Bret Harte - Complete Poetical Works стр 10.

     This is the tale that the Chronicle
     Tells of the wonderful miracle
     Wrought by the pious Padre Serro,
     The very reverend Junipero.

     The heathen stood on his ancient mound,
     Looking over the desert bound
     Into the distant, hazy South,
     Over the dusty and broad champaign,
     Where, with many a gaping mouth
     And fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth,
     For seven months had the wasted plain
     Known no moisture of dew or rain.
     The wells were empty and choked with sand;
     The rivers had perished from the land;
     Only the sea-fogs to and fro
     Slipped like ghosts of the streams below.
     Deep in its bed lay the river's bones,
     Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones,
     And tracked o'er the desert faint and far,
     Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar.

     Thus they stood as the sun went down
     Over the foot-hills bare and brown;
     Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom
     The pale-face medicine-man should come,
     Not in anger or in strife,
     But to bringso ran the tale
     The welcome springs of eternal life,
     The living waters that should not fail.

     Said one, "He will come like Manitou,
     Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew."
     Said another, "He will come full soon
     Out of the round-faced watery moon."
     And another said, "He is here!" and lo,
     Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow,
     Out from the desert's blinding heat
     The Padre dropped at the heathen's feet.

     They stood and gazed for a little space
     Down on his pallid and careworn face,
     And a smile of scorn went round the band
     As they touched alternate with foot and hand
     This mortal waif, that the outer space
     Of dim mysterious sky and sand
     Flung with so little of Christian grace
     Down on their barren, sterile strand.

     Said one to him: "It seems thy God
     Is a very pitiful kind of God:
     He could not shield thine aching eyes
     From the blowing desert sands that rise,
     Nor turn aside from thy old gray head
     The glittering blade that is brandished
     By the sun He set in the heavens high;
     He could not moisten thy lips when dry;
     The desert fire is in thy brain;
     Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain.
     If this be the grace He showeth thee
     Who art His servant, what may we,
     Strange to His ways and His commands,
     Seek at His unforgiving hands?"

     "Drink but this cup," said the Padre, straight,
     "And thou shalt know whose mercy bore
     These aching limbs to your heathen door,
     And purged my soul of its gross estate.
     Drink in His name, and thou shalt see
     The hidden depths of this mystery.
     Drink!" and he held the cup.  One blow
     From the heathen dashed to the ground below
     The sacred cup that the Padre bore,
     And the thirsty soil drank the precious store
     Of sacramental and holy wine,
     That emblem and consecrated sign
     And blessed symbol of blood divine.

     Then, says the legend (and they who doubt
     The same as heretics be accurst),
     From the dry and feverish soil leaped out
     A living fountain; a well-spring burst
     Over the dusty and broad champaign,
     Over the sandy and sterile plain,
     Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones
     That lay in the valleythe scattered bones
     Moved in the river and lived again!

     Such was the wonderful miracle
     Wrought by the cup of wine that fell
     From the hands of the pious Padre Serro,
     The very reverend Junipero.

     Of all the fountains that poets sing,
     Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring,
     Ponce de Leon's Fount of Youth,
     Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth,
     In short, of all the springs of Time
     That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme,
     That ever were tasted, felt, or seen,
     There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin.

     Anno Domini eighteen-seven,
     Father Dominguez (now in heaven,
     Obiit eighteen twenty-seven)
     Found the spring, and found it, too,
     By his mule's miraculous cast of a shoe;
     For his beasta descendant of Balaam's ass
     Stopped on the instant, and would not pass.

     The Padre thought the omen good,
     And bent his lips to the trickling flood;
     Thenas the Chronicles declare,
     On the honest faith of a true believer
     His cheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare,
     Filled like a withered russet pear
     In the vacuum of a glass receiver,
     And the snows that seventy winters bring
     Melted away in that magic spring.

     Such, at least, was the wondrous news
     The Padre brought into Santa Cruz.
     The Church, of course, had its own views
     Of who were worthiest to use
     The magic spring; but the prior claim
     Fell to the aged, sick, and lame.
     Far and wide the people came:
     Some from the healthful Aptos Creek
     Hastened to bring their helpless sick;
     Even the fishers of rude Soquel
     Suddenly found they were far from well;
     The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo
     Said, in fact, they had never been so;
     And all were ailing,strange to say,
     From Pescadero to Monterey.

     Over the mountain they poured in,
     With leathern bottles and bags of skin;
     Through the canyons a motley throng
     Trotted, hobbled, and limped along.
     The Fathers gazed at the moving scene
     With pious joy and with souls serene;
     And thena result perhaps foreseen
     They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin.

     Not in the eyes of faith alone
     The good effects of the water shone;
     But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear,
     Of rough vaquero and muleteer;
     Angular forms were rounded out,
     Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout;
     And as for the girls,for miles about
     They had no equal!  To this day,
     From Pescadero to Monterey,
     You'll still find eyes in which are seen
     The liquid graces of San Joaquin.

     There is a limit to human bliss,
     And the Mission of San Joaquin had this;
     None went abroad to roam or stay
     But they fell sick in the queerest way,
     A singular maladie du pays,
     With gastric symptoms: so they spent
     Their days in a sensuous content,
     Caring little for things unseen
     Beyond their bowers of living green,
     Beyond the mountains that lay between
     The world and the Mission of San Joaquin.

     Winter passed, and the summer came
     The trunks of madrono, all aflame,
     Here and there through the underwood
     Like pillars of fire starkly stood.
     All of the breezy solitude
       Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay
     And resinous odors mixed and blended;
       And dim and ghostlike, far away,
     The smoke of the burning woods ascended.
     Then of a sudden the mountains swam,
     The rivers piled their floods in a dam,
     The ridge above Los Gatos Creek
       Arched its spine in a feline fashion;
     The forests waltzed till they grew sick,
       And Nature shook in a speechless passion;
     And, swallowed up in the earthquake's spleen,
     The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin
     Vanished, and never more was seen!

     Two days passed: the Mission folk
     Out of their rosy dream awoke;
     Some of them looked a trifle white,
     But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright.
     Three days: there was sore distress,
     Headache, nausea, giddiness.
     Four days: faintings, tenderness
     Of the mouth and fauces; and in less
     Than one weekhere the story closes;
     We won't continue the prognosis
     Enough that now no trace is seen
     Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin.

     You see the point?  Don't be too quick
     To break bad habits: better stick,
     Like the Mission folk, to your ARSENIC.