simple hero of low degree 
 He dies for his charge if need there be 
 And returns to his palm-thatched hut no 
 
 more 
 Where his brown babes roll on the cool, 
 
 dirt floor. 
 
 (twenty-nine) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 A Thunder Storm in Puebla 
 
 EROM morning prayer until mid-af- 
 1& ternoon 
 
 The August sun has scorched us to a swoon; 
 The languid flowers droop, the pepper trees 
 Respond but feebly to the faint, hot breeze. 
 
 The brown hills are a quiver with the heat: 
 Hugging the scanty shade of every street 
 The dogs slink by too spent to scratch or 
 
 bark; 
 Awhile the beggars cease their whine, when 
 
 hark 
 Down from the mountain rolls a long, deep 
 
 roar 
 And wise "Poblanos" shut and bar the door. 
 
 In thrice three credos old Malinche s brow 
 Is swirled in ebon darkness, where but now 
 The southern sun poured down a flood of 
 
 gold 
 O er shattered crag and wrinkled lava fold. 
 
 With tropic fierceness falls th onrushing 
 
 gloom, 
 
 Swiftly the bright day yields its virgin bloom 
 To the marauder, thunder-browed, whose 
 
 power 
 Swells black to heav n in this tempestuous 
 
 hour. 
 
 Now latch the shutters, chain the heavy door, 
 Call to the Virgin, all the saints implore 
 
 (thirty) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 As shouting winds and lightning s crooked 
 
 prong 
 Urge the slow-footed, bellowing clouds along. 
 
 Jesus, Maria, hearken to the rain 
 Flooding the patio while on every pane 
 The hailstones beat the very fiend s tatoo, 
 And every dust-clogged water-spout a-spew! 
 Most Blessed Virgin, we confess our faults, 
 (Maria, vida mia, bring my salts), 
 Where is Francisco, lazy lout, to burn 
 The blessed palm leaves in the incense urn? 
 
 No time for chatter now, nor idle talk, 
 When sulphur-breathing demons near us 
 
 walk, 
 
 "Sweet Guadalupe, help us all today, 
 To thee we pobres pecadores pray." 
 
 Then suddenly, in one long, furious blast, 
 Of lightning, thunder, hail, the storm has 
 
 passed. 
 
 The sun appears, and in the western skies 
 The rainbow path that slopes to Paradise! 
 
 Gone are the dolour, darkness, and the gloom, 
 Gone every thought of an unwelcome tomb: 
 Vaya, mi alma, now the storm is o er, 
 Bid the portero haste, unbar the door, 
 Blow out the candles, we shall not be late, 
 The tandas won t begin till half-past eight. 
 
 (thirty-one) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 Taking the Veil (Mexico) 
 
 unbound hair and brown feet bare, 
 A taper in her hands, 
 Within the gloomy convent church 
 A dark-eyed maiden stands, 
 
 All corpse-like in a clinging shroud, 
 
 A cross upon her breast, 
 The hour hath come to bid farewell 
 
 To all she loveth best. 
 
 Her virgin heart is dry as dust, 
 
 Her face is like the dead; 
 The church hath laid its withering touch 
 
 Upon her fair young head. 
 
 Her thin hand wears a golden band, 
 
 The mystic wedding ring 
 That seals her as the spouse of Christ, 
 
 Her Lover, Bridegroom, King. 
 
 The air is heavy, damp and cold, 
 
 The candles dimly gleam 
 While priests about the altar go 
 
 Like figures in a dream. 
 
 They chant the service for the dead, 
 
 For her so wan and still, 
 With Kyrie eleison 
 
 From boyish voices shrill. 
 
 O! hapless maid, deceived, betrayed, 
 The victim of a vow, 
 
 (thirty-two) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 To wither in a living death, 
 Like Jephtha s daughter now! 
 
 No lover s kiss, no mother s bliss 
 Her frozen heart may know, 
 
 Within the convent s coffin walls 
 Through years of dumb-lipped woe. 
 
 No more on earth may she behold 
 
 Each well-beloved face; 
 No more the circle of the home 
 
 Shall hold for her a place; 
 
 All, all, upon the altar there 
 
 Hath now been sacrificed, 
 And so farewell to life and love, 
 
 Farewell, thou bride of Christ. 
 
 One last wild look at love and life, 
 One shriek, and that is all, 
 
 A doleful bell rings like a knell, 
 The sable curtains fall. 
 
 (thirty -three) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 Old House in Puebla, Mexico 
 
 hundred years are in these walls, 
 These iron-bound doors of oak, 
 Whose rugged strength has oft withstood 
 Sir Robber s shrewdest stroke. 
 
