Beneath their burden; up the steeps The martial strains arise and songs of merriment.

I pluck an aster on the crest;

It is a child of one, I know, Plucked here two hundred years ago, And worn upon the slave-queen's breast,

O, that this blossom had a tongue to tell its woe.

FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE.

[U. s. A.]

LOS ANGELES.

SHE sits amid her orange-trees,
Our Lady of Los Angeles,

The shining city of the sun,
And counts the seasons as they flee,
Like beads from off a rosary,

That slip and sparkle one by one.

Upon the outer solitudes
The demon of the desert broods,

The ocean chafes and murmurs near;
But safe within her garden wall
She hears these ancient foemen call,
With tranquil, inattentive ear.

At close of day from yonder height
I saw her robed in evening light,

One white star like an opal showing; Her roses drooped in slumber sweet, But oh, the lilies at her feet

Upheld their censers overflowing.

"Tell me," I said, "O city fair, What dreams pervade this sunset air, What memories stir this purple splen

dor?

For surely magic worketh here, And in the stillness I can hear Reverberations wild yet tender."

Was it enchantment? Suddenly all her roses had vanished!

Fled were the vestal lilies, their incense spilled and forsaken,

And dreams within her emerald tent; Yonder are picnic tables bent

orange-groves and the vineyards

Rolled away like a wave and were lost

in the ocean of sunset.

It was the twilight age, when gods from the heaven descending, Choosing some grassy dell or cañon bordered with pine-trees,

Made them lodges of boughs and dwelt among men and were happy. But one unknown to them all had chosen this for her dwelling;

Perhaps she had wandered away from the land of frost and of glacier, Or come from the cold sea deeps, for her face was white, and speechless She glided over the vale with a graceful, willowy motion.

Her robe was of silvery texture with woven pearls for her girdle, Her tresses white as snow, a veil of ineffable splendor,

And all who looked in her face reflected its luminous beauty.

By day she dwelt unseen, but night after night she wandered

Pacing soft and slow the dewy emerald verdure,

And if some child awoke and cried out in midnight terror,

Lo! she stood in the door of his lodge and her sweet look calmed him. Fain would the children of men have kept her always among them,

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'High over hill and cloud," he said, "let us journey together,

I will build thee a lodge afar in the purple meadows,

With curtains of fleecy mist, and when

thou shalt walk at even,

The stars at thy feet shall blossom, a gar

den of golden daisies." Ah! though her face was cold, and her

beautiful lips were silent, The heart within her was warm, and at last to his passion responded. Then came a night when in vain the chil

dren of men watched her coming,Hushed were the fragrant winds, and everywhere silent, trembling, Old and young looked forth and waited

in strange expectation. Suddenly, up in the sky, forever away and above them,

Shone the beautiful face enveloped in snow-white tresses,

And they knew that the god who loved her had taken her up into heaven! Age after age they bowed before her in fond adoration;

For though she was now the Moon, and queen of the heavenly gardens, Once she had dwelt among them, dwelt in Los Angeles valley.

O Lady of Los Angeles!
Not on such eerie tales as these

Let now thy musing fancy feed; Though surely never moonlight fell With such a wild enchanting spell

On mount or glen or velvet mead.

It was thy happier fate to see
The Indians' rude idolatry

Of spirits both of earth and heaven,
Of voices in the darkness heard,
Of serpent, beast, and singing-bird,

From every ancient fastness driven.

What loftier music fills the ear?
What forms are these approaching near,
Their brows alight with coming day?
While up the shadowy mountain-side
The sullen tribes of darkness glide,
And from the daybreak hide away?

Again a twilight veil enshrouded the dreamland valley,

Again the walls and spires and blossoming orchards vanished; Wide spread the silent plain, and like the slow path of a serpent

Wound over glistening sands the trail of Los Angeles river.

Silent all, did I say? There is music heard in the distance! Nearer it swells and nearer, a clangor of gladness and triumph.

And now, distinct to the vision, approaches a strange procession. First come gray-haired men, the soldiers of many battles,

Loyal sous of Spain, grown old in her honored service,

After them walk the Fathers, priests of San Gabriel Mission,

Their Indian neophytes bearing the candles, the cross, and the banner

On which like a holy lily is painted the face of Our Lady.

Women were there and children, all lifting up jubilant voices, For here henceforth was their home, the royal gift of their monarch. Home! the word on their lips was sweet

as the dew of heaven!

Wayworn soldiers' wives, who had wandered and wept full sorely Since on the hills of Spain their dark eyes lingered in parting.

And oh! the joy of the little ones, flitting from hands that led them, Greeting each startled bird and every flower of the wayside

With ripples of happy laughter, enhan cing the song of gladness.

