Читать книгу Towards the Last Spike - E. J. Pratt - Страница 5

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Port Moody and Pacific! He had pledged

His word the Line should run from sea to sea.

"From sea to sea", a hallowed phrase. Music

Was in that text if the right key were struck,

And he must strike it first, for, as he fingered

The clauses of the pledge, rough notes were rasping—

"No Road, No Union", and the converse true.

East-west against the north-south run of trade,

For California like a sailor-lover

Was wooing over-time. He knew the ports.

His speech was as persuasive as his arms,

As sinuous as Spanish arias—

Tamales, Cazadero, Mendecino,

Curling their baritones around the Lady.

Then Santa Rosa, Santa Monica,

Held absolution in their syllables.

But when he saw her stock of British temper

Starch at ironic sainthood in the whispers—

"Rio de nuestra senora de buena guia,"[2] He had the tact to gutturalize the liquids, Steeping the tunes to drinking songs, then take Her on a holiday where she could watch A roving sea-born Californian pound A downy chest and swear by San Diego.

Sir John, wise to the tricks, was studying hard

A fresh proposal for a marriage contract.

He knew a game was in the ceremony.

That southern fellow had a healthy bronze

Complexion, had a vast estate, was slick

Of manner. In his ardour he could tether

Sea-roses to the blossoms of his orchards,

And for his confidence he had the prime

Advantage of his rival—he was there.

[2] "River of Our Lady of Safe Conduct."