 The knocker wears a demon s head, 
 
 Jesu, and well-away; 
 A goatish devil, bearded, horned, 
 
 Let him who knocketh pray 
 
 , . 
 
 To where above, in battered niche, 
 
 The good St. Francis stands, 
 Marked Christwise in his blessed feet 
 
 And in his loving hands. 
 
 The Moorish front is gay with tiles 
 
 Of yellow, green and blue, 
 Inwrought in cunning, quaint designs 
 
 As ancient craftsmen knew. 
 
 Rude gargoyles grin from jutting eaves, 
 
 A spout of hammered lead 
 Shoots the flat roof s flood to the street 
 
 Through gaping lion s head. 
 
 Above the door an ancient crest, 
 Carved in the old grey stone: 
 
 A tiger couched, a helmet barred, 
 A fist that grips its own! 
 
 They say the house is haunted, cursed, 
 And show a bloody stain 
 
 (thirty-four) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 Linked with a tale of love and gold 
 From the old Spanish Main. 
 
 Great spiders lurk in corners dim, 
 
 Foul bats breed in the wall; 
 At night, when worm-gnawed timbers creak, 
 
 Faint whispers fill the hall, 
 
 From lips of dust, from love betrayed, 
 From woman s vengeful heart, 
 
 Whose clinging curse from these old stones 
 May nevermore depart. 
 
 A Mexican Beggar 
 
 k ECAUSE he was so old, deformed and 
 
 poor, 
 
 Because he bent so meekly his hoar head, 
 Because he bore the dignity of sorrow 
 AS some king begging in a beggar s guise, 
 Because he was so thankful for the trifle 
 Carelessly tossed him from my surplus 
 
 store: 
 
 Because of his bare feet and tattered rags 
 His thin grey locks and utter misery, 
 I rested but uneasily that night, 
 Dreaming of Dives, Lazarus and their lesson. 
 Of creed and church, of apostolic faith, 
 Of orthodox confessions and professions 
 Strange a street beggar should disturb me 
 
 so! 
 
 (thirty-five) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 A Glimpse of Mexico 
 at Home 
 
 E windows frown with heavy bars of 
 iron; 
 
 The great zaguan is like some castle door, 
 Spiked, bolted, chained and solid as the wall, 
 With quaint bronze knocker o er the wicket 
 hung. 
 
 For there were times, whose mem ry still is 
 
 fresh, 
 When great need was of such stout doors as 
 
 these, 
 When bold Sir Robber, loud-voiced, sword 
 
 in hand, 
 Knocked not so gently as we knock today. 
 
 Three centuries are seen in this zaguan 
 
 Of evolution, liberty and law; 
 
 And twenty centuries are in the cry 
 
 Of the portero, fumbling at the bar, 
 
 Who calls quien es? before he slips the 
 
 chain, 
 As porters in the dim days of the Christ. 
 
 Yo Soy, we cry, the old man hears and 
 
 knows 
 
 The accents of his patron s welcome voice. 
 Drops the huge chain, slides back the bar, 
 
 and we 
 Are in the patio of a Mexic home! 
 
 (thirty-six) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 Coolness and rest; a fountain in the midst, 
 Decked with quaint carvings, murmurs 
 
 drowsily; 
 
 The solid, whitened arches all about, 
 Have brought us to the ancient Moorish 
 
 Spain, 
 
 Shutting us from the modern world outside, 
 Into the home life of Cid Campeador! 
 
 Flowers ev rywhere, in Talavera pots, 
 
 In shattered olios, broken sugar moulds, 
 
 While orchids, cactus, bloom in great ox 
 
 horns 
 Hung from rude spikes thrust in the old 
 
 stone wall. 
 
 Chatter of women round the plashing fount, 
 Brown, shirtless ninos creeping in the sun; 
 And over all, laughter and glad content, 
 Happy, though poor, these simple Mexicans. 
 
 Within the house we find the constant lamp 
 Of turnip oil before the Virgin placed, 
 Sweet symbol of a faith that will not die; 
 Chromos of hell and heaven, angels, fiends, 
 The good man borne to glory, while foul 
 
 devils 
 All hoofed and horned, bear the bold sinner 
 
 hence, 
 
 To red hell shrieking, all in vivid hues, 
 No place for "higher criticism" there. 
 
 The almanac hangs open on the wall 
 To mark the saint s days of the mother 
 church ; 
 
 (thirty-seven) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 Rude charcoal burners from the pine-clad 
 
 slopes 
 
 Of dark Malinche, farmers, artisans, 
 The rich and poor, all guard the "holy days," 
 And even butchers close their reeking stalls. 
 
 You cannot know, you cannot understand 
 You careless tourist from the outside world, 
 You do not, cannot feel the inner life 
 That throbs in Mexico, the guide-books fail, 
 They may not give the "open sesame: " 
 
 The patios where crystal fountains drip, 
 Where women gossip when the air is cool, 
 The courtesy, the kindness, filial love 
 That links the home hearts here in Mexico. 
 
 From polished hoop the parrot swings and 
 
 screams 
 
 In fluent Spanish all the drowsy day; 
 The lavanderas swash their clothes near by 
 Where brown babes crawl, in naked comfort 
 
 free, 
 "Race suicide," a thing undreamed of here! 
 
 Compadres and comadres, wrinkled, grey, 
 Still use the customs of old Abram s time, 
 Poetic, patriarchal, poured round all 
 The silver melody of Spanish speech! 
 
 Servants grown old in service of their friend, 
 Their lord and amo, master of their lives 
 Who serve for love and the sweet "nine s" 
 
 sake. 
 Faithful till death, there are such servants 
 
 here. 
 
 (thirty-eight) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 And over all this inner life of ours 
 
 In rippling waves, a heart-horn laughter 
 
 flows, 
 
 A simple happiness and sweet content. 
 How much there is that money cannot huy, 
 That may be found here in this ancient land; 
 Things the heart hungers for, the pearls of 
 
 faith, 
 Strange, but you ll find them with these 
 
 Mexicans; 
 
 But not for sale, nor saleable for such 
 Are the choice fruits of simple lives that 
 
 hold 
 
 Fast to the principles our fathers knew, 
 When they were glad and grateful in their 
 
 day 
 
 For rain and sunshine, harvest and a home, 
 And sweet babes growing heav nward from 
 
 the hearth, 
 Yea, such things may be found in Mexico! 
 
 (thirty-nina) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 In the Days of the Buccaneers 
 
 Palo Verde broods above 
 The never quiet waves, 
 That burst in thunder far within 
 
 Her pearl-enameled caves, 
 Alone, upon the sea-birds ledge 
 
 That overhangs the bay, 
 I watch the fleet of fishers creeping 
 
 Catalina way; 
 The lumber schooners warping in, 
 
 All redolent of pine, 
 The deep-sea freighters at their docks 
 
 Where donkey-engines whine; 
 I trace the sea-wall s shelt ring arm 
 That holds the harbor light 
 To cheer the channel coasters through 
 The wild Southeaster s night, 
 And, while the shining steamers pass 
 Like shuttles to and fro, 
 Before my eyes there seem to rise 
 
 The days of long ago. 
 Seen through the veil of vanished years 
 
 How dim and far they seem, 
 The treasure ship, the pirate s gold, 
 
 A half remembered dream! 
 
 THE GALLEON 
 
 Beyond the bay, Manila bound, 
 
 I see the galleon go, 
 Deep laden with her silver spoil 
 
 From mines in Mexico. 
 
 (forty) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 Her fat hull lined with dye-woods, gums, 
 
 Rude hales of wrinkled hides, 
 Pearls, ginseng, crimson cochineal 
 
 And bezoar stones besides. 
 
 Athwart the high, embattled poop 
 
 Her stately name unrolled, 
 "La Trinidad Santisima," 
 
 In carven scrolls of gold. 
 
 Her culv rins huge, of Moorish bronze, 
 Each duly named and blessed, 
 
 Reveal th armourer s utmost art, 
 On each the royal crest, 
 
 High overhead, with Cross blood-red, 
 
 The banner of Castile, 
 While clad in shining Milan mail 
 
 From haughty head to heel, 
 
 The blue-veined Don looks proudly down 
 
 Along her castled walls, 
 Silent save when to ear-ringed men 
 
 His silver trumpet calls. 
 
 The crew, right sturdy villains all, 
 
 By dreams of plunder led; 
 Bound turban wise with gaudy scarves 
 
 Each scarred, ferocious head. 
 
 While mingled with them friars grey, 
 Who deem the world but dross, 
 
 So might they bear to heathen lands 
 The mystery of the Cross. 
 
 (forty-one) 
 
 
 
The Call of California 
 
 With glorious eyes of Andaluz 
 
 And rippling, ebon hair 
 A grieving daughter bends beside 
 
 Her gray-beard father there 
 
 And stares as one distraught upon 
 
 The cold and cruel sea, 
 Or breathes soft prayers to pitying saints 
 
 With many an ay de mi! 
 
 Sweet Jesus, will she see once more 
 
 Her sun-bright Spanish home 
 Beyond the fields of bitter brine, 
 
 The weary leagues of foam? 
 
