(ilass 1 O OODJl Book-Av3 1887 (m ^y Camilla 4^. Von +^. , \asu^A SANTA BAKBAKA, CAL. L887. ^ 3 ? 50 ^3 Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1SS7, by M. C. F. HALL-WOOD, [n the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. All Rights Reserved. INDEPENDENT PRINT, Santa Barbara, Cal. TO MY DEAREST FEIEND AND COMRADE ANNETTE LA GRANGE THIS VOLUME IS DEDICATED. "Of Argeritile to si Were to besilen 'KKC'V'S KKLIqUKS. ^P^gIligIg. V HAT if some traveler should espy these leaves — These summer sea-leaves lying on the sand ? Some stranger grown half-weary of the land, Should gather up these strains my fancy weaves, With love and longing ? Ah, my hope believes Too much ! As fallen downward from my hand These sea-songs flutter, they upon this strand Shall waste their bloom, shall die, while no one grieves. O sanguine leaves, by furious tempest shocks Torn rude and bleeding from your native rocks, Faint adumbrations only can ye give Of that far underworld. The gift of speech Betrays me too, upon this alien beach, Then why should song of mine presume to live ? "Jv/eet +101100." |j AM sickened with sweets, I pine For the sound of a northern storm; The golden roses are too divine, The glimmering seas too warm. I am tired of the sunburnt South, Of her indolent circling doves; Her wines grow bitter upon my mouth And bitter her languid loves. I weary to hear once more The wind blowing wild and free; Not sighing over a sleeping shore But a power to shake the sea ! But a savage breeze that thrills The Delaware's icy breast; That flings in torrents the foaming kills From the Shawangunk's lordly crest; Bnt a wind that crashes through Great forests of fir and pine, That screams its war song up to the blue Of the Gatskill's distant line. "SWEET HOME. How I long to behold again Those hills, when snowstorms, hurled In maddening masses across the plain Cover the careless world ! And the wealth of that winter-land Its brave hearts, warm and true; O blooming gardens ! O golden strand ! I am weary — to death — of you ! j3 Jtn>eet kwie. INHERE goes Happiness down the street, With tangled hair and bare brown feet. A world of shadowy mischief lies In his bewildering Spanish eyes; The jacket is ragged, but gay the air, And Happiness runs — he knows not where ! Here comes Misery, riding slow; Cheeks and lips all wan with woe. Her sulky steeds their manes may toss, Slow must they pace, while she mourns her loss. Smothered in crape is the gracious air, And Misery rides — she knows not where ! jfefcOPE spread her airy wings for flight; l "7g) She left the sweet southwestern main, And wrapped in visions of delight, She sought her native land again. And I shall see, she said, and smiled, Again gay woodland waters flow Down deep descents, or wandering wild With wayward rivers seaward go. And 1 shall feel, she said, and sighed, The blessed breath of boundless woods; Shall greet the hemlock's ragged pride, King Lear of central solitudes. By woodland stream and woodland growth And waterfalls' resistless might, I shall revive the dreams of youth, She said, and spread her wings for flight By hope beguiled from sunlit seas I too my native country sought; O'erborne by childish memories, Ami Heaven, alas ! restrained me not. 10 THE KETTJEN. Dawn smiled the smiling isles above, Night vexed my eyes with deserts gray; Blow, western wind ! The land I love Still lies a thousand leagues away. Sierras, deserts, prairie land, Fields, cities, gardens, turn and wheel In mystic waltz; broad rivers, spanned With slender webs of thrilling steel, Beel back and vanish ! In the night I listen to the muffled roar Of mighty lakes, whose billows white Plunge madly on a narrow shore. Or, following embroidered banks, The lovely Mohawk vale behold; Whose ancient forests' failing ranks Are touched with dying red and gold. At last, the river of my dreams ! The pale moon glittered on its breast : I saw therein the thousand streams That led me far in youthful quest. At last, at last, the purple range That colored all my thoughts for years; But O, the heights have suffered change, And barren seemed through barren tears. THE KETtlRN. 