THE ANGELUS,

HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868.

ELLS of the Past, whose long-forgotten music

BELLS

Still fills the wide expanse,

Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present

With color 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,

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,

The priest in stole of snow.

Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting

Above the setting sun;

And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting

The freighted galleon.

THE ANGELUS.

solemn bells! whose consecrated masses

Recall the faith of old,

O tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight music
The spiritual fold!

Your voices break and falter in the darkness,-
Break, falter, and are still;

And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending,
The sun sinks from the hill!

13

THE MOUNTAIN HEART'S-EASE.

BY scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting,

By furrowed glade and dell,

To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, Thou stayest them to tell

The delicate thought, that cannot find expression,

For ruder speech too fair,

That, like thy petals, trembles in possession,

And scatters on the air.

The miner pauses in his rugged labor,

And, leaning on his spade,

One moment only, for the pick, uplifting,

Through root and fibre cleaves,

And on the muddy current slowly drifting
Are swept thy bruiséd leaves.