 Don Captain Vasco de Guzman, 
 
 A valiant Spaniard he, 
 Who fears not any shape that haunts 
 
 The vast, mysterious sea: 
 
 The hippocamp with leathern wings, 
 
 The serpent-headed whale, 
 The fearful kraken, slimy, huge, 
 
 With scales like brazen mail; 
 
 Whose writhing arms suck down the ships 
 
 Swirled in an inky tide: 
 The crested dragons spouting flame 
 
 On whom the mermen ride: 
 
 When sandaled pilgrims, whisp ring tell 
 
 Of such foul worms as these, 
 That rear aloft their hideous heads 
 
 In strange, uncharted seas, 
 
 (forty-two) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 With swelling Spanish oaths the Don 
 
 Will stun the doubting ear, 
 How all such scurvy cattle he 
 
 Has seen, hut cannot fear; 
 
 Not them, nor all the roaring fiends 
 
 Astride the tempest s blast: 
 For why, he hath a holy bone 
 
 Safe bedded in the mast! 
 
 A gracious bone, most potent, rare, 
 From good San Yago s shrine, 
 
 That foul fiend s self dare not draw near 
 Where that sweet bone doth shine! 
 
 Yet one there was whose dreaded name 
 Could chill the Don with fear: 
 
 Bill Hawkins, heretic accursed, 
 The English buccaneer! 
 
 The picture shifts, the galleon s gone, 
 
 Through mists of silver spray 
 And now the wolfish pirate ship 
 
 Comes snuffing up the bay. 
 
 THE PIRATES 
 
 For long, long years the Silver Seas 
 
 That name of terror knew, 
 Bill Hawkins, monster, merciless, 
 
 And his ferocious crew 
 
 .. 
 
 Of crop-eared knaves, scarred galley slaves, 
 And rogues with branded hands, 
 
 Gaol fruit to weight the gallows tree, 
 Swept up in many lands. 
 
 (forty-three) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 From Maracaibo to Peru, 
 
 From Vera Cruz to Spain 
 Their crimson crimes unnameable 
 
 Had left a bloody train, 
 
 Each scuttled ship a blazing tomb 
 
 With ne er a breath of life; 
 One swift grim law for all, the plank, 
 
 Rope, pistol, pike or knife! 
 
 With wolfish eyes they share the prize, 
 With many a murderous blow; 
 
 The jolly Roger overhead, 
 The ghastly decks below; 
 
 They broach the rum, the fiddlers come, 
 
 Around and round they reel; 
 They ve diced with Death, the game is theirs, 
 
 With a dead man at the wheel! 
 
 And while their hellish revelry 
 
 Affronts the quiet skies 
 They re off again for Port o Spain 
 
 And some fat galleon prize. 
 
 So grew their glittering, golden spoil 
 
 But ah, the shrieks and tears, 
 The gurgling groans that blackened it 
 
 Through wild, crime-crusted years; 
 
 That treasure wrung from bursting hearts, 
 
 From pallid hands of woe, 
 By tortures sharp and exquisite 
 
 As only devils know. 
 
 (forty -four) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 But when at last the lion s paw 
 
 Upon Bill Hawkins fell 
 The bulk of their huge hoard was gone 
 
 And where, no man could tell. 
 
 In clanking chains they hung him high 
 
 At Execution Dock. 
 Yet to the end he snapped and cursed, 
 
 His heart like any rock. 
 
 He would not tell, nor ever told, 
 
 He left no faintest clew, 
 No map nor scrap to guide the greed 
 
 Of his rapacious crew, 
 
 Who searched in vain through all their 
 haunts, 
 
 On many a shining shore, 
 By cave and cliff, by tree and tower 
 
 A twelve months space or more. 
 
 By rum and riot some were slain, 
 
 And some by foul disease, 
 Some rotted in the festering slime 
 
 Of dungeons overseas; 
 
 Upon the rack some howled their last, 
 
 Too few the gibbet bore; 
 To open sea the rest won free, 
 
 And there an oath they swore, 
 
 To seek far off in Western seas 
 
 Bill Hawkin s hidden lair 
 For black-faced AnaJc in a dream 
 
 Had seen the treasure there! 
 
 (forty-five) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 Then Westward Ho! away they go, 
 
 They cross the Silver Seas 
 Whose coral islands oft had known 
 
 Their merry devilries. 
 
 On, on they sail till warm winds fail, 
 
 They curse the ice and snow: 
 Again the black man dreams his dream, 
 
 And onward aye they go. 
 
 Around the utmost icy cape 
 
 They wrestle with the blast; 
 Then shift their sails to milder gales 
 
 And trust the worst is past. 
 
