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(PRESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO, 1800)

I

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.

II

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
With the Commandante’s daughter on the questions of the heart,

Until points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one,
And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun;

Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are,
He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar;

Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothed bade adieu,
And from sallyport and gateway north the Russian eagles flew.

III

Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon are,
Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of the Czar;

Day by day on wall and bastion beat the hollow, empty breeze,–
Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling seas:

Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty leather cloaks,–
Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing plain of oaks;

Till the rains came, and far breaking, on the fierce southwester tost,
Dashed the whole long coast with color, and then vanished and were
lost.

So each year the seasons shifted,–wet and warm and drear and dry
Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and sky.

Still it brought no ship nor message,–brought no tidings, ill or meet,
For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair and sweet.

Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears beside:
“He will come,” the flowers whispered; “Come no more,” the dry hills
sighed.

Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning breeze,–
Still she lost him with the folding of the great white-tented seas;

Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive brown,
And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet lashes down;

Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied caress,
And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine distress.

Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon are,
Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from afar;

Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each
As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his speech:

“‘Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as he;’
‘Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree;’

“‘He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall have flies;’
‘In the end God grinds the miller;’ ‘In the dark the mole has eyes;’

“‘He whose father is Alcalde of his trial hath no fear,’–
And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his conduct clear.”

Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it would teach
Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech;

And on “Concha” “Conchitita,” and “Conchita” he would dwell
With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so well.