Complete Poetical Works. Bret Harte

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           Somewhere within that Russia-scented gloom

             A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear:

           "Brief is our business, Jones.  Look round this room!

             Regard yon portraits!  Read their meaning clear!

           These much proclaim MY station.  I presume

             YOU are our Congressman, before whose wit

           And sober judgment shall the youth appear

             Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit

             To serve his country and to honor it."

           "Such is my son!  Elsewhere perhaps 'twere wise

             Trial competitive should guide your choice.

           There are some people I can well surmise

             Themselves must show their merits.  History's voice

           Spares me that trouble: all desert that lies

             In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day,

           Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy's,—

             Reverts to him; entailed, as one might say;

             In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey!"

           He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled,

             On the cropped head of one who stood beside.

           Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy child

             Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride;

           'Twas but a Mind that somehow had beguiled

             From soulless Matter processes that served

           For speech and motion and digestion mild,

             Content if all one moral purpose nerved,

             Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved.

           He was scarce eighteen.  Yet ere he was eight

             He had despoiled the classics; much he knew

           Of Sanskrit; not that he placed undue weight

             On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew,

           His favorite tongue.  He learned, alas! too late,

             One can't begin too early,—would regret

           That boyish whim to ascertain the state

             Of Venus' atmosphere made him forget

             That philologic goal on which his soul was set.

           He too had traveled; at the age of ten

             Found Paris empty, dull except for art

           And accent.  "Mabille" with its glories then

             Less than Egyptian "Almees" touched a heart

           Nothing if not pure classic.  If some men

             Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit,

           But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen,

             The better to instruct them, through some sheet

             Published in Boston, and signed "Beacon Street."

           From premises so plain the blind could see

             But one deduction, and it came next day.

           "In times like these, the very name of G.

             Speaks volumes," wrote the Honorable J.

           "Inclosed please find appointment."  Presently

             Came a reception to which Harvard lent

           Fourteen professors, and, to give esprit,

             The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent,

             Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment.

           Four poets came who loved each other's song,

             And two philosophers, who thought that they

           Were in most things impractical and wrong;

             And two reformers, each in his own way

           Peculiar,—one who had waxed strong

             On herbs and water, and such simple fare;

           Two foreign lions, "Ram See" and "Chy Long,"

             And several artists claimed attention there,

             Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere.

           With this indorsement nothing now remained

             But counsel, Godspeed, and some calm adieux;

           No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained,

             And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew.

           A slight publicity, such as obtained

             In classic Rome, these few last hours attended.

           The day arrived, the train and depot gained,

             The mayor's own presence this last act commended

             The train moved off and here the first act ended.

           Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield

             Turns the whole river eastward through the pass;

           Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed

             Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas;

           Where buttressed low against the storms that wield

             Their summer lightnings where her eaglets swarm,

           By Freedom's cradle Nature's self has steeled

             Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm

             Of leveled lances bares her bosom warm.

           But not to-night.  The air and woods are still,

             The faintest rustle in the trees below,

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