 They sight Peru, "Spain s treasure chest,"- 
 
 The land Pizarro won, 
 (It s jeweled temples paved with gold), 
 
 From Incas of the sun. 
 
 Like grinning wolves that near the prey 
 
 They urge the ship along; 
 The rum beside the mast all day, 
 
 All night the rover s song. 
 
 Now clear and cold like silver spires 
 
 The peaks of Mexico 
 Where Cortez found a Spanish cure 
 
 For Montezuma s woe; 
 
 And found withal such shining pearls, 
 Such emerald stones and gold, 
 
 That every pirate sucks his cheeks 
 Whene er the tale is told. 
 
 (forty-six) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 Through windless seas of sodden grass 
 
 Most evilly they fare, 
 Till sails with rotting mold are green 
 
 As any mermaid s hair, 
 Till Hawkins and his gold they curse 
 
 And curse each other there. 
 
 Then California s golden shore 
 With wondering joy they view, 
 
 The friendly Indian s flashing oar 
 Beside his swift canoe; 
 
 The fair green hills whose silver rills 
 
 Run singing to the sea 
 Through fragrant meadows bright with bloom 
 
 And wild bird s minstrelsy. 
 
 His dream holds yet, the signs are met, 
 
 Black Anak grins with glee; 
 Lo! on the right St. Peter s cove, 
 
 St. Catharine on the lee. 
 
 Down come the sails, the anchor plumps, 
 
 The rum goes gaily round, 
 Were never men more fain to see 
 
 Their shadows on the ground! 
 
 With panting strokes they win the beach, 
 
 Th Ethiop leads the way: 
 Their hot breaths whistle at his back, 
 
 His thick lips seem to pray. 
 
 Now here, now there, they search and swear. 
 
 God, how they ramp and rave; 
 Have they been diddled by a dream, 
 
 Then Christ that black man save! 
 
 (forty-seven) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 With frenzied hands they hurl the sands, 
 
 Rocks, shells and vines apart, 
 In every eye the lust for gold, 
 
 Murder in each foul heart. 
 
 At last their streaming toil unstops 
 
 A huge, black yawning hole; 
 So murky, deep and deadly cold 
 
 That fear grips every soul; 
 
 But not for long, they strike a flint 
 
 The spark leaps out and there 
 They eye the ghastly proofs that mark 
 
 Bill Hawkin s secret lair! 
 
 A shattered skull, a rusted blade, 
 
 A shapeless pile of bones, 
 At which some spat and crossed themselves 
 
 And spake in milder tones: 
 
 Then swore more foully, passed the rum, 
 
 Thrust forth a torch and saw 
 What they had scourged the seas to gain 
 
 And broken every law. 
 
 Deep sunken in the cavern s mold 
 
 The smoking lights reveal 
 An ancient chest of Spanish oak 
 
 With bands and bolts of steel; 
 
 Upon whose cover, red with rust, 
 
 Some dim device is seen; 
 A Latin scrawl, a helmet plumed, 
 
 With ramping beasts between; 
 
 (forty -eight) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 At sight of which the gloomy vault 
 Resounds with oaths and cheers, 
 
 Forgotten then their scars and wounds 
 Their hunger, cold and fears. 
 
 Leaps forth the dreamer Anak then 
 With hoarse unhuman yell 
 
 A tongueless eunuch huge and black, 
 Tusked like a fiend from Hell, 
 
 Heaves up a mighty bowlder there, 
 Bursts oak and steel in twain 
 
 And lo! the long sought glittering hoard, 
 Culled from the Spanish Main! 
 
 THE TREASURE 
 
 They do not dream, the torches gleam 
 
 On gold and jewels there; 
 Such gems as high-born Spanish dames 
 
 On cold, proud bosoms wear; 
 
 Sequins, pistoles, broad gold doubloons, 
 
 Dull burnished silver bars, 
 Carbuncles, emeralds, diamonds bright 
 
 That sparkle like the stars; 
 
 Pieces of eight, rich silver plate, 
 Fair pearls like shining tears, 
 
 With many a dainty trinket torn 
 From shrieking beauty s ears; 
 
 Brave rings with fingers in them yet, 
 All fleshless, black and dried 
 
 A grisly harvest, cutlass reaped 
 From blue-veined hands of pride; 
 
 (forty -nine) 
 
The Call of Californi 
 
 Bejeweled blades of damascene 
 From Spain s dark, bloody sod 
 
 And great rose rubies, once the eyes 
 Of some tusked, snouted god; 
 
 Gilt crucifixes, candlesticks, 
 
 Basons of beaten gold 
 And chalices with diamond studs 
 
 Lapped in a cloudy fold 
 Of laces wrought by pallid nuns 
 
 In Spanish convents cold. 
 