11 What are these icy hills to me ? The dying beech — the maples bare — And what to me the hemlock tree That shudders in the wintry air ? Steel skies above — a piercing blast That shrieks of death on polar plains; Love stands with stiffening hands aghast, Remembering his own domains. It is the country of my youth, It is the land I longed to see; These mountain streams are wells of truth And they reflect the change in me ! fi Jon ING of happy home, my love, Of blessed rest for thee and me ! The minstrel's eyes were fixed above: "I only sing of what I see !" Sing of love that lives for years, Of faithful love, before you go ! The minstrel's eyes were filled with tears: 'I only sing of what I know !" On J&rata ynez. iff CY springs assuage us not; Thirst of wilder streams assaults us. Banished from this lovely spot, Is the whirl of Elfin waltzes ! Since strange feet have stirred these waters Lead the way to wilder woods. Break through manzanita barriers, Into untouched solitudes. Hither comes no scheming mortal, To profane the sylvan dawn ; Rivers run in wilful currents, Opalescent bars upon. Tiny hoofs of wandering satyr Crush the beds of dewy fern; Hush ! amid the fairy clatter, Pipe of Pan I may discern. Here the timid fawn may mirror In the pool his limpid eyes; Jeweled trout unknown of anglers, Up through twinkling ripples rise. ON SANTA YNEZ. 13 Tiger lilies nod a welcome To the wood-birds and the elves; Larkspurs show us where the wanton Purple berries hide themselves. And the slender, sweet quiote, Stands, a mountain maiden queen; While above her floats her lover, Humming bird, in gold and green. Night draws near, a tender shadow, Lit by myriad starry eyes; While I drink, the sole beholder, Bare delights of midnight skies. And my camp-fire, only, lonely, Sending up its single light, Shall not shame the savage silence On the dusky lips of night. Lark and linnet, follow, follow ! Carpintero, follow me ! Tufted quail, from hill and hollow, Follow, follow, where I flee. Grey doves sing — We know it, know it ! Humming-bird — We know it well ; You're no hunter, but a poet, Come among your kin to dwell. 14r ON SANTA YNEZ. Elfin comrades, fleet and fleeter, Be your airy figures whirled; If the world were sweet, were sweeter, I would ne'er forsake the world. IP^HE best of my garden I give to you. " Perfume, and color and songs; That gay little red-headed linnet To him who will listen belongs. I, walking daily and sadly, In blooming dream gardens divine. Lament for the merciless limits Which compass this garden of mine. You see but the flower as it opened, And not as I willed it to be; When I think of that possible glory The gold rose is ruined for me. Red lilies may flaunt their bold petals, And passion-flowers swing overhead: But you have the best of my garden Who knew not the rose that is dead. ^\ l^epmih^ GoBela^ior^. ] SOMETIMES fancy that I grieve vk For human lives about me; Though well I know the world can weave Her complex web without me. Then, from my visionary height, I turn to daily labor; To help the poor and speed the right, And try to love my neighbor. But human hearts are weak and vain, And human griefs appalling; The city's streets are paved with pain. Then, happier wilds recalling, I think how hidden canons track The heart of mystic mountains; Where summer burns the berries black And winter fills the fountains; How gold untended blossoms tinge The drooping boughs above them Of oak and sycamore, that fringe The streams, they know I Love the in ! 16 a heemit's conclusions. They know I never left my height Of happy dreams and fancies, For pleasure in the world's delight Or faith in Mammon's chances. Descending to the plains beneath From tranquil heights, I only Discover lives more sad than death, Immeasurably more lonely. Back to my mountains let me fly, Before the world can chill me; The golden summer marches by, With fresh content to fill me; Across my path the squirrels run, The quail is whistling to me; The little dove's lament is done, And life is thrilling through me. And if grim hunger bars the way With wicked eyes of beryl, I'll eat the little dove to-day, To-morrow trap the squirrel. To bodily needs they minister, To life and death I treat them; What help were human creatures here? I could not even eat them ! \e J)elav/ape ( ffi^ HESE springs in rocky mountains rise And down through sunny valleys Aoav; And over them the linnet flies, And by their beds wild roses grow. But