Debris Selections from Poems — Reading Companion

Each was a letter in rhyming run, Written over and over, in tenderest strain, By fingers that never will write again. I strung them together, a tale to tell, And named it "The Mystery of Carmel." And these are the letters I found that day, In the mission ruin, old and gray-- The Mission Carmel of Monterey:

TO THE HOLY FATHER SANSON

Oh, holy father, list thee to my prayer! I may not kneel to thee as others kneel, And tell my heart-aches with the suppliant's air, But fiercer burns the fire I must conceal.

My soul is groping in the mists of doubt, The sunlight and the shadows all are gone, Only a cold, gray cloud my life's about, Nor ever vision of a fairer dawn.

A father ne'er my brow in loving smoothed, Nor taught my baby tongue to lisp his name; No mother's voice my childish sorrows soothed, Nor sought my wild, imperious will to tame.

Yet ran my life, like some bright bubbling spring, Too full of thoughtless happiness to care If that the future might more gladness bring, Or might its skies be clouded or be fair.

Afar upon the purple hills of Spain-- Since waned the moons of half a year ago-- I sported, reckless as the laughing main, Nor dreamed in life a thought of grief to know.

To-day I pine here in a chain whose gall Is bitterer than drop of wormwood brought From that salt sea where nothing lives, and all The recompense my willfulness has brought.

Oh, holy father, list thee to my prayer! And though I may not kneel as others kneel, And tell my heart-aches with a suppliant air, I crave they grace a sickened soul to heal.

Here, close beside this sacred font of gold, My humble prayer, oh, father, I will lay, With all its weight of misery untold; And wait impatient that which thou wilt say REVENITA.

When to the font, this morn, my lips I pressed, A fairy's gift my fingers trembled o'er; A sweeter prayer ne'er smile of angel blessed, Nor gemmed a tiar that the priesthood wore.

The secret of they grief I may not know, Since that thy lips refuse the tale to tell; Methinks, dear child, it was the sound of woe That woke an echo in my heart's deep well.

The wail of a spirit that a-yearning gropes In darkness for the sunlight that is fled; A broken idol in secret wept, and hopes-- Crushed hopes--that are to thee as are the dead.

A tender memory ling'ring yet of when Each bounding pulse beat faster with its joy; A something that allured, and won, and then With waking fled, and years may not destroy

The impress which it left upon thy brain But seek thee, child, grief's ravaging to stay? Thy tears might fall as falls the show'ring rain, They could not wash the heart's deep scars away.

Repine thee not; shroud not they faith in gloom; Shrink not to meet a disappointment's frown; Away beyond the narrow bordered tomb, Who here have borne the cross may wear the crown. SANSON.

Whisper to him, fairies, whisper-- Whisper softly in his ear That some one is waiting, waiting, Listening his step to hear.

Fairies, if he knew his presence Would a demon's spell allay, Would he heed your timid whisperings? Would he--will he come to-day? REVENITA.

Fairies whisper, every whisper, In the silence of the night, And he catches the soft murmurs Floating in the starry light.

And they tell him; yes, they tell him, All in accents sweet and clear, Of the beautiful Hereafter That is ever drawing near.

There are loved ones, waiting, waiting, For his footfall on the shore; They will welcome his appearing-- They will greet him o'er and o'er. SANSON.

Oh, would the fairies to her whisper The truths which they to him impart, Teach her a beautiful hereafter, A Heaven to bless a tired heart.

Yet thinks she that the dear ones waiting Would envy not the boon she craves-- To rear fair friendship's sacred alter Where love and hope sleep in their graves.

She knows not that a loving welcome Will wait her in a realm of light, Nought of a future meeting whispers, No faith illumes her soul's dark night.

But oh! she knows, has by experience, The saddest of all lessons learned; Knows that she gathered dead-sea apples, Which in her hands to ashes turned.

She knows into a trammelled torrent, Is changed her life's free flowing tide; Knows that her hand no oar is holding, With which her drifting bark to guide.

She knows, yes, knows that, like the mirage, Which for the thirsty traveler gleamed, The sweet ideal she fondly cherished Was never there; it only seemed.