 With furious haste such splendid spoil 
 
 They heap together there 
 Would buy thrones, virtues, souls of men, 
 
 St. Peter s ivory chair! 
 
 Yet when each one his share surveys 
 
 It shows so mean and small, 
 In every envious heart is hatched 
 
 The will to win it all. 
 
 Greed shows its hissing, venomed head, 
 Bursts forth each ancient hate; 
 
 Not one can meet another s eye 
 Nor trust his trusted mate. 
 
 Like wolves they snarl, like foul fiends roar 
 
 Around that gloomy cave, 
 Nor hear the whistling wind without, 
 
 Nor heed the lapping wave. 
 
 Each tears his fellow s cursing throat 
 
 Each lunging blade is red; 
 Till round that mocking treasure lie 
 
 But dying men or dead. 
 
 (fifty) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 In crimson pools that slowly creep 
 
 Along the trampled mire 
 A little space the torches hiss 
 
 Like serpents ringed with fire; 
 
 Then darkness seals each staring eye 
 
 In that unhallowed grave, 
 Their requiem but the wailing wind, 
 
 The moaning of the wave. 
 
 Awhile the keen-eyed buzzard wheels 
 
 Above the cavern s door, 
 And horny crabs slide in and out 
 
 Across the fetid floor; 
 
 The gaunt coyote snuffing comes 
 
 Then softly slinks away, 
 While slowly rots the pirate ship 
 
 Upon the lonely bay. 
 
 The years slip by, then comes a day, 
 
 Tense, boding, hot and still, 
 No sound is heard from beast or bird 
 
 Along the hazy hill; 
 
 In whirls of dust the dry leaves dance 
 Beside the listening shore, 
 
 How shrunk with fear the sea-bird s cry, 
 How loud the ocean s roar! 
 
 Then suddenly the wooded hills 
 The earth s firm pillars rock 
 
 And shuddering peaks as in a fit 
 Their knees together knock; 
 
 (fifty-one) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 The ancient cliffs plunge in the deep, 
 A thousand thunders sound, 
 
 Till where the sea-fowl fed her young 
 But boiling waves are found! 
 
 Gone is the pirate s cave, their gold 
 
 Is scattered far and wide 
 Along the careless ocean s floor 
 
 The sport of every tide. 
 
 Some little time their polished bones 
 Are strewn along the shore 
 
 Then from the memory of man 
 They pass for evermore. 
 
 Calvary 
 
 |HEN our dear Lord is deadly sorrow 
 
 bound 
 blood and water from his heart s deep 
 
 wound, 
 
 A little lad stood, boy like in the shade 
 By the rude Cross and Royal Victim made 
 And whirled his toy around in thoughtless 
 
 glee 
 
 Not knowing Him who bled for you and me: 
 A bird sprang twittering from the grassless 
 
 sod 
 
 And perched upon the Tree that bore our God, 
 Singing its sweet song to the fading day 
 While Jesus heart blood dripped full fast 
 
 away. 
 
 (fifty-two) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 Old Mexico 
 
 OLD Mexico of the long ago, 
 Land of the silver rills, 
 The vanished centuries linger yet 
 Amid thy foot-worn hills. 
 
 From thy snows and pines, thy dark, deep 
 mines, 
 
 Down to thy tropic sea 
 There is never a thing a man might ask 
 
 That may not be found in thee! 
 
 Silver and gold in thy ridges rolled, 
 Health from thy snow-capped peaks, 
 
 Beautiful women with flashing eyes 
 And sun-kissed olive cheeks; 
 
 Culture that comes from the Spanish Moors 
 
 Of a thousand years ago; 
 And customs that come from the yellow East 
 
 But how no man may know. 
 
 Faces as fair as ever were seen 
 
 In any rose gardens of earth; 
 And the slant-eyed, squat-nosed Mongol 
 breed, 
 
 What land first saw their birth? 
 
 Hieroglyphs older than Norsemen s runes, 
 
 Palaces ancient as Tyre, 
 Where the smiling child of the sun today 
 
 Bakes his corn-cakes on the fire. 
 
 Romance and mystery over it all, 
 
 Mystery always and ever, 
 Old as the eldest of Egypt s gods, 
 
 Will the light come ever, never? 
 (fifty-three) 
 
The Call of Californi 
 
 The Death Pool at La Brea 
 
 QO song birds hover about its edge, 
 Where sad winds sigh through the 
 stiff, brown sedge; 
 
 No fleet wings brush with a wild bird s grace 
 The sullen tide of the Death Pool s face. 
 