streams to lure the wandering child, Whose sounds to me still dearest are, In hemlock forests hide — the wild Head waters of the Delaware. These chaparral glooms are veiled with blooms Where morning glories clamber up; And, clothed with sleep's divine perfumes, The poppy swings her painted cup. The white Qttiote's breath is sweet, But not so subtly sweet as are The violets, whose slender feet Are kissed by the infant Delaware. I have not missed the charm of power, The world has been benign to me; But Fate or Fame will not restore Life's morning sun to gild this sea. 18 THE DELAWARE, Now all the dreams of youth are dead, And streams of youth forever are To wider, wilder waters led — As to the sea the Delaware. river wide, while yet I ride, Beholding both thy blooming shores; Ere Time shall sweep me to the deep Or break with storms my slender oars; Give me this grace — -once more to trace The little woodland brooks that are No kin to these insatiate seas, Dear children of the Delaware. Their merry rippling waters sing, And slide beneath the whispering beech; The autumn scented breezes fling Sweet scarlet love-notes down to each ; Or summer, proud and tender queen, Smiles through the swaying boughs that are The maple's arms, with palms of green, Held up to bless the Delaware. Or when the haggard hemlock thrills With sweetest tones of spring delight; As icy winter quits the hills, And vanishes in northern night, 1 long to see this dauntless tree Whose delicate tipped branches are Alive in spring with robins' glee, That twitter down the Delaware. THE DEL A WAKE. 19 To warmer skies the robin flies When all the summer winds are gone: The beech, the birch, the maple dies, The haggard hemlock stands alone ! O hemlock tree, wait yet for me; Returning soon from lands afar, Thy gaunt and faithful boughs may be My grave-mark by the Delaware. One kife. f serious childhood; a religious youth; High aims, indefinite, checked with real tears; A womanhood of tedious household cares And petty wars witli human savages; In later years, Enslaved by whirling Powers of the Press, My tale of bricks I bring, which as of old Are gathered where no straw is, day by day, Piled into palaces for ungrateful kings. The story's told ! j3t ¥1^0 Fair*. (^[/MONG the products of the soil, ^^^ The fruit of free and honest toil, Saint Barbara's wheat and wine and oil, What shall the landless poet bring, Who has but heaps of heathen spoil For harvesting? The artist's dream of woodland grace Or memory of a lovely face ; The maiden's web of filmy lace. The housewife's skill, the mysteries Of modern art, are all in place And safe to please. The flower and fruit of every zone St. Barbara welcomes as her own. And her enthusiast sons have shown A courage in them lurk, For greater victories to be won Through honest work. AT THE FAIR. 21 But we, who have no tenancies In golden grain or olive trees; No house nor land; instead of these, In airy towers of fairy gold, We weave but phantom tapestries Against the cold. O then, while farmers bring the spoil They gather from a fertile soil, St. Barbara's wheat and wine and oil ; A landless poet can but bring A simple rhyme, not worth the toil Of harvesting ! Po^amood iJ^O you look with regret back to youth and its lilies ! Oh ! friend, though the lily be pure and a queen, Her petals are scentless and pale, and there still is The rose of the world your gold ringlets between. Let the laborer tread the grape clusters, expressing Prom purple of fruit the dark blood of the vine; While you and I drink to bold Time with a blessing, Who strengthens and sweetens our hearts and our wine y^loaohaio Wirce, p^O-DAY I drink my wine in peace, Nor covet care nor plenty; Though every year the hopes decrease That lit my life at twenty I Fill np my cup with rippling gold ! While vineyards crown our valleys, No Barbareno needs be cold Nor scant his simple chalice. As with the wine, the amber streams Of lavish memory glisten; Content, alone, to tender dreams Of happier days I listen. Of him who sought me in my youth, A careless minstrel only; Who brought me home and taught me truth, And dying left me lonely; Of children's lips, with laughter red, Then white in death's derision; Each curl upon each golden head Still glitters in my vision ! MOUNTAIN WINE. 23 Of