Poems

Front matter

The Author—Martha L. Hoffman

BY

MARTHA L. HOFFMAN

The Spirit of Poesy

POEMS

THE SPIRIT OF POESY

A viewless Spirit walks this changing earth All unattended in her artless grace, Phantoms of sadness blent with gleams of mirth Play o'er the beauty of her child-like face.

She clasps a lyre in unfeigned ecstasy And blends its music with her gentle voice, Weird fancies steeped in subtile phantasy Through its wild chords lament but to rejoice.

Not only to the lofty does she come, To Nature not to Art her song belongs, Oft is her music to the monarch dumb While Nature's children revel in her songs.

She makes the forest trees speak words sublime, She bids the flowers break forth in songs of praise, Commands the stars a voiceless language shine, Teaches the brooks to sing through stony ways.

In her is centered all that earth may boast, That beauty, imagery and time have wrought, The blooming vale or rugged cliff-bound coast Are powerless if her wand has touched them not.

Her footsteps gild the sands upon the beach, Her smiles reflect the heaven's supernal blue, There is no height her magic cannot reach And call forth gleams of beauty strange and new.

She prisons all the sunset's richest dyes And pours them out to Nature's humblest child, Age and disease her wondrous lyre defies To hush its notes of rapture quaint and wild.

She softens sorrow with a plaintive grace, Envelopes death in twilight's mystic spell, Weird lights and shades through all her working chase And glory lingers where she loves to dwell.

Deep in the ocean's fathomless abyss She delves for pearls and visits briny caves, Paints the bright sea-shells, enters to possess The empire where the coral garden waves;

Gathers rare blooms unknown to sunny climes And mosses in perpetual dampness sown, Bears them aloft to Thought's immortal shrines And claims the storms' dominion for her own.

Myriads hear the music of her voice But few can grasp her deathless melody, Many can see her beauty and rejoice But few have power for other eyes to see.

Thousands can feel her presence and the spell She sheds throughout the precincts of the heart, But few her subtile influence can tell And none can teach her teachings but in part;

For her sublimest songs no language find That eloquence can conquer and control, She writes them on the tablets of the mind, They find an echo only in the soul;

But not alone for gladness has she songs, She loves the storm and mighty ocean surge, Varied emotion to her lyre belongs, Her happiest song is followed by the dirge.

Thus does she come with songs of grief and mirth, With life's dark scroll in majesty unrolled, She breathes upon the troubled seas of earth Lo, they gush forth in streams of liquid gold.

Come Poesy, thou sea-nymph quaint and wild, Thou seraph destined 'midst the stars to sing, Thou fairy, Nature's own untutored child, Come when the bloom of life lies withering.

Touch the dim eyes to Nature's glory blind, Kindle the smoldering embers of the heart, Waken the slumbering grandeur of the mind And make the desert own thy magic art.

The Depths

THE DEPTHS

Sublime and wonderful art thou, O deep, Illustrious ocean, vast unmeasured waste! Lost in thy contemplation, I do seem Even as a grain of sand upon thy beach, That shouldst thou reach thy giant arms to grasp Would melt away in thy dissolving foam, Nor yet be missed among the myriads left; Yet in thy calms and tempests, I can read The moods and passions of the human soul; Nor are thy changing winds and tides more real That those that sweep and sway the depths of thought

Calm is thy breast to-day, thou fitful main, And yet perchance before the eastern star Sheds o'er thy surface her supernal beams, High on yon crags thy maddened spray shall dash And the wild roar of elemental war Shall cause the dwellers on thy cliffs to quake And the brave mariner to grow sick at heart.

Why is this murmuring, this wild unrest? This never-ending conflict with thyself, As if thou wouldst burst through thy massive gates And fling thy treasures through celestial space, Strew the pale Occident with coral sprays And the blue zenith with ten-thousand gems; Or scatter pearls throughout the Orient flames; Or yet go seething through yon crested heights And with a voice like Gabriel's trumpet, tell The pent-up secrets of thy hidden depths Unto the flaming beacon of the day?

