The herald., 1895-04-29
The Poet Pollock

Many years agO-nearly quarter OF a
century, in fact, when the memory of
California's gifted poet was fresh and
green, there was an attempt made t., raise
money for the purpose. OF erecting a
monument over the grave of Edward Pol
lock, whose rare genius was known ana
acknowledged by the earlier Californians.
and whose early death they sincerely
mourned. Though the effort to perpetu-
ate his name with marble shaft or slab
was failure. his soul-stirring poems will
perpetuate his memory imperishable as
the granite walls of Mount Shasta. Had
he never written anything else, the fol-
lowing lines from wild, weird legend,
the creation of his brain, would have
made him immortal. He gazed down
into the depths of the dark sea and saw ::
."The waving sea-weeds rank and tall.
Like ivy, are clinging to tower and wall
And the .glittering dolphin and ravenous
Are gliding around in the itful dark; b,
Like a spiders mesh in the water green,
The arms of the polypus are seen, e
And thousand wonderful creatures sleep. ,o-
Motionless, down in the silent deep.
"There .itteth 81 ape on mari lie throne,
The form Of a male Al young and fair;
But the water hath turned the body to stone,
And hardened the curls of raven hair;
Yet her full dark eyes are open, and seem
Forever to flash with a lambent beam,
But her rounded arms and bosom white,
have u QehlDly CdsI III tuC ooiubi A6he
On the 9th OF January. 1867 the gifted
poet wrote the following exquisite poem;
He was about to depart for Oregon, and
the poem was given to friend as
memento, with these words: Take this {;
you may, perhaps, read and appreciate
the sentiment long after | have ceased to
be among the living" The poem is en-
titled,
THE PARTING HOUR
There's something in the parting hour
Will chill the warmest heart
Yet kindred, comrades, lovers, friends,
Are ated all to part,
But this I've seen-and many pang
Has pressed it in my mind,
The one who goes is happier
Than those he leaves behind.
| No matter what the journey be-
Adventurous, dangerous far,
To the wild deep, or bleak frontier,
To solitude or war;
! Still something stirs the heart that dares
In all of human kind;
| And they who go are happier
Than those they leave behind.
| The bride goes to the bridegrooms home
| With doubling and with tears,
| But does not hope her rainbow spread
| Across her clondy fears?
| Alas! the m other who remains
WHAT comfort can she find
| But this-the gone is happier
Than one she leaves behind.
! Have you friend?-a comrade dead7-
An old and valued friend?
| Be sure your term Of sweet concourse
| At length will have an end!
| And when you part-as part you will
! oh take it not unklnd,
| That he who goes is happier
Thany you he leaves behind.
| God wills it so and so it is;
| The pilgrims on their way,
| Though weak and worn, more cheerful are
Than all the rest who stay;
| And when at last, poor man. subdued,
] iavd do mi n do
| May he not still be happier far
| Than those he leaves behind?
We have given the poem in full-one OF
the last he wrote-for it would be sacri-
lege to mar the exquisite sentiment by
mutiIation. Had Pollock lived a name
and fame would have been his, for his
soul was filled with living fire from the
altar of the gods. But in his early man
hood death severed the brittle thread, anc
he passed over to the other shore; yet IN
! his own words
"Msy he not still be happier far
Than those he lett behindp'
He sleeps in Lone Mountain silent city
and old Ocean; whose wild majesty o
music he loved SO well TO listen to in life
now chants his requiem through the Ions
days and the silent nights.
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