mirthful years that flew and flew, With lands and gold made precious; Of merry friends that flitted too. When fortune grew ungracious, I've tasted what the world can give, Of love and gold and glory; Now all these gift are gone, I live, And like some fairy story, Seem gift and gain and loss and pain, Which in the fire before me, Obtrude their lessons o'er again, — Yet why should I deplore me ? Nay — though this quiet hearth of mine By myriad ghosts is haunted ; I drink in golden mountain wine, Their ghostly healths,— undaunted ! W WAKEN, O poet, for morning- Is up, and thy labor begun ; Transmute into tangible metal Sea silver and gold of the sun. Clftep £>e&t\i. HEN I shake off these earthly chains Which now in prison bind me, Unless some mightier will constrains, I will not look behind me To the snn of the world, or the sea thereof, Earthly power or earthly love. Whatever be my spirit's fate, Absorbed — annihilated — With endless torments desolate- With endless glory sated — Whatever be my final birth, I am content, — it is not earth ! I've seen so much too much of sin, So much too much of sighing, So much too much of fruitless pain, — O the bonds I break in dying Are broken wholly ! I shall not sink Again to the earth by a single link. AFTEK DEATH. 25 Though sometimes, smiling in your dream, A mystic presence lingers; And on your aching brows you seem To feel magnetic fingers; that way madness lies ! No sign Will ever come from soul of mine. You too must die as I am dead; Must pass the fatal portal To know how flitting souls are sped, If mortal or immortal. 1 surely shall not turn to tell The secret ways of heaven or hell. Then reach no more bewildered hands To dim delirious fancies; No breath of undiscovered lands Hhall vivify your trances; No power, how monstrous, can constrain A free soul back to the earth again. USTICE to one who is stung by no doubt of me ! Fate has not flung mo her torments in vain; Since out from her thorns grows a flower, a mystery, Rose of all roses, the blossom of pain. .gar^rapt. HAD a garden, fair and fine With blood-red rose and lily; Palm and pine and passion vine And nodding- daffodilly; With lemons in perpetual bloom, The daintily fruiting guava; Dark velvet pansies' faint perfume, The royal plum of Java; Vines running wild, — yet grapes they bear. In tints would tempt a Titian, Rose-of-Peru, Muscat, St. Pierre, Catawba, Tokay, Mission; A little bed of violets, A miniature forest, Ah ! fair retreat when trouble frets ! But now, my need being sorest, I kneel beneath your sheltering boughs, The last, the last, the last time ! Soft sea- winds kiss my burning brows And tear-stained cheeks for pastime. BANKRUPT, 27 Egyptian lilies line the lane, The heliotrope is fragrant With blessed comfort for the pain Of an unhappy vagrant. Adieu ! I will no longer grieve ; Since God is just, to-morrow He who has won shall likewise leave These garden walks in sorrow ! My white rose will not bloom for him, My poppies pale to know it; O heavenly powers ! what paint can limn The man who wronged a poet ? OTNDAUNTED and unmoved I watch the wheels of Fate. Twas so little that I loved It is little that I hate. ' Now free and ureproved, I smile in spite; of fate. I!.' never can have loved Who has never known to hate J)ar2eir2^ (ipiolet^. ff HAKE the silver fringe of Folly's bells, 1 Dance, undaunted, to the magic chime. Dance, as erst the Fauns in Grecian dells. Shake the silver fringe of Folly's bells, List the tale of love that laughter tells, Webs to trip the wary feet of Time. Shake the silver fringe of Folly's bells, Dance, undaunted, to the magic chime. Wait for age to teach thee melancholy, Foot it lightly in thy gallant prime. In thy youth be frolicsome and jolly, Wait for age to teach thee melancholy, Bind about thy feet the bells of Folly, Joyously they swing to rhythm and rhyme. Wait for age to teach thee melancholy, Foot it lightly in thy gallant prime. Here the youthful player stands, annointed King of the soul-searching violin. From his bow black demons fly, arointed ! Here the youthful player stands, annointed; DANCING TKIOIiETS. 