On they come, their hearts thrilled high with a fond expectation, Visions of happy rest after long years of service,

Visions of rose-embowered cots in a land

of perpetual summer,

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easily nurtured;

For their days of toil were over, and rest was their utmost longing,

Rest, and the grateful worship of Mary, Queen of the Angels.

Thus the pioneers came into Los Angeles valley;

Hands clasped hands in joy where now is the shaded Plaza,

And while with ringing voices they chanted the loud Te Deum And christened with musical name the home of their hope and longing, San Bernardino looked down from his kingly throne in the distance, And the Sierra Madre hills, with bare, brown foreheads,

Stood in the breathless sunshine and Benedicite echoed.

O city of Los Angeles!

Yet in thy coming hour of prime Keep thou thy ancient legends dear, And through all loftier pæans hear The echo of the Mission chime!

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

THE MAID OF GRISHORNISH.

THE clouds are scowling on the hill, the mist is thick and gray,

The sun slants out behind the cloud a cold and meagre ray,

The shepherd wraps his plaid about, and reads the tristful skies, And to his faithful collie dog across the moor he cries;

But in my heart there sings a bird, with song both loud and clear,

A song that makes me bright within, while all without is drear; And thus the little bird doth sing with happy chirp to me,

The lovely maid of Grishornish thy bonnie bride shall be!

O Grishornish, thy rocks are black, thy moors are brown and bare! Who would have thought so fair a thing was kindly nurtured there?

As mild as summer's balmy breath upon thy wintry shore,

As gentle as an angel's wing 'bove thy rude tempest's roar,

As pure as pearl in lucid seas, and like a

star serene,

When rifted clouds are racing past, with azure stripes between;

And thus the bird within my breast sings sweetly still to me,

Right soon the maid of Grishornish thy bonnie bride shall be!

O Grishornish, and Vaternish, and every Nish in Skye,

On you let heaven pour down the rain till all its wells be dry!

With rain and wind and mist and storm I am content to dwell,

If but the maid of Grishornish shall live and love me well;

If but her fine and dainty lip, and mildly beaming eye,

Shall make me lord of more than all Macleod commands in Skye;

If but the little bird shall sing within my breast to me,

The lovely maid of Grishornish thy winsome wife shall be!

FREDERICK LOCKER.

THE UNREALIZED IDEAL

My only love is always near,
In country or in town;

I see her twinkling feet, I hear
The whisper of her gown.

She foots it ever fair and young;
Her locks are tied in haste,
And one is o'er her shoulder flung,
And hangs below her waist.

She ran before me in the meads;

And down the world-worn track She leads me on; but while she leads, She never gazes back.

And yet her voice is in my dreams
To witch me more and more.
That wooing voice! Ah me, it seems
Less near me than of yore.

Lightly I sped when hope was high,

And youth beguiled the chase:

I follow, follow still! but I Shall never see her face.

CHARLES GAMAGE EASTMAN.

[U. s. A., 1816-1860.]

HER QUIET DAYS.

How calmly pass her quiet days
In womanly repose!

As sometimes, by the dusty ways,
A stream, half hidden, flows
So softly, that the traveller's ear
Scarce hears its current bubbling near.

Most beautiful, yet never proud;
Beloved, but never vain;
Though courteous to the idle crowd
That come and go again;

Yet happiest when her time is spent
With those she loves, in calm content.

She knows but little of the art

By which we learn the right; Her knowledge lieth in her heart, In woman's keen insight: And much she teaches by her looks, That we could never find in books.

With patient grace she moves along Through all her duties; oft Beguiling them with sweetest song,

And chastened mirth and soft; And all the day, like some sweet bird, The music of her voice is heard.

Long may she live, - see clearer still
With ever-brightening eye,
And learn serenely to fulfill

Her woman-destiny,-
And happier, purer grow each day
As steals her quiet life away!

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER.

[U. s. A.]

THE WAY TO ARCADY.

OH, what's the way to Arcady,
To Arcady, to Arcady?
Oh, what's the way to Arcady,
Where all the leaves are merry?

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
The spring is rustling in the tree-
The tree the wind is blowing through-

It sets the blossoms flickering white. I knew not skies could burn so blue,

Nor any breezes blow so light.
They blow an old-time way for me,
Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.
How have you heart for any tune,
You with the wayworn russet shoon?

Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide:
I'll brim it well with pieces red,
If you will tell the way to tread.

Oh, I am bound for Arcady,
And if you but keep pace with me,
You tread the way to Arcady.

No fame that wit could ever win; But only Love may lead Love in To Arcady, to Arcady.

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