'Tis vain—with all thy vast gigantic power, Thou canst but cast a few frail treasures forth, Perchance a seaweed spray or tinted shell,

Dripping and glistening from thy briny surf, Cast out upon the sands, that wheresoe'er Fate or caprice may bear its fragile form, A whispered song from its pink lips is heard That seems to speak of caverns deep and lone Sunk in thy heaving bosom, restless sea, That eye hath never seen, nor yet a ray From the bright flickering lamps of Heaven has pierced.

Thus do the surges of the spirit rise And dash against their narrow prison walls, Clap their rapt wings and long for liberty; Or in a vague unrest beat to and fro, Forever striving to yield up the things That pent in their own beings will not rest Ah! like the sea, they only render up Perchance a thought from out their hidden caves, That, like the sea-shell, murmurs of the depths That slept before undreamed of far below; Within the human soul lie depths as deep As ever slept within the ocean's breast, And heights that rise beyond the breaker's crest In the vain wish to pass their narrow bound.

Lo, o'er the depths of ocean and of soul Breathes forth a voice that calms their wild unrest: "Peace, be thou still," "to me thou shalt yield up, The garnered fullness of thy hidden things; To me the deep shall pour her treasures out; To me the ocean shall her secrets tell; At my command the sea shall burst her gates And the chained treasures of the depths come forth;" So shall the soul break forth at last in song; So shall her pent-up longings be unloosed To sweep adown the aisles of endless time; So shall the depths therein in endless praise Pour out their garnered fullness unto God.

Trust

TRUST

Fear not to tread the unknown way, my heart; If God takes from thee any earthly part, He fills the measure up with better worth; As much of Heaven, as hath been lost of earth.

Shun that mirage upon whose shifting brink No dying traveler ever stooped to drink, For no alluring pleasure turn aside From where the landmarks of your duty guide.

Not unto bliss or misery are we born, To wealth and honor or to want and scorn, But to a world where each his work is given The reward of faithfulness,—one common Heaven.

Our destiny in our own hands we sway Claim if we will or cast the prize away, By no degree of judgment unexplained Is Heaven lost, or Paradise regained.

Fear not, my heart, though God hath taken all Thine earthly cup of happiness contains, When all of earth is lost beyond recall, Lo, all of Heaven remains.

Fame

FAME

Millions have gazed upon thy towering height, O envied Fame! And millions fain would on thy record write A fadeless name.

But oh, how many of this mighty throng While years have flown, Have lived and died and left life's changing song, To fame unknown!

Ah! many a fair ambition-gilded gem, So dearly prized, Has faded from Hope's golden diadem Unrealized.

And are they lost—gone never to return Dead songs of vanished years— And nothing left but lessons hard to learn, Through bitter, blinding tears?

Yes; many who might stand at Honor's side With laurels crowned, But struggle to fulfil through Time's slow tide, Life's common round.

And some, who might have found Fame's golden throne A well-earned destiny, Leave not behind a monumental stone To tell their history;

Too good to leave for other hands to do Their common daily task, Faithful to duty, to their Maker true; No higher lot they ask.

Forgotten? Oh, those many unmarked graves, Strewn over land and sea! Naught but the desert winds and ocean waves Rehearse their memory.

But oh! in immortality arrayed In Heaven they dwell, Though years have vanished, since to earth they bade A long farewell.

But not alone the poor and humble rest Where willows wave, The highest paths of power and fame, at last Lead to the grave.

Ah! hear the dirge that all mankind must learn: Place not on earth thy trust, For dust thou art, to dust shalt thou return, Dust unto dust.

A queen lay on her death-bed, 'round her shone Beauty and luxury; But what to her was now her princely throne And mighty monarchy?

Lost to the world would soon her presence be, And ghosts of vanished years, Thronged 'round her bed, laughed at her misery And mocked her tears.

