Francis Bret Harte (Фрэнсис Брет Гарт)
The Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin
Of all the fountains that poets sing,-- Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring, Ponce de Leon’s Fount of Youth, Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth,-- In short, of all the springs of Time That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, That ever were tasted, felt, or seen, There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin. Anno Domini eighteen-seven, Father Dominguez (now in heaven,-- Obiit eighteen twenty-seven) Found the spring, and found it, too, By his mule’s miraculous cast of a shoe; For his beast--a descendant of Balaam’s ass-- Stopped on the instant, and would not pass. The Padre thought the omen good, And bent his lips to the trickling flood; Then--as the Chronicles declare, On the honest faith of a true believer-- His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare, Filled like a withered russet pear In the vacuum of a glass receiver, And the snows that seventy winters bring Melted away in that magic spring. Such, at least, was the wondrous news The Padre brought into Santa Cruz. The Church, of course, had its own views Of who were worthiest to use The magic spring; but the prior claim Fell to the aged, sick, and lame. Far and wide the people came: Some from the healthful Aptos Creek Hastened to bring their helpless sick; Even the fishers of rude Soquel Suddenly found they were far from well; The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo Said, in fact, they had never been so; And all were ailing,--strange to say,-- From Pescadero to Monterey. Over the mountain they poured in, With leathern bottles and bags of skin; Through the canyons a motley throng Trotted, hobbled, and limped along. The Fathers gazed at the moving scene With pious joy and with souls serene; And then--a result perhaps foreseen-- They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin. Not in the eyes of faith alone The good effects of the water shone; But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, Of rough vaquero and muleteer; Angular forms were rounded out, Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout; And as for the girls,--for miles about They had no equal! To this day, From Pescadero to Monterey, You’ll still find eyes in which are seen The liquid graces of San Joaquin. There is a limit to human bliss, And the Mission of San Joaquin had this; None went abroad to roam or stay But they fell sick in the queerest way,-- A singular maladie du pays, With gastric symptoms: so they spent Their days in a sensuous content, Caring little for things unseen Beyond their bowers of living green, Beyond the mountains that lay between The world and the Mission of San Joaquin. Winter passed, and the summer came The trunks of madrono, all aflame, Here and there through the underwood Like pillars of fire starkly stood. All of the breezy solitude Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay And resinous odors mixed and blended; And dim and ghostlike, far away, The smoke of the burning woods ascended. Then of a sudden the mountains swam, The rivers piled their floods in a dam, The ridge above Los Gatos Creek Arched its spine in a feline fashion; The forests waltzed till they grew sick, And Nature shook in a speechless passion; And, swallowed up in the earthquake’s spleen, The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin Vanished, and never more was seen! Two days passed: the Mission folk Out of their rosy dream awoke; Some of them looked a trifle white, But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright. Three days: there was sore distress, Headache, nausea, giddiness. Four days: faintings, tenderness Of the mouth and fauces; and in less Than one week--here the story closes; We won’t continue the prognosis-- Enough that now no trace is seen Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin. MORAL You see the point? Don’t be too quick To break bad habits: better stick, Like the Mission folk, to your ARSENIC.
Francis Bret Harte’s other poems:
