Thou drawest all things, small or great,

To thee, beside the Western Gate.

*

*

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.

SAN FRANCISCO.

Hide me her faults, her sin and blame;

With thy gray mantle cloak her shame!

So shall she, cowléd, sit and pray

Till morning bears her sins away.

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

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;

9

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.