But memory saw another being there, Her crown of gold, The jewels sparkling on her waving hair Roused fears untold.

Again she saw the warrant she had signed To seal another's fate, And sought for peace and mercy but to find Her search too late,

And uttered; knowing that 'twould soon be o'er, The last words she could say Before the proud tongue paused to speak no more, "A kingdom for a day!"

A kingdom—all its wealth and princely dowers To gladly give, Just for a few more, weary, lingering hours In which to live.

In which to make her peace with Heaven secure Before her tongue was dumb, In which to make her blackened record pure Ere death should come.

How short is human Fame, how very soon Is passed Life's little day, Her wealth and beauty journey to the tomb; Her glories fade away.

How small is Fame—beyond her golden sands, Beyond the clouds, we see The shining bow of promise, spans Time and eternity.

The Requiem of the Dove

"Tall mariposa tulips smile, among the reeds and rushes"

THE REQUIEM OF THE DOVE

Across the marshes' willowy fringe and seas of sunlight golden, Across the meadows purple-tinged with buds but half unfolden, Where helpless, yearning tendrils cling, And fancied fairies lightly swing, With all the gladsome springtime bloom that brooks no phantom thought of gloom, Is blent one song of sorrow.

Who is the bard that dares to sing one note of aught but gladness? Who is the sprite that comes to ring one floral bell in sadness? When perched upon the mossy wall The meadow lark is prince of all, While joy ecstatic at his call resounds from mere to mountain.

From orange groves and spicy isles gay minstrels are returning, While roses glow with sunny smiles, their blush to ashes burning, Stray ripples laugh through banks of fern, Grim rocks the gladsome message learn, The trees rejoice at Spring's return, and clap their hands for gladness.

But over all this vernal glee 'midst Nature's reckless wooing, Intrudes like sorrow's prophecy a mournful, plaintive cooing; Somewhere a lonely songster sings Of scattered leaves and vanished springs, And all her pent-up anguish brings to mock the joy of Nature.

Wild thickets, dense with briers and weeds, are glad with sounds of pleasure, On grassy slopes the shy fawn feeds and gambols at his leisure; But one sad seeress from her hill Casts over all an icy chill, Sways the rapt listener at her will, and floods his soul with sadness.

How canst thou come, thou mournful one, each breeze with sorrow loading? Why chant beneath a smiling sun one note of dark foreboding? When light is dancing in the dells, When music through the forest swells, And fairies ring their dewy bells, why chant that all are dying?

Tall mariposa tulips smile, among the reeds and rushes Wild tiger-lilies droop the while to hide their conscious blushes; But still from meadows far away Resounds that plaintive, mournful lay, Rebuking all the thoughtless play of Nature's artless children.

Come in the Autumn, dauntless seer, when withered leaves are falling, Then is the time o'er Nature's bier to mind thy mournful calling; But not in Spring's supernal bloom Should Nature whisper of the tomb, Or prophets come with thoughts of gloom to blight her youth and beauty.

But still from out her lonely haunt is borne her sad replying: There is of youth no lasting font, there is no end but dying, The flowers that on the hillsides bloom And all that share their sweet perfume Shall mingle in one common tomb, for all but love is dying.

Awake, rapt songsters of the grove, and sing of mirth and gladness, Drown with the melodies of love that solemn voice of sadness; The winds her mournful omens waft, Then let them bear your notes aloft, Ye at the font of love have quaffed, and love shall live forever.

Hark! what a mingled burst of sound with every breath more thrilling, From ridge to ridge its echoes bound, the loftiest hope fulfilling, Wild rapture rends the balmy air, Soft carols find an echo there, The dove's low requiem has its share in Spring's complete outpouring.

Join with the rest, thou gentle dove; there is no song of gladness But grows more tenderly complete when linked with notes of sadness, Then chant thy sweet, pathetic strain, Spring waits to hear thy soft refrain, Calling her to accept a throne Where gladness cannot reign alone, but joy and grief are blending.

