Bore-in the clustering grape, the fruits that wave
On orchard branches or in gardens blaze,
And those the wind-shook forest hurtles down.

Even thus they laid a great and marvellous feast; And Earth her children summoned joyously, Throughout that goodliest land wherein had ceased The vision of battle, and with glad hands free These took their fill, and plenteous measures poured, Beside, for those who dwelt beyond the sea.

Praise, like an incense, upward rose to Heaven For that full harvest,-and the autumnal Sun Stayed long above,-and ever at the board

Peace, white-robed angel, held the high seat given, And War far off withdrew his visage dun.

F. BRET HARTE.

[Born about 1835. A name now universally known, by the authorship of The Luck of Roaring Camp, and especially of the verses on That Heathen Chinee].

THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO.

THIS is the tale that the Chronicle

Tells of the wonderful miracle

Wrought by the pious Padre Serro,

The very reverend Junipero.

The Heathen stood on his ancient mound,
Looking over the desert bound

Into the distant hazy South,

Over the dusty and broad champaign
Where, with many a gaping mouth,

And fissure cracked by the fervid drouth,
For seven months had the wasted plain
Known no moisture of dew or rain.

The wells were empty and choked with sand;
The rivers had perished from the land;
Only the sea-fogs to and fro

Slipped like ghosts of the streams below.

Deep in its bed lay the river's bones,
Reaching in pebbles and milk-white stones;
And, tracked o'er the desert faint and far,
Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar.

Thus they stood as the sun went down
Over the foot-hills bare and brown;
Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom
The pale-face medicine-man should come.
Not in anger or in strife,

But to bring-so ran the tale

The welcome springs of eternal life,
The living waters that should not fail.

Said one, "He will come like Manitou,
Unseen, unheard, in the failing dew."
Said another, "He will come full soon
Out of the round-faced watery moon."
And another said, “He is here!” and lo,—
Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow,-
Out from the desert's blinding heat
The Padre dropped at the heathen's feet.
They stood and gazed for a little space
Down on his pallid and careworn face,
And a smile of scorn went round the band
As they touched alternate with foot and hand
This mortal waif, that the outer space
Of dim mysterious sky and sand
Flung with so little of Christian grace
Down on their barren sterile strand.

Said one to him: "It seems thy god
Is a very pitiful kind of god;
He could not shield thine aching eyes
From the blowing desert-sands that rise,
Nor turn aside from thy old grey head
The glittering blade that is brandished
By the sun he set in the heavens high.
He could not moisten thy lips when dry;
The desert fire is in thy brain;

Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain.
If this be the grace he showeth thee
Who art his servant, what may we,
Strange to his ways and his commands,
Seek at his unforgiving hands ?"

"Drink but this cup," said the Padre straight,
"And thou shalt know whose mercy bore
These aching limbs to your heathen door,
And purged my soul of its gross estate.
Drink in His name, and thou shalt see
The hidden depths of this mystery.
Drink!" and he held the cup. One blow
From the heathen dashed to the ground below
The sacred cup that the Padre bore;

And the thirsty soil drank the precious store
Of sacramental and holy wine,

That emblem and consecrated sign

And blessed