SAN FRANCISCO. O lion's whelp, that hidest fast In jungle growth of spire and mast, I know thy cunning and thy greed, 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 Hide me her faults, her sin and blame; So shall she, cowléd, sit and pray Then rise, O fleecy Fog, and raise The glory of her coming days; H 109 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. THE ANGELUS. HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868. BELLS of the Past, whose long-forgotten music Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present 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,— I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, The sunset dream and last! Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers, The white Presidio ; The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting Above the setting sun; And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting The freighted galleon. O solemn bells! whose consecrated masses Recall the faith of old,— O tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight music The spiritual fold! |