Song of the Cricket

SONG OF THE CRICKET

When the Summer moonlight evening, weird, fantastic shades creating, Wrapped within her sombre mantle, treads the sunset's slanting bars, An unrivaled nightly singer in some unseen crevice waiting Times his slumbrous twilight sonnet to the twinkling of the stars.

Hushed is now the plumaged songster, finished is his rich outpouring, While the honey-bee in silence seeks his darkened royal cell; The grasshopper no longer chirps from Nature's grassy flooring, But one tireless voice undaunted chants no Summer-night farewell.

Not the royal moth's low whirring, or the breeze's whispered story Makes the stilly air seem teeming with the same repeated note; Not the cry so weird and stirring of the night-owl, old and hoary, Is the serenade that nightly through my window loves to float.

Floating through my open window in its wiry, humdrum meter, While the stars so slyly twinkling time his nightly serenade; Many a song is much more thrilling—many another surely sweeter, But a truer perseverance has no other bard displayed.

Rain on the Mown Grass

ppoem| RAIN ON THE MOWN GRASS

{sm} (He shall come down like rain upon the mown grass: as showers that water the earth."—Ps. 72:6.)

The sweet wild roses are nodding farewell

To the beautiful month of May,

While the wind-sprites waft on their sunlit-wings

The aroma of new-mown hay.

June, frolicking midst the orange groves

And palms of the southern clime,

Heard the voice of Summer among the pines

And hastened to be in time.

She came o'er the fields with a lightsome step,

The berries with gladness flushed,

While the roses greeting their virgin queen

A deeper crimson blushed.

The asphodel waves on the bare hill-slopes

And down by the crystal spring,

The birds from the alder's inviting shade

Their June-time carols sing.

The fishes are swimming lazily

O'er the sands of the pebbly brook,

While smiling June wreathes the wild grape-vine

O'er many a cozy nook.

But a change comes over her radiant face,

One sigh the Summer hears,

And the eyes of her fair young princess

Are overflowing with tears.

|end=stanza

Has she thought of the frosts of Autumn Making her leaves a tomb, Or does she mourn that her roses Are withering as they bloom?

But look, there's a smile on her tearful face Unknown to foreboding fears; Happy June is but weeping for gladness, She waters her fields with her tears.

Down on the new-mown grasses And stubble, the cool showers pour, The thirsty land drinks up the rain-drops And eagerly asks for more.

Down on the drouth and barrenness As an answer to Nature's prayer, The rose may drink of the cooling flood And the weeds may have a share.

So over Life's hard, dry stubble, From heavens of burnished brass, The mercy of God is descending As rain on the new-mown grass.

Experimentum Crusis

tpp|EXPERIMENTUM CRUSIS|

{sm}("The fire shall try every man's work."—1 Cor. 3:13.)

Is it delusion when we break the seal

That false opinion has set on the tombs

Of mighty truths that sleep 'mid silent glooms,

And catch one glimpse of the living real

That rises to confront us?

Thus I saw (but for a moment and in awed surprise)

All the work of my life, and, furnace-tried,

The dross consumed, and but the gold abide,

And God's truth stood unveiled before my eyes—

Then vanished, save to memory.

No more I count my greater triumphs great,

No more my little victories are small;

Since I hold still, amidst the loss of all

The deathless glory of unselfish love and conquered hate,

Brighter than trophies of unrighteous war.

O, little kindnesses that were not set

To sparkle in the crowns of emperors!

O, human victories that the God of wars

Shall not forget!

These, these remain when every work is tried.

No more I covet the reward of fame;

The Christ-like spirit in each given task

Immortal gold—truth, faith, and love—

I ask.

These shall not waste in flame.

Unwritten History

UNWRITTEN HISTORY

There are romances unwritten, there are poems never penned, There are battles all unseen and unrenowned, There are heroines and heroes, that no record shall attend, There are hidden histories never to be found, There are songs unsung and comedies and tragedies untold, There are words of grandest eloquence unsaid, There are gems of thought and feeling that no settings ever hold, Books unprinted, scenes unpainted, lives unread. On the printed page encircled by the rainbow pledge of Fame, In the paintings in the gallery of Art, In the sea of song that surges with full many a deathless name Are the things that thrill the World's great mind and heart. Not alone on walls and bookshelves left by progress far behind, Not alone on lips that once could sway with speech, Not alone on souls and intellects to light and beauty blind Are the World's great heart-throbs lost to thrill or teach. Like a bird-song on the silence of the forest's slumbrous aisles, Like a wild-flower in the weeds and grasses lost, Like a sunbeam that unnoticed for a moment gleams and smiles, Like a sparkling wavelet on a trackless coast, Unheard, unseen, unnoticed in Nature's vast domain, Save by the great Creator's ceaseless care, Are waves of thought and feeling, of ecstasy and pain Lost with the mists of morning on the air; A song has surged unbidden through the cloister of a soul And the angels, yes, the angels must have heard,

But no human audience spell-bound listened to its ocean roll. Pure and peaceful as the music of a bird A thought like some sweet wild-flower has blossomed in a heart And the angels watched its petals bright unfold But no mortal knew the beauty of its poetry and art, No tongue its hidden jewel ever told. A sunbeam has illumined perchance a darkened path— A sunbeam bright with love and light and hope, Or a shadow dark with sadness, or black with hate and wrath O'er some life's young morn of promise dared to grope; 'Tis but a common life-wave that beat upon the beach Till broken on the rocks and backward cast It left no spray of seaweed or tinted shell in reach, Forgotten 'midst the surges of the past. When the clang of war is over there are heroes lifted high Whose noble deeds a nation's tongue applaud But oh, the many thousands who have dared to do and die Unhonored, for their country and their God! Where would the great commanders' illustrious laurels be, The generals' career of high renown But for the common soldiers unknown to history Like grain before the harvesters cut down? O'er the dust of battle-heroes there are monuments upraised Where the pennon of their triumph proudly waves But oh, the battle-heroes unhonored and unpraised At rest where grasses creep o'er unmarked graves! And some as brave, unshrinking in Duty's arduous path As the grandest hero history can name— They faced the red artillery, the cannon's demon wrath And wrote in lines of blood another's fame. Oh, the heroes who have figured on the great world's changing stage!

Oh, the names that have been handed down the years! Every Nation has its heroes, its famous, every age, Monarchs of its scrolls and parchment, swords and spears; But like a few sands gathered from the ocean's glittering beach To the heroes and the heroines (are they) Who have fought life's battles bravely, who have lived to learn and teach But whose memoirs with their lives have passed away. Oh, the books that have been published, the histories compiled! Oh, the words that have been written, sung and said! They are nothing to the volumes o'er which few have wept or smiled Books unprinted, scenes unpainted, lives unread!

Angelus

ANGELUS

Angels are singing, angels of light! Angels are winging their homeward flight, Lo, while we grope in the darkness to-day Guardian angels are leading the way!

Had we but visions like Jacob of old In dreams Elysian their forms to behold, Would we not see them seraphic and fair Treading the steeps of the sun-gilded air?

Lightly descending, or rising above, Each one attending an errand of love; Each on a mission of mercy intent; Each on a wonderful pilgrimage sent.

What are they noting, of hearts and of homes? What message floating to yonder bright domes? What through those gates will their entering bring? What are they bearing aloft to their King?

Some may be telling of souls clad in white Patiently dwelling in sorrow and night, Some may be telling of evil and wrong Saddening the strains of their beautiful song.

(Long years ago with his wonderful skill Michael Angelo sought to fulfill All his high thoughts of the angels of light Thronging our pathway in daytime and night.

In the cathedral where grandly he wrought, Toiling on, faithful and true to his thought, Angels look down from their stations to-day Though the great artist has long passed away.

