Upbearing, like the Ark of old, The Bible in our van, We go to test the truth of God No pause, nor rest, save where the streams That feed the Kansas run, Save where our Pilgrim gonfalon Shall flout the setting sun! We'll tread the prairie as of old And make the West, as they the East, John Greenleaf Whittier. ARKANSAS. SUNSET IN ARKANSAS. UNSET again! Behind the massy green SUN Of the continuous oaks the sun hath fallen, And his last rays have struggled through, between The leaf-robed branches, as hopes intervene Amid grave cares. The western sky is wallen With shadowy mountains, built upon the marge Of the horizon, from eve's purple sheen, And thin, gray clouds, that insolently lean Their silver cones upon the crimson verge Of the high zenith, while their unseen base Is rocked by lightning. It will show its eye When dusky Night comes. Eastward, you can trace No stain, no spot of cloud upon a sky, Pure as an angel's brow. The winds have folded up their swift wings now, And, all asleep, high up in their cloud-cradles lie. Beneath the trees, the dusky, purple glooms In windless solitude. The young flower-blooms Of odor, which they yield not at the call And the sad whippoorwill, with lonely din. There is a deep, calm beauty all around, A heavy, massive, melancholy look, A unison of lonely sight and sound, Which touch us, till the soul can hardly brook They do not wring from the full heart a tear, But give us heavy thoughts, like reading a sad book. * * * Albert Pike. MINNESOTA. THE MINNESOTA WATER-SHED. BEHOLD the rocky wall That down its sloping sides Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall, In rushing river-tides! Yon stream, whose sources run The slender rill had strayed, But for the slanting stone, To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid So from the heights of Will And, as a moment turns its slender rill, From the same cradle's side, From the same mother's knee, — Oliver Wendell Holmes. I CALIFORNIA. STAND beside the mobile sea; And sails are spread, and sails are furled Afar at sea some white shapes flee, And cloud-like sails far blown and curled, Then glide down to the under-world. As if blown bare in winter blasts I seem to see them gleam and shine Behold the ocean on the beach While far at sea do toss and reach Is trailed along the silvered sands, Dared I but say a prophecy, As sang the holy men of old, Of rock-built cities yet to be What wondrous marvels might be told! Afar the bright Sierras lie I look along each gaping gorge, I hear a thousand sounding strokes Like giants rending giant oaks, Or brawny Vulcan at his forge; I see pickaxes flash and shine And great wheels whirling in a mine. Here winds a thick and yellow thread, A mossed and silver stream instead; And trout that leaped its rippled tide Have turned upon their sides and died. Lo! when the last pick in the mine Is rusting red with idleness, |