Текст оригинала на английском языке
Bret Harte (The magic of his wizard pen)
The magic of his wizard pen Still holds the world in thrall: From lordly laurels won of men No leaf may fade or fall. In ways he trod, and treads no more. His footprints linger still, Alike on England's mother-shore, The New World's sunset hill. But ah! the scenes the Boy first saw, The sea Balboa named, The bay which stout old Portolá For sweet St. Francis claimed, The great Sierras piercing blue Of sky with snowy crest, He knew and loved them best; they knew, They know, and love him best. They speak of him, the forest trees, Redwood, madroño, pine, — The Mission Bells, — all these, and these His memory's sacred shrine.
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