Angels encamping around and on high, Angels adorning the miniature sky, Legions of angels in fanciful air Lovingly guarding the worshipers there.

Beautiful thought, may our life-work be crowned By troops of angels encamping around, Guardian hosts that their vigil shall keep Through the long years while from labor we sleep.)

Oh, are we treading the beautiful way? Angels encamping around us to-day Gladly will bear up the message to-night Souls have been walking in garments of white.

What though the road seemeth tedious and long, What though no word of their beautiful song Floats from the heavens our pathway to cheer, Angels are singing and angels are near.

Far, far, above us their glad songs arise Oh, do they love us at home in the skies? Sometime our harps to their choir we will bring, Learn their glad anthem and sing as they sing.

Easter Anthem

ppoem| EASTER ANTHEM

{sm} (Arise, shine; for thy light is come and the glory of the Lord is risen upon thee.—Is. 60:1.)

The Lord liveth, alleluia!

Let the heavens and earth be glad;

Lo, with her unnumbered voices

All the universe rejoices

In the excellence of glory He from the beginning had.

The Lord liveth, alleluia!

Let the heavens and earth be glad.

The Lord liveth, alleluia!

Let the stars together sing,

With His glory on them falling,

Higher yet His name extolling,

In exceeding rapture telling of the universal King.

The Lord liveth, alleluia!

Let the stars together sing.

The Lord liveth, alleluia!

Let the cedars clap their hands,

With His sunshine o'er them streaming,

With His glory 'round them gleaming;

Lo, from out death's darkness risen, in eternal life He stands!

The Lord liveth, alleluia!

Let the cedars clap their hands.

The Lord liveth, alleluia!

Open wide the starry gates

Of the universe before Him;

All His wondrous works adore Him;

Lo, he cometh, cometh, cometh; for His word His chariot waits.

The Lord liveth, alleluia!

Open wide the starry gates. |end=stanza

The Lord liveth, alleluia! Everlasting life is thine, Thine the glorious life He liveth, Thine the light He only giveth; In His own exceeding brightness, oh, arise and shine! The Lord liveth, alleluia! Everlasting life is thine.

The Lord liveth, alleluia! Angels rolled the stone away, Praises winged from harps and timbrels Hover o'er earth's living symbols, Lilies wake from dark earth's keeping; bright wings burst your bands to-day The Lord liveth, alleluia! Angels rolled the stone away.

Rock of Ages

ROCK OF AGES 1884

"Rock of Ages," sang the maiden, Knew she not of fear or dread, Stifling air with hot smoke laden Beat about her youthful head.

Red flames curled above, below her, Shrieks of terror rent the air, Angry flames leaped closer, closer 'Till they almost touched her hair;

Still the song's sweet, peaceful music Rose above the wails of woe "Till the breezes bore it downward To the hurrying crowd below.

"Hark!" they said, "Who is it singing?" And they strained their eyes to see While the sweet song went on ringing Forth its peaceful melody.

Dimly through the smoke and blackness They beheld a woman's form Clinging to an upper casement Singing midst the fiery storm;

Listened they in breathless silence Through that burning, seething sea, Came the words distinctly, clearly: "Rock of Ages cleft for me."

"Raise the ladders, we will rescue Her who sings mid fire and smoke." "I will go, she shall not perish," Thus the strong, brave fireman spoke;

Soon they reached the lonely figure Standing on death's frightful brink, The flames almost caught her garments But she did not pause or shrink;

Back again to earth they brought her To the frightened, wondering throng And they asked in eager questions All about her wondrous song.

"Could I fear," she said, "when o'er me Seeing, hearing, knowing all There was One who ever watchful Heeds the sparrows when they fall?"

Wondrous faith, to stand there singing With what seemed her dying breath, Sweetest song when angels listened, Glorious victory over death!