29 By Apollo's benison appointed Dancing feet to revelry to win. Here the youthful player stands, annointed King of the soul-searching violin. Where's the foolish working world? Forget it, Dance, and jingle Folly's silver chime. Fast departs the golden day, — O let it ! Where's the foolish working world? Forget it. Here I take the merry dance, and set it, In the mad mosaic of my rhyme. Where's the foolish working world ? Forget it, Dance, and jingle Folly's silver chime ! f T is not your mountains or magical chain Of islands dim purple, or even the sea. With gay racing billows by day, and by night His monotone chant to uncomforted souls. Not these; but the spirit of these, but the breath, The reviving, the incomprehensible air. That wo float in, and live in, and Love till wo (bo. e&ppiecio^o. RHYMING devil haunts me, { J' Born of a scattered brain. His castle of castles bold behold, Founded on air and fashioned of gold, Songs of the syrens and blood of the slain, Awaken ! The night with a fnry Of winds the battlements shake; And regiments stand on either hand, Only awaiting a chief's command, Into the walls to break. But the devil lowers the drawbridge, And offers the troopers wine; Down martial throats it gurgling goes, And the devil returns to his repose, This wary devil of mine. Up in a turreted chamber, I wait when the morning dawns; From the phantom bars of my aery prison I see auroral worlds new risen, And dew on the velvet lawns. CAPRICCIOSO. 31 Back to the past I wander, Kneeling by sparkling floods; Free as the air I joyously sing, And the rush and the glitter of youth and of Spring Brightens the hemlocks buds. Down comes the tempest howling, Down the clattering rain ! Tower and turret rock and reel, The lightning breaks on bars of steel, — And the devil awakes a^ain ! j F friendship blossomed every day I well might take your hands, and say "I wish you well, dear friend, away/' But, simple flower though it be. It seldom bursts a bud for me. With roses white and roses red My garden still is tenanted; But if the flower I love be dead, What matters all the perfumed crew? I miss them all in missing yon? ^rMtf^ema the traveler who goes Spying all our wants and woes, Cursing every wind that blows Through the land; Naught have sapphire sea and islands Emerald or amber highlands, Winter storms or summer silence, Night or day, Naught to say That he can understand. Wind, O sea-wind, bring him rain ! Wind, O land-wind, turn again, Fling across the desert plain Storms of sand ! Fog, O mighty fog, brood over Land and sea ! Let him discover Nothing sweet or light ! Thy lover Knowing thee, Waits patiently. We wait, and understand. <§j° a Jv/eet Jio^ep. ^WEET as your song may be, Tenderly smooth and complete, Khymed and measured so daintily; Do you find the world so sweet ? You dream your delicate dreams Of innocent, pale delight; Stringing your lilacs by languid streams Where violets blossom white; And travelers stop to hear The sound of your murmuring: They rest by the river so pure and clear, And bless you while you sing. None will listen to me, None respond to my cry, Though the soul of the song I sing should h As a lark in a stormy sky. For I sing, as I love, the truth ! Bitter and wild shall it be: Not rippling over the lips of youth In ;i delicate melody; 34 TO A SAVEET SINGER. But rather a wind that raves Over a shuddering world ; A red and tattered banner that waves In a desperate war unfurled. Why, O true love of old, Is my song then incomplete ? "Night may be black and Death be cold, But a woman should be sweet !" "koVe ¥00 trader 3 ." fciOVE too tender — Love at his ease, How can a strong heart value these V "Heart too rugged — O heart most true, May not a lover kneel to you?" "Kneel not ! Who would my true love be Must be no less than level with me." "Heart too stainless and high, adieu ! Love is too little for such as you." "As bold as the world is, as wild as the sea, Such love shall be — or nothing to me." ¥l2&r2^ivii2^ ^O-DAY I keep my holiday For all the careless world can say; Had refrains I lay away, To keep my happy holiday. How can I keep my holiday? Thrice-blessed one, kneel down and pray ! Give thanks and render praise alway For gifts that grace thy holiday. Thanks — for a fortune fled, It is so much less to leave ; Thanks — for the friends long dead It is so many less to grieve. Thanks — for physical pain, It brings me courage to die ; Fools may cry and complain, So much the wiser I. The triple gift I