Complete Poetical Works. Bret Harte

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           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;

           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;

           Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner dust,—

           Listen to the simple story of a woman's love and trust.

           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

           On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state;

           He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk apart