Accepted and Rejected

ACCEPTED AND REJECTED

A modern bard of some renown Scribbled a few weak couplets down And sent them to his printer, Then fell asleep to wait the fee That purchased gaiety and ease For all the coming winter.

The printer read the name thereto, "Not time to look the poem through What use to question further?" No doubt a treasure he possessed. The sum is sent with the request Ere long for such another.

An humble, unknown pen inscribed A poem, yet by gold unbribed, Inwrought with Truth's pure spirit, Rich with the costly gems of thought And all with glistening beauty fraught Of real and lasting merit.

The printer giving half askance The signature a passing glance Consigned it to the stubble, Ignored the simple terms proposed But kept the return stamp enclosed To pay him for his trouble.

Leonard Lake

LEONARD LAKE

Up where the tall Coast mountain peaks Smile neath the azure skies, Where the voice of nature's goddess speaks And the startled deer through the forest leaps, A calm little lakelet lies.

On its green banks the redwood towers And drops its bursting cones, Sweet bird-songs while away the hours And the south wind rustles through the flowers, Or in the tree-top moans.

To the oak-tree the wild-grape vine In emerald splendor clings, From the deep shade, pink star-flowers shine, And the graceful bell of the columbine In the gentle zephyr swings.

I remember the slopes where the tulips blow, And the cool refreshing spring; The banks where the beautiful green ferns grow And the waters dark and deep below, And the songs the wild birds sing.

In vain do I sing of the exquisite grace Of mountain and lake and tree; Should an artist's skillful pencil trace The varied outlines of rustic grace, 'Twould at best but a shadow be.

Fain would I picture each perfect part, With the sound of the dashing oar, Though deeply engraven on mind and heart I cannot to other minds impart The charms that for me they wore.

California

CALIFORNIA

A land with peace and plenty crowned, Where luxury and wealth abound; A land where Freedom's goddess reigns Unfettered by Oppression's chains. A land where every clime is found, Where different races till the ground. Here tropic fruits and flowers grow And Summer's softest breezes blow. Here too, tall mountain-columns glow In regions of perpetual snow; While various climates lie between Hills clad in robes of living green, And vales with golden harvests blest, By sunbeams and soft winds caressed. The great Pacific's broad expanse Spreads out before the traveler's glance, And in her ceaseless song, he hears The memories of forgotten years; Ere man beheld her peaceful shore Or listened to the breaker's roar. Yosemite lifts her domes and spires And tunes to Heaven her native lyres, Her cataracts in torrents fall, Her mountains form a mighty wall; And all their princely peaks combine To guard proud Grandeur's loftiest shrine. The mammoth trees, like giants stand, Stationed to guard their native land. Kings of the forest's leafy throne By countless angry tempests blown; Resisting ruin and decay, They live, while nations pass away. The tall Sierras, towering high, Print the pale arches of the sky;

And like proud, princely monarchs, throw Their shadows in the lakes below; And o'er the flowery bowers of green, Where Calliope dwells unseen, The grandeur of their lofty domes Falls softly o'er the peaceful homes; Where man can undisturbed abide Far from the gilded pomp of Pride. The birds, their flight through tree-tops wing And sing at eve their vesper hymn, And when the sunlight hails the morn, Chant through the woods their native song. The rivers, flowing from the hills, The flowers, low-bending o'er the rills,— All help to make the land more fair, And scatter beauty everywhere. Long years ago, our fathers came To seek a land, whose wide-spread fame Had echoed through the world abroad, And sounded o'er the eastern sod; 'Till hundreds with bright hopes, elate, Journeyed to find the golden State. O'er wastes of land, through trials untold, They came to dig the precious gold. At night they made their lonely bed Beside some winding, silvery thread. At morn the trackless plain they pressed And faced again the sunlit west. O'er mountain paths, their way they wound; "Till on fair California's ground, They stood beneath her stately pines And viewed at last her famous mines. Some chose no more abroad to roam And made the western State their home; Some, who had come for gain and gold, Went back to find their homes of old; But all unsatisfied were they