 But ever it lies there still and cold, 
 Wickedly waiting, and old so old; 
 Chilling the warmth of the genial sky 
 Like a Gorgon s face with its lidless eye, 
 The haunt of horror, a place of fear, 
 Through many a dumb, unnumbered year. 
 
 Up from the cold, dark chambers of death 
 Oozes its pestilent, bubbling breath; 
 Wrapped in the folds of its stiffened slime, 
 The bones of monarchs of ancient time 
 Of huge, strange creatures of monstrous girth, 
 Lords of the primitive manless earth! 
 What secrets locked in that deep, dark 
 
 grave, 
 What wonders hid neath the thick, black 
 
 wave, 
 What dreadful shapes here have mirrored 
 
 been 
 
 That never by human eye were seen! 
 When, under the old, old primal law 
 Of bloody muzzle and crimson claw, 
 The saber-tooth and the great cave-bear 
 Tore the trumpeting mastodon there; 
 While green-eyed dragons with leathern 
 
 wings 
 Screamed o er the strife of the jungle kings. 
 
 (fifty-four) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 Mangos de Manila 
 
 de Manila " 
 
 Hark to the mellow call, 
 "Mangos de Manila," 
 
 Most luscious fruit of all. 
 
 "Mangos de Ma-nee-la" 
 I stop him in the shade, 
 
 The Aztec, brown "frutero," 
 And soon the sale is made. 
 
 "Son muy dulces, jefe," 
 
 Is what he says to me, 
 "They re very sweet and juicy" 
 
 The truth we soon shall see. 
 
 No mango forks are handy, 
 So peel them with your knife; 
 
 Say, stranger, did you ever 
 Eat better in your life? 
 
 The slippery fruit a-dropping 
 Great gouts of liquid gold: 
 
 Just shut your eyes and swallow 
 And dream of days of old. 
 
 You hear the fountain tinkling, 
 A strange speech meets your ear, 
 
 The mango on your palate 
 Brings it all to you here. 
 
 It somehow draws you nearer 
 To India and the East 
 
 (fifty-five) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 To Afric s tawny jungles 
 A thousand years at least. 
 
 "Mangos de Manila," 
 
 A golden link to all 
 Of good Haroun-al-Raschid, 
 
 And muezzin s plaintive call, 
 
 Arabian Nights and hasheesh, 
 With all our childhood knew 
 
 Of tales from land of faery 
 Broidered with gold and blue. 
 
 The harem s marble lattice, 
 Where musky south winds sigh 
 
 In "Mangos de Ma-nee-la" 
 Our swart frutero s cry. 
 
 Grief 
 
 T a sunken lake s edge in the dreary 
 
 ^ night, 
 
 [n a cypress silvered by the dead moon s 
 
 light, 
 
 With rain-chilled nest and heart all desolate, 
 A widowed dove sits, mourning for her mate. 
 
 Kismet 
 
 WAS Kismet that ever I knew him; 
 
 Twas Kismet that first drew me to 
 him, 
 And for Kismet I loved him and slew him! 
 
 (fifty-six) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 A Norther in Veracruz 
 
 the bluff and boisterous North 
 Wind 
 
 Comes to woo the Sunny South 
 And a thousand roaring thunders 
 Are the kisses of his mouth; 
 
 When the sea birds seek a shelter 
 In some battered, splintered rock 
 
 And the walls of Juan Ullua 
 Tremble neath the surge s shock; 
 
 When the sails are blown to tatters, 
 
 Timbers start in every joint, 
 And the grey, bare-headed helmsman 
 
 "Holds her down another point," 
 
 When the booming winds of heaven 
 
 Heap the surges o er the deck 
 And the tiger leaping lightnings 
 
 Show the crushed and battered wreck; 
 
 When the shark-toothed reefs are grinning. 
 
 Waiting for their wounded prey; 
 As the seething, rushing waters 
 
 Urge the doomed ships down the bay; 
 
 When the demons of the ocean 
 
 Grip the goblins of the sky 
 And the devils to the landward 
 
 Fling their sandy arms on high; 
 
 When the rain like Mauser bullets 
 Hisses from the inky gloom; 
 
 (fifty-seven) 
 
The Call of Californi 
 
 And the "Pale Horse," Death bestridden, 
 Gallops where the breakers boom; 
 
 When the sailors pray the Virgin, 
 And the captain makes a vow, 
 
 And the fisher boats are scudding 
 Anywhere and anyhow; 
 
 When amid the Gulf s wild fury 
 And the screams from whitened lips 
 
 Coral reefs are ground to powder 
 As they grind the groaning ships; 
 
 When the devil takes the tiller 
 And his demons rule the deck 
 
 And the ooze from bloody corpses 
 Streams and reddens o er the wreck; 
 
 When each skipper out to seaward 
 Trembles in his sodden shoes 
 
 Then you know we have a "Norther," 
 Southward here in Veracruz. 
 
