THE OHIO. FLOW on, thou glorious river, Thy mountain-shores between, To where the Mexique's stormy waves Dash on savannas green. Flow on, between the forests That bend above thy side, And 'neath the sky and stars, that lie High in the distant mountains Thy first small fountains gush, And down the steep, through the ravine, In shallow rills they rush; Till in the level valley, Converging from the summits, meet The thousand rills, and blend. And soon the narrow mountain stream, O'er which a child might leap, Holds on its course with a giant's force, In a channel broad and deep. High up among the mountains, The fisher boy is seen, Alone and lounging in the shade, Along the margin green; And not a sound disturbs him, save Flow on, thou mighty river! High-road of nations, flow! And thou shalt flow, when all the woods Upon thy sides are low. Yes, thou shalt flow eternally, Though on thy peopled shore The rising town and dawning state Should sink to rise no more. * Ephraim Peabody. Paso Del Mar, Cal. THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR. YUSTY and raw was the morning, And its gray skirts, rolling inland, No sound was heard but the dashing Of waves on the sandy bar, When Pablo of San Diego Rode down to the Paso del Mar. The pescador, out in his shallop, Loom over the waste of the tide ; Where the faint, moving speck of the rider Seems hovering close to its fall. Stout Pablo of San Diego Rode down from the hills behind; With the bells on his gray mule tinkling He sang through the fog and wind. Under his thick, misted eyebrows Twinkled his eye like a star, And fiercer he sang as the sea-winds Now Bernal, the herdsman of Chino, Leaving the ranches behind him, Good reason had he to be gone! The blood was still red on his dagger, The fury was hot in his brain, And the chill, driving scud of the breakers Beat thick on his forehead in vain. With his poncho wrapped gloomily round him, And the chasms and steeps of the headland When near him a mule-bell came tinkling, "Back!" shouted Bernal, full fiercely, The roar of devouring surges Came up from the breakers' hoarse war; 66 And, 'Back, or you perish!" cried Bernal, "I turn not on Paso del Mar!" The gray mule stood firm as the headland : When Pablo rose up in his saddle And smote till he dropped it again. They fought till the black wall below them And, frenzied with pain, the swart herdsman They grappled with desperate madness, Bayard Taylor. WHERE Pescadero, Cal. THE PESCADERO PEBBLES. HERE slopes the beach to the setting sun, For ever and ever the restless surf Rolls up with its sullen roar. And grasping the pebbles in white hands, And grinding them against the cliffs In stormy and sunny weather, It gives them never any rest; |