EAST AND WEST POEMS (II.), CONTINUED.

ST. THOMAS

BALLAD OF MR. COOKE

LEGENDS OF THE RHINE

MRS. JUDGE JENKINS: SEQUEL TO MAUD MULLER.

AVITOR

A WHITE-PINE BALLAD

LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD

THE RITUALIST

A MORAL VINDICATOR

SONGS WITHOUT SENSE

GRANDMOTHER TENTERDEN

THE IDVIL OF PATTLE HOLLOW

224

POEMS.

SAN FRANCISCO

FROM THE SEA.

SERENE, indifferent of Fate,

Thou sittest at the Western Gate;

Upon thy heights so lately won

Still slant the banners of the sun ;

Thou seest the white seas strike their tents,

O Warder of two Continents!

And scornful of the peace that flies
Thy angry winds and sullen skies,

Thou drawest all things, small or great,
To thee, beside the Western Gate.

B

O lion's whelp! that hidest fast
In jungle growth of spire and mast,

I know thy cunning and thy greed,
Thy hard high lust and wilful deed,

And all thy glory loves to tell
Of specious gifts material.

Drop down, O fleecy Fog! and hide
Her sceptic sneer, and all her pride.

Wrap her, O Fog! in gown and hood Of her Franciscan Brotherhood.

Hide me her faults, her sin and blame; With thy gray mantle cloak her shame!

So shall she, cowlèd, sit and pray
Till morning bears her sins away.

Then rise, O fleecy Fog! and raise
The glory of her coming days;

San Francisco.

Be as the cloud that flecks the seas
Above her smoky argosies.

When forms familiar shall give place
To stranger speech and newer face;

When all her throes and anxious fears
Lie hushed in the repose of years;

When Art shall raise and Culture lift
The sensual joys and meaner thrift,

And all fulfilled the vision, we
Who watch and wait shall never see,-

Who, in the morning of her race,

Toiled fair or meanly in our place,

But, yielding to the common lot,
Lie unrecorded and forgot.

3

THE ANGELUS,

HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868.

BELLS of the Past, whose long-forgotten music
Still fills the wide expanse,

Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present
With colour of romance :

I hear your call, and see the sun descending
On rock and wave and sand,

As down the coast the Mission voices blending
Girdle the heathen land.

Within the circle of your incantation
No blight nor mildew falls;

Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition
Passes those airy walls.

Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, I touch the farther Past,—