 (fifty-eight) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 At the Ruins of Mitla 
 
 H MOURNFUL hollow in the old grey 
 hills 
 Where never a bird its glad sweet music 
 
 trills, 
 
 We shiver in the sunlight for a spell 
 Still broods o er Mictlan, gloomy mouth of 
 Hell! 
 
 The narrow streamlet as of old runs on, 
 But they who built these palaces are gone; 
 They came, they went nor left one word 
 
 behind, 
 We search and dig but only questions find. 
 
 The air is chill with voices of the dead, 
 But not a word we catch of all they said; 
 That slant-eyed, squat-hipped folk of ancient 
 
 day, 
 Long since returned to primal dust and clay. 
 
 We bow our heads to pass the temple door 
 Where the plumed high-priest strode erect 
 
 before; 
 
 Each monolith still fitted to its groove 
 Which time nof earthquake one hair s 
 
 breadth could move. 
 
 A pigmy race of men of mighty dreams 
 Reared these quaint carven walls, these pon 
 derous beams, 
 Wrought patiently in tireless feeble strength 
 
 (fifty-nine) 
 
The Call of Californi 
 
 Till the huge capstone lay in place at length, 
 Showing through all the centuries it should 
 
 last 
 How here some nameless Indian Angelo 
 
 passed. 
 
 # * * 
 
 Glad that we came, we gladly turn away 
 Back to the wholesome hreath of living day; 
 The long whip cracks, the creaking coach 
 
 appears 
 To bear us from these ghosts of weird, wan 
 
 years. 
 
 In the Cathedral Towers 
 at Dawn 
 
 the cathedral towers I stand at dawn, 
 The slumber breaking bells have but 
 egun 
 
 Their silver clashing and the dallying day 
 Comes slowly traveling upward from the sea. 
 
 Beneath me all the streets are half astir 
 With pious life, servants and served alike, 
 Close hooded from the sharp insidious air 
 Bend churchward, heavenward, by a weary 
 
 way, 
 
 Thorn set, tear wet, by sin and sorrow urged. 
 Below there toil-worn mothers faint and wan 
 
 (sixty) 
 
Other Poems of the West 
 
 Suckling at withered breasts their puny 
 
 babes; 
 And street-worn men with poverty their 
 
 bride, 
 
 Wake foodless in this city of the sun: 
 While others, sons of Fortune s fickle smile, 
 Who never toiled nor hungered, calmly sleep 
 And over all the mercy of our God! 
 
 Merrily ring the great Cathedral bells 
 Over the life-sick multitude below; 
 No voice for them calling from airy steeps 
 Of heights celestial, bidding them return 
 Out, onward, forward, upward to their God. 
 
 O erhead the beauty of the morning stars 
 Down there the endless misery of man! 
 The fresh winds blow from out the great salt 
 
 sea 
 And down from scarped and thunder riven 
 
 peaks 
 
 But not for them, nor any voice of morn 
 Comes caroling from dewy meadow grass. 
 
 Alone and poor, poor and alone they live 
 Hopeless and songless in this bright sun- 
 land, 
 
 And die at last sad-faced and hollow-eyed 
 Mantled in Misery. Brethren, pray for such. 
 
 (sixty-one) 
 
The Call of California 
 
 Titian s "Entombment of 
 Christ" 
 
 (Tzintzuntzan) 
 
 "N old grey church all full of other 
 
 years, 
 
 knee-worn pavement stained by bitter 
 tears; 
 
 Sunlight without but graveyard gloom within 
 The house where God forgives His chil 
 dren s sin. 
 
 A charnel odor loads the still, cold air 
 As if the spirits of the dead were there, 
 Until awe-stricken by the half-lit gloom 
 We shudder as though shut within a tomb! 
 
 But suddenly a window opens wide, 
 And afternoon pours in "its golden tide 
 Showing us there upon the old stone wall 
 Of Titian s genius masterpiece of all. 
 
 A pallid Christ all mutely tombward borne 
 By faithful hearts so dumb and sorrow-torn, 
 A few disciples there, by fear late driven 
 A Magdalene and Mother anguish riven. 
 
 O! pallid Christ, bruised by the Cross and 
 
 Thorn, 
 
 O! faithful hearts, no longer may ye mourn, 
 The dear Lord sleepeth, soon to wake again 
 And set His kingdom in the hearts of men! 
 
 (sixty-two) 
 

 
 
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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY