The morning call., 1892-10-23
He is a part of our past; bit of crude ore
from which we have our golden eagles,
and he shall not be despised always

He is a part of our past; a bit of crude ore
from which we have our golden eagles,
and he shall not be despised always
Ell vAoUERo.
Hinged with the blood OF Aztec lands
Sphin1-ilke. the tawny herdsmaH stands,
= coied RATA in his hands.
Devoid of hope, devoid OF fear,
Half brigand and half cavalier
This helot, with imperial grace,
Wears ever his tawny face
A sad. defiant look of pain.
Left by the fierce fconocIest
living fragment OF the past
Greek OF the Greeks he must remain.
The last poem In this little book OF
poems, and on California almost entirely, Is
too long for insertion here. l can only give
the opening lines OF this surging, sweeping
song of our great river as 1t plunges from
the snow peaks 10 the sea. 1t is called
Ell RIO SACRAMENTO.
where ice-claa SUBMITS greet the morn.
And where the betting sr ns, g }G6w ae~h
This bantIing OF the clouds Is Dorh'
General Foote is a famous scholar,
New Yorker graduate OF one OF our Last
ern colleges a great traVeler anu 'iueseu
diplomat. having been sent 70 South au i'
lea by President Grant ana also sent III d
verv critical time as our first Minister TO
Corea.
No, don't believe in disowning a poet
for dfsloyaty, or the reverse. l only say
that il is a certain sign of strength, OF Greek
OF Hebrew strength, to see man set his
face forward and look ahead of him instead
of behind him as has been the fashion both
in England and America for so long. OF
course there is some excuse for England.
for she has little of her own TO celebrate on
her bits of islands But for America.
with all the broad universe before her, she
is sorry weakling to be forever looking
back.
Being a man of fortune aud leisure Ihls
California poet has turned back TO the Ger
man source of his family and has been LOT
some years engaged in translatlng the
poems of Heinrich Heine. AS was hanieu
after Hene l have a peculiar interest ID
this life-work, and by special favor am here
permitted to give General Foote'S transla-
ton of the poem to which Heine first owed
his fame
THE TWO GRENADIERS.
Down TO France there plodded two Grenadiers.
Their way from Russian prison vending;
Aud when they had reached the herman FRONTIERS
Their heads on their breasts were bending.
Together the GrenadIers wept full sore
As they heard the SorroYiui story
Said one to the ether. Alas once more
Ny old wounds are open ana CORY.
Then the other one said THE end has come,
Let us die for the cause which We cherish,
Though children and wife have al home
Who without my protection VIII perish
"whst care for children aud wife," he said.
"other thoughts in my bosom awaken;
Let them die from hunger or beg or bread;
My Emperor, my Emperor is taken.
give heed to me. brother. and grant my prayer;
II l die give thls TO your Keeping;
Take my body u France and bu-y me there,
In the S0!l where tain would be sleeping
..Ths cross of the legion. with crimson nand,
Lay my heart, NV neighbor.
And carefully place my gun Ia my hand,
And grit about W It'll my saber.
II viii lie and listen. and str no more,
In the grave ike a sentinel staying,
Till again 1 can hear the cannoa's loud roar
And the horses trampins and neishlng
.,Then over my grave VIII my Emperor ride,
And TIE s8bers VIII gistea and rattle;
And wei armed 1 viii rise, lest harm betide
My Emperor, my Emperor III battle
! am careful 10 say nothing that may
wound any honest worker in the world OF
letters hut | must say that / have seen no
translation of this inspired Jews poetry
that uleased ME half SO we'll as this OF Gen.
eral Foote. 1t will certainly be the stand
ard when published. | ought to be careful
to say at the same time that MY rendering is
not universal aud there may be better trans
lations than l have yet uet with. must
repeat that this is the only one that does
Heine Justice so far as l know. l am
tempted to tack on another little bit from
his translation from Heine, merely for the
sake Of the last verse OF the three:
TOO LATE.
Too late the smile that wreathes your lips.
The sigh that heaves your breast too late,
The ardent love is long since dead
Which once you scorued with cruel hate.
Too late your now responsive love,
For on this heart, which was your slave,
Those fiery CLEANS OF passion fall
Like suRbeams on silent grave
The place to which our souls shalt turn
when We have died. fain would know;
Where is the FIRE that ceased 10 burn?
Where IS the wind that ceased 10 blow?
In conclusion, let me quote these few clos
ing lines, not before published, from the
poets own heart. We all, We who surely
think, have had the same thoughts. But
who Of US all has expressed them SO
entirely well and with such a touch OF ten
derness.
QUESTIONING.
| questioned my soui as I stood by the dead.
My soul, in It's anguish made answer aad said,
No power can destroy and 40 fat create,
! For death is transition and lie is a state.
! Each atom OF form and each atom OF force
/ Exist as part Of their infinite source,
/ Ind whether IN molten. or whether At rest,
/ Must i've By law that IS never transgressed,
| This. then. IS the marvellous secret OF death
To 1--we without life, aud TO breathe without breath.
The inquiry away out here by the edge of
| the 0ccdent, looking right in the face Of
| the Orient, is, What is life and what is
! death? l know no more tender or more
| truthful answer than this last line OF oul
| California poet FO0te.
JOAQUIN MILLER