Who pulls the weeds from the garden-walks,
And shields from the sun the tender stalks;
In whose boat the fisher's children ride
And sing as he rows to the farther side
About whose feet each helpless thing
May buzz and blossom and crawl and sing,
Brother Antonio, who gave his gold
To build this home for the sick and old;
Who teaches the lads in the village class;
Who helps old Hermann mow the grass,
Or sits at his door in the twilight dim,
And sings with his sons their mother's hymn.
The ships come in with their emigrant poor
Crowded like sheep on the steerage-floor;
But smiles on the lips of the feeblest play
As Brother Antonio leads the way,
Guiding their babes with a tender care
Down the noisy deck and the gangway-stair
To the hospital grounds so fresh and cool, Where the gold-fish glance in the sparkling pool,
And the gentle Sisters day and night
Watch by the sick on their couches white.
Many a nook in the graveyard fair
Is bright with lilies and roses rare;
But one wild spot by the river-side
Is fairest at midnight's solemn tide;
And there, where the green palmetto's fan
Shadows a headstone gray and wan,
Where the long moss swings and the eddies moan,
Brother Antonio prays, alone.
ON THE BLUFF.
GRANDLY flowing river!
O silver-gliding river!
Thy springing willows shiver
In the sunset as of old;
They shiver in the silence
Of the willow-whitened islands,
While the sun-bars and the sand-bars
Fill air and wave with gold.
O gay, oblivious river!
O sunset-kindled river!
Do you remember ever
The eyes and skies so blue
On a summer day that shone here,
When we were all alone here,
And the blue eyes were too wise
To speak the love they knew?
O stern impassive river!
O still unanswering river!
The shivering willows quiver
As the night-winds moan and rave.
From the past a voice is calling,
From heaven a star is falling,
And dew swells in the bluebells
Above her hillside grave.
On whose fair bosom first of all their race, Marquette and Joliet float, and fondly dream Of empires new and heathen brought to grace. How pride and wonder lighted up each face While down the stream the brave explorers sped, Marking the devious windings as they trace The noble river's wood-environed bed
To where Missouri's waves the gentle waters wed.
Untamed and restless river! in thy bed,
From Cape Girardeau to the delta's verge,
Vibrating waywardly; thy wild waves fed
With spoil of shores down-fallen in the surge,
And floating forests, which thy waters urge
In endless drift into the distant sea,
Where thou and all thy hundred confluents merge;
In thy long reaching flow still shalt thou be
From man's restraining masonry forever free!
Monterey, Cal.
THE PINE FOREST OF MONTEREY.
WHAT point of Time, unchronicled, and dim
As yon gray mist that canopies your heads,
Took from the greedy wave and gave the sun
Your dwelling-place, ye gaunt and hoary Pines ?
When, from the barren bosoms of the hills,
With scanty nurture, did ye slowly climb,
Of these remote and latest-fashioned shores
The first-born forest? Titans gnarled and rough,
Such as from out subsiding Chaos grew
To clothe the cold loins of the savage earth,
What fresh commixture of the elements,
What earliest thrill of life, the stubborn soil
Slow-mastering, engendered ye to give
The hills a mantle and the wind a voice?
Along the shore ye lift your rugged arms,
Blackened with many fires, and with hoarse chant, —
Unlike the fibrous lute your co-mates touch
In elder regions, — fill the awful stops
Between the crashing cataracts of the surf.
Have ye no tongue, in all your sea of sound,
To syllable the secret, -no still voice
To give your airy myths a shadowy form,
And make us of lost centuries of lore
Your mossy beards, and gathering as they sweep,
Vex your high heads, and with your sinewy arms
Grapple and toil in vain. A deeper roar,
Sullen and cold, and rousing into spells
Of stormy volume, is your sole reply.
Anchored in firm-set rock, ye ride the blast,
And from the promontory's utmost verge
Make signal o'er the waters. So ye stood,
When, like a star, behind the lonely sea,
Far shone the white speck of Grijalva's sail;
And when, through driving fog, the breaker's sound
Frighted Otondo's men, your spicy breath
Played as in welcome round their rusty helms,
And backward from its staff shook out the folds
Of Spain's emblazoned banner.
Ye bear no record of the years of man.
Spring is your sole historian, -Spring, that paints
These savage shores with hues of Paradise;
That decks your branches with a fresher green,
And through your lonely, far cañadas pours
Her floods of bloom, rivers of opal dye
That wander down to lakes and widening seas
Of blossom and of fragrance, - laughing Spring,
That with her wanton blood refills your veins,
And weds ye to your juicy youth again
With a new ring, the while your rifted bark
Drops odorous tears. Your knotty fibres yield
To the light touch of her unfailing pen,
As freely as the lupin's violet cup.
Ye keep, close-locked, the memories of her stay,
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