The Return of Belisarius

So youre back from your travels, old fellow,
And you left but a twelvemonth ago;
Youve hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon,
Eugenie, and kissed the Popes toe.
By Jove, it is perfectly stunning,
Astounding, and all that, you know;
Yes, things are about as you left them
In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago.

The boys! theyre all right, Oh! Dick Ashley,
Hes buried somewhere in the snow;
He was lost on the Summit last winter,
And Bob has a hard row to hoe.
You know that hes got the consumption?
You didnt! Well, come, thats a go;
I certainly wrote you at Baden,
Dear me! that was six months ago.

I got all your outlandish letters,
All stamped by some foreign P. O.
I handed myself to Miss Mary
That sketch of a famous chateau.
Tom Saunders is living at Frisco,
They say that he cuts quite a show.
You didnt meet Euchre-deck Billy
Anywhere on your road to Cairo?

So you thought of the rusty old cabin,
The pines, and the valley below,
And heard the North Fork of the Yuba
As you stood on the banks of the Po?
Twas just like your romance, old fellow;
But now there is standing a row
Of stores on the site of the cabin
That you lived in a twelvemonth ago.

But its jolly to see you, old fellow,
To think its a twelvemonth ago!
And you have seen Louis Napoleon,
And look like a Johnny Crapaud.
Come in. You will surely see Mary,
You know we are married. What, no?
Oh, ay! I forgot there was something
Between you a twelvemonth ago.

Bret Harte

Bret Harte was an American author and poet, renowned for his works about pioneering life in California. Born on August 25, 1836, he gained national fame with his short stories and poetry depicting life in the early mining camps. His most famous works include 'The Luck of Roaring Camp' and 'The Outcasts of Poker Flat.' Harte's writings played a crucial role in shaping the Western genre in American literature. He passed away on May 5, 1902.

Bret Harte

Jim

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

What the Chimney Sang

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

On William Francis Bartlett

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

The Lost Galleon

Bret Harte, Simple Poetry

English

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Telemachus versus Mentor

Dont mind me, I beg you, old fellow, Ill do very well here alone;
You must not be kept from your German because Ive dropped in like a stone.
Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught but yourself;
And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on the shelf.

As for me, you will say to your hostess well, I scarcely need give you a cue.
Chant my praise! All will list to Apollo, though Mercury pipe to a few.
Say just what you please, my dear boy; theres more eloquence lies in youths rash
Outspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this grizzling mustache.

Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant, youths panoplied armor for fight,
And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and lasts but a night;
And pray the Nine Gods to avert you what ...

Bret Harte

Her Last Letter

June 4th! Do you know what that date means?
June 4th! By this air and these pines!
Well, only you know how I hate scenes,
These might be my very last lines!
For perhaps, sir, youll kindly remember
If some other things youve forgot
That you last wrote the 4th of december,
Just six months ago! from this spot;

From this spot, that you said was the fairest
For once being held in my thought.
Now, really I call that the barest
Of well, I wont say what I ought!
For here I am back from my riches,
My triumphs, my tours, and all that;
And youre not to be found in the ditches
Or temples of Poverty Flat!

From Paris we went for the season
To London, when Pa wired, Stop.
Mama says his health was the reason.
(Ive heard that some th...

Bret Harte

Half an Hour Before Supper

So shes here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you met on the train,
And you really believe she would know you if you were to meet her again?

Of course, he replied, she would know me; there never was womankind yet
Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not forget.

Then you told her your love? asked the elder. The younger looked up with a smile:
I sat by her side half an hour what else was I doing the while?

What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the sky,
And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from your own to her eye?

No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and as bold as the look,
And I held up herself to herself, that was more than she got from her book.

Young blood! laughed the elder; no...

Bret Harte

Her Letter

Im sitting alone by the fire,
Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire,
It cost a cool thousand in France;
Im be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:
In short, sir, the belle of the season
Is wasting an hour upon you.

A dozen engagements Ive broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,
That waits on the stairs for me yet.
They say hell be rich, when he grows up,
And then he adores me indeed;
And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off as you read.

And how do I like my position?
And what do I think of New York?
And now, in my higher ambition,
With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?
And isnt it nice to have riches,
A...

Bret Harte

California Madrigal

Oh, come, my beloved, from thy winter abode,
From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed;
For the waters have fallen, the winter has fled,
And the river once more has returned to its bed.

Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near!
How the fences and tules once more reappear!
How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon slough
By the hole in the levee the waters broke through!

All nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greet
The glance of your eye and the tread of your feet;
For the trails are all open, the roads are all free,
And the highwaymans whistle is heard on the lea.

Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail,
And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale;
The oath and the jest ringing high oer the plain,
Where the smut is not ...

Bret Harte

An Idyl of the Road

Dramatis Personæ

First Tourist
Second Tourist
Yuba Bill, Driver
A Stranger



First Tourist

Look how the upland plunges into cover,
Green where the pines fade sullenly away.
Wonderful those olive depths! and wonderful, moreover

Second Tourist

The red dust that rises in a suffocating way.

First Tourist

Small is the soul that cannot soar above it,
Cannot but cling to its ever-kindred clay:
Better be yon bird, that seems to breathe and love it

Second Tourist

Doubtless a hawk or some other bird of prey.
Were we, like him, as sure of a dinner
That on our stomachs would comfortably stay;
Or were the fried ham a shade or two just thinner,
That must confront us at closing of the day:

Bret Harte