do not scorn; And on this fair Thanksgiving morn, I kneel with happy heart to pray For all mankind a holiday. poetic p^am^m. pjj/WAY with your modern theologies, ""^^ Bitter and tasteless and cold; Give me the gods and the goddesses Worshipped of old ! Here might the white Aphrodite Arise from the sea, debonnaire, With gay leaves and gray leaves engarlanded. Wringing her hair; Here might the Msenad dance under Vine trellises, pausing to taste With wine-reddened lips the wine rivers, Now running to waste ; To join her, now down from the mountain Comes flying the fleet-footed faun ; The Dyrad slips into oak shadows At breaking of dawn; And here drives the radiant Apollo, With wild fretted steeds all afoam; He shakes his gold hair as he frowns at The laurel in bloom; POETIC PAGANISM. Here jolly old Neptune carouses In mid-channel, here in the lee Of bold rocky cliffs sing the Sirens To sailors at sea; And the wise gray-eyed Pallas Athene Descends upon earth once again, Bearing wisdom — and surely they need it — To councils of men. Pan died; — but his ghost has appeared to me Piping by mountain streams, sweet ! The Satyrs kept time to his music With clattering feet. Pan died;— from Olympus down driven, Where could the fair goddesses flee, If not to the loveliest valley, The sunniest sea ? Take hands then, Melpomene, Thalia, Bow to an audience new ! The reddest red rose in my garden Is sacred to you. Is sacred to you, though the churches The facts of your godhead refuse; Objecting alike to the manner** Of Msunsid and Muse. 37 38 POETIC PAGANISM. Yet as sacred fire died on Greek altars, Bo die down the flames, one by one, Of all ancient or modern religions; All gods are undone, And made powerless, sooner or later; As you fell, the churches will fall; As man dies the gods die ! Faith changes, Time vanquishes all. G^r^tma^ Lewie J\EINK to me, dearest! The name I pledge, As I kiss the goblet's gleaming edge, Is thine, is only thine! Emerald cups to the board I bring, With lily buds engarlanding, Engraven with mystic sign. I drink to thee, dearest! In this wild cup. Fathomless sparkles come bubbling up, And my wits go wandering. I see a wraith in the empty chair, And could almost swear your soul was there, To laugh at the songs I sing! UBdeptOE^. (pj[[T your garden gate I pause, ^ Thinking ! Surely peace reposes Under those enchanting walls, Green with vines and gay with roses. Every sea- wind wandering up, Thrills with perfume, as it passes Over waves of mignonette, Heliotrope in purple masses. In sweet shadows while you walk Wrapped about with golden silence; Sunshine paints your lilies white, Paints with blue the distant islands. Yes, — the heliotrope is sweet, If the heart be^sweet to feel it ; If heaven be not in the heart, Can a passion-flower reveal it? Of the flower and of the fruit, If content be not the warden; He who has a merry heart Need not envy yon your garden, ^mr^eeha ! BLESS the mystical perfume, The sacred juice of Orient bloom. Drink — and the whole cold world is warm; Drink — and thou shalt forget the storm That sweeps the deeps of passion's sea; O wine of wide eternity. Within this sculptured chalice beats Of Death's content the soul and SAveets. Now farewell Fate and farewell Fame; Adieu, O dearer deathless name; Naught stirs the soul that sinks to thee, That melts into eternity. I bless the land that gave thee birth, O vision-blossom of the earth ! I bless the silent slaves that sow, The Indian heats that bid thee grow, The streams that bear thee to the sea, O flower of fair eternity ! AMKEETA. 4) For one the rose, for one the vine. For one heroic bays, — but mine, The poppy garland's gracious gift, As down to dreamless seas I drift. Beyond the dream to dreamless peace. Nirvana's near eternities. CI J>ad Pay. HOPELESS day has died a hopeless death; And nothing left of prayers or tears undone. To Heaven I cried, with vain beseeching breath. And Heaven denied me even the setting sun. For this day died not as all others die, With gold and purple glory garmented; At noon black raiment overspread the sky, And day was cold, ere ever she was dead. With bloodless hands upon a soulless breast, When I shall lie, untouched by love or pain; It will not charm nor change me, though the west Be clad in gold or cowled in gloom again. 1 only asked one day this day no more, What comes beyond I dared to trust untried. And lo ! — the day is dead, was dead before I knew how milch to me her death implied ! jymplzocy. IN the wild exaltation of music, Transfixed by the glory of sound; In the midmost deep ocean of rapture. My heart is in harmonies drowned. But over the sea, from the limits Of light, come tumultuous cries; "O pity me, pray for me, help me, From dust to awake and arise !" The wild music flutters and falters, The singers grow pale and are still ; The stars are unseen and forgotten, The night wind is heavy and chill. And over the water at midnight Is ringing a mystical bell; It strikes on my heart without ceasing, A strange uninterpreted knell. What voice is in distance ? What anguish Appeals to my senses, I cry; But the bell, tolling tangible terrors, But mutters and mocks in reply. SYMPHONY, 48 I wait for tlie morning — I listen For sounds from the shore and the sea; The gray gulls in troops flying inland Forerunners of tempest must be. I know it ! I feel it ! I fear it ! Yet in God's good sunlight I stand, And the sphinx who could answer my questions Lies low — with her face in the sand ! (^cl^e^Itzia Califopmea. THE rose garden, the garden Of roses, of roses alone. Fair is it, rare is it, yet in my garden A daintier blossom has blown; A flower of the South and the Sun, Sown upon limitless plains; Fed by the death of the summer grasses, Watered by winter rains. When the wild spring streams are running. She raises her head, and cries, "Blow off my emerald cap, good wind, And the yellow hair out of my eyes !" And a fair, fine lady she stands, And nods to the dancing sea,: O the rose you have trained is a lovely slave But the wild gold poppy is free ! I°° Leab. t^AS the trampled slave arisen. Liberal, forbearing, free; Out of hateful chains and prison Freshly born to liberty? Can he, with sweet freedom gifted Rise at once to pure delight, Into sudden sunshine lifted, Out of night ? Cruel wounds that festered under Iron links, can he forget? Though the chain be torn asunder, Memory feels its thraldom yet. Years of black despair have taught him Savage hates that cannot cease. Sudden sunshine has not brought him Sudden peace! UiQdep tl^e /Aoant&ir^. ! HE sycamore's emerald palms to me Are shadowy figures that flee and fade. And beckon me up from the sun-burnt sea To a silent canon's dreamy shade; For the hills are green, and the heights arise Over the level of weary eyes. Here is the delicate pink wild rose, And purple flowers whose petals fly From the careless hand, — and faintly blow The sweet wind under the shining sky, Flying up from the far-off sea, — And wild birds sing to the wilds in me. The squirrel looks out of his burrow, with eye* Cunningly turned askance, ami over The grass before us the road-runner flics. And the tufted quail from his cover of clover Whistles as clear as he can, and shrill Answers his mate from her nest on the hill 16 UNDE-R THE MOUNTAIN'S. What if it might be all forever — That we in the blessing of forest palms, Through endless cations might ride, and never Pass from this plenty of golden calms To the raging city — the torrid plain — Or the fitful lights of a savage main ! Is this a time to be torn with fears, Or worn with doubts of a future fate — To mourn the ashes of wasted years, Or the drifting lives left desolate— While the hills are green, and the heights arise Over the level of weary eyes? %^#MTE tenderly, you tell me, dear, ■^ Let bitter memories sleep; No false-mouthed friend need know or hear Of midnight watch you keep. I know it ! Even you, O one More honest than the rest; Would fain behold the weeping done; You love a laugh the best ! J3 Jea D^eam. Yf^O-DAY the ocean softly smiles, And floats my dreams to Indian isles. Temptations draw them south and west To regions of unbounded rest. Though sweet of sweetest, you may say Were love and roses yesterday — The past is done — the future dim , By headlands bold, Hope's darlings swim; It may be wreck, it may be peace, They win beyond unsounded seas; Life's clinging weeds may catch their oars> And hold them off from golden shoves; Death's dripping weeds may drag them down, In sight of dreamed lands to drown ! But seas are sweet and still to-day, About my boat green ripples play, 4