Francis Bret Harte (Фрэнсис Брет Гарт)
”Crotalus”
(RATTLESNAKE BAR, SIERRAS) No life in earth, or air, or sky; The sunbeams, broken silently, On the bared rocks around me lie,-- Cold rocks with half-warmed lichens scarred, And scales of moss; and scarce a yard Away, one long strip, yellow-barred. Lost in a cleft! ’Tis but a stride To reach it, thrust its roots aside, And lift it on thy stick astride! Yet stay! That moment is thy grace! For round thee, thrilling air and space, A chattering terror fills the place! A sound as of dry bones that stir In the dead Valley! By yon fir The locust stops its noonday whir! The wild bird hears; smote with the sound, As if by bullet brought to ground, On broken wing, dips, wheeling round! The hare, transfixed, with trembling lip, Halts, breathless, on pulsating hip, And palsied tread, and heels that slip. Enough, old friend!--’tis thou. Forget My heedless foot, nor longer fret The peace with thy grim castanet! I know thee! Yes! Thou mayst forego That lifted crest; the measured blow Beyond which thy pride scorns to go, Or yet retract! For me no spell Lights those slit orbs, where, some think, dwell Machicolated fires of hell! I only know thee humble, bold, Haughty, with miseries untold, And the old Curse that left thee cold, And drove thee ever to the sun, On blistering rocks; nor made thee shun Our cabin’s hearth, when day was done, And the spent ashes warmed thee best; We knew thee,--silent, joyless guest Of our rude ingle. E’en thy quest Of the rare milk-bowl seemed to be Naught but a brother’s poverty, And Spartan taste that kept thee free From lust and rapine. Thou! whose fame Searchest the grass with tongue of flame, Making all creatures seem thy game; When the whole woods before thee run, Asked but--when all was said and done-- To lie, untrodden, in the sun!
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