Is trail'd along the silver'd sands,
At every sigh and sounding moan.
'Tis not a place of mirthfulness,
But meditation deep, and prayer,
And kneelings on the salted sod,
Where man must own his littleness
And know the mightiness of God.
The very birds shriek in distress
And sound the ocean's monotone.
Dared I but say a prophecy,
As sang the holy men of old,
Of rock-built cities yet to be
Along these shining shores of gold,
Crowding athirst into the sea,
What wondrous marvels might be told!
Enough, to know that empire here
Shall burn her loftiest, brighest star;
Here art and eloquence shall reign,
As o'er the wolf-rear'd realm of old;
Here learn'd and famous from afar,
To pay their noble court, shall come,
And shall not seek or see in vain,
But look on all with wonder dumb.
Afar the bright Sierras lie
A swaying line of snowy white,
A fringe of heaven hung in sight
Against the blue base of the sky.
I look along each gaping gorge,
I hear a thousand sounding strokes
Like giants rending giant oaks,
Or brawny vulcan at his forge;
I see pick-axes flash and shine
And great wheels whirling in a mine.
Here winds a thick and yellow thread,
A moss'd and silver stream instead ;
And trout that leap'd its rippled tide Have turn'd upon their sides and died.
Lo! when the last pick in the mine Is rusting red with idlenesss, And rot yon cabins in the mould, And wheels no more croak in distress, And tall pines reassert command, Sweet bards along this sunset shore Their mellow melodies will pour ; Will charm as charmers very wise, Will strike the harp with master hand, Will sound unto the vaulted skies The valor of these men of old— The mighty men of 'Forty-nine; Will sweetly sing and proudly say, Long, long agone there was a day When there were giants in the land.
CURAMBO! what a cloud of dust
Comes dashing down like driven gust!
And who rides rushing on the sight
Adown yon rocky long defile,
Swift as an eagle in his flight,
Fierce as a winter's storm at night
Blown from the bleak Sierra's height,
Careering down some yawning gorge?
His face is flush'd, his eye is wild,
And 'neath his courser's sounding feet
(A glance could barely be more fleet)
The rocks are flashing like a forge.
Such reckless rider !-I do ween
No mortal man his like has seen.
And yet, but for his long serape
All flowing loose, and black as crape,
And long silk locks of blackest hair
All streaming wildly in the breeze,
You might believe him in a chair,
Or chatting at some country fair
With friend or senorita rare,
He rides so grandly at his ease.
But now he grasps a tighter rein, A red rein wrought in golden chain, And in his tapidaros stands,
Half turns and shakes two bloody hands,
And shouts defiance at his foe;
Now lifts his broad hat from his brow
As if to challenge fate, and now
His hand drops to his saddle-bow
And clutches something gleaming there
As if to something more than dare,
While halts the foe that follow'd fast
As rushing wave or raving blast,
More sudden-swift than though were prest All bridle-bands at one behest.
The stray winds lift the raven curls,
Soft as a fair Castilian girl's,
And press a brow so full and high
Its every feature does belie
The thought he is compell'd to fly;
A brow as open as the sky
On which you gaze and gaze again
As on a picture you have seen
And often sought to see in vain,
That seems to hold a tale of woe
Or wonder, that you fain would know ;
A brow cut deep as with a knife,
With many a dubious deed in life;
A brow of blended pride and pain,
And yearnings for what should have been.
He grasps his gilded gory rein, And wheeling like a hurricane,
Defying wood, or stone, or flood,
Is dashing down the gorge again.
Oh never yet has prouder steed
Borne master nobler in his need!
There is a glory in his eye
That seems to dare and to defy
Pursuit, or time, or space, or race.
His body is the type of speed,
While from his nostril to his heel
Are muscles as if made of steel.
He is not black, nor gray, nor white,
But 'neath that broad serape of night
And locks of darkness streaming o'er,
His sleek sides seem a fiery red-
They may be red with gushing gore.
What crimes have made that red hand red? What wrongs have written that young face With lines of thought so out of place?
Where flies he? And from whence has fled?
And what his lineage and race?
What glitters in his heavy belt,
And from his furr'd catenas gleam?
What on his bosom that doth seem
A diamond bright or dagger's hilt?
The iron hoofs that still resound
Like thunder from the yielding ground
Alone reply; and now the plain,
Quick as you breathe and gaze again,
Is won, and all pursuit is vain.
I STAND upon a stony rim,
Stone-paved and pattern'd as a street ;
A rock-lipp'd canon plunging south,
As if it were earth's open'd mouth,
Yawns deep and darkling at my feet;
So deep, so distant, and so dim
Its waters wind, a yellow thread,
And call so faintly and so far,
I turn aside my swooning head.
I feel a fierce impulse to leap
Adown the beetling precipice,
Like some lone, lost, uncertain star;
To plunge into a place unknown,
And win a world all, all my own;
Or if I might not meet that bliss,
At least escape the curse of this.
I gaze again. A gleaming star Shines back as from some mossy well Reflected from blue fields afar.
Brown hawks are wheeling here and there,
And up and down the broken wall
Cling clumps of dark green chaparral, While from the rent rocks, gray and bare, Blue junipers hang in the air.
Here, cedars sweep the stream, and here, Among the boulders moss'd and brown That time and storms have toppled down From towers undefiled by man,
Low cabins nestle as in fear,
And look no taller than a span.
From low and shapeless chimneys rise
Some tall straight columns of blue smoke,
And weld them to the bluer skies;
While sounding down the sombre gorge
I hear the steady pick-axe stroke,
As if upon a flashing forge.
Another scene, another sound!-
Sharp shots are fretting through the air,
Red knives are flashing everywhere,
And here and there the yellow flood
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