Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Francis BretHarte745 Crotalus
N
The sunbeams, broken silently,
On the bared rocks around me lie,—
And scales of moss; and scarce a yard
Away, one long strip, yellow-barred.
To reach it, thrust its roots aside,
And lift it on thy stick astride!
For round thee, thrilling air and space,
A chattering terror fills the place!
In the Dead Valley! By yon fir
The locust stops its noonday whir!
As if by bullet brought to ground,
On broken wing, dips, wheeling round!
Halts, breathless, on pulsating hip,
And palsied tread, and heels that slip.
My heedless foot, nor longer fret
The peace with thy grim castanet!
That lifted crest; the measured blow
Beyond which thy pride scorns to go,
Lights those slit orbs, where, some think, dwell
Machicolated fires of hell!
Haughty, with miseries untold,
And the old Curse that left thee cold,
On blistering rocks; nor made thee shun
Our cabin’s hearth, when day was done,
We knew thee,—silent, joyless guest
Of our rude ingle. E’en thy quest
Naught but a brother’s poverty
And Spartan taste that kept thee free
Searches the grass with tongue of flame,
Making all creatures seem thy game;
Asked but—when all was said and done—
To lie, untrodden, in the sun!