DICKENS IN CAMP
is the tribute Bret Harte paid to the memory of the great English novelist, and many people consider it the Californian’s masterpiece in verse. Springing from a deep admiration for the works of Dickens, which had exercised a profound influence over Bret Harte’s childhood, it was written Spontaneously, a few hours after the news of the death of Dickens had reached San Francisco. At the time when the whole English-Speaking world was offering homage to the dead master, this short poem, so impassioned & sincere, came from far-off California, and by universal consent has been proclaimed the finest expression of feeling brought forth by an event that Spread sadness over the earth.
SAN FRANCISCO:
THIS FACSIMILE HAS BEEN PRINTED BY JOHN HENRY NASH AS A GIFT TO THE BOOK CLUB OF CALIFORNIA FROM THE MANUSCRIPT NOW IN THE BENDER COLLECTION AT MILLS COLLEGE MDCCCCXXIIIDICKENS IN CAMP
ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below;
The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting
Their minarets of snow.
The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted
The ruddy tints of health
On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth;
Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure
A hoarded volume drew,
And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew;
And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell,
He read aloud the book wherein the Master
Had writ of “Little Nell.”
Perhaps ’twas boyish fancy,—for the reader
Was youngest of them all,—
But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar
A silence seemed to fall;
The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows,
Listened in every spray,
While the whole camp, with “ Nell ” on English meadows, Wandered and lost their way.
And so in mountain solitudes-o’ertaken
As by some spell divine—
Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine.
Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire:
And he who wrought that spell?— Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire,
Ye have one tale to tell!
Lost is that camp! but let its fragrant story
Blend with the breath that thrills
With hop-vines’ incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills.
And on that grave where English oak and holly
And laurel wreaths intwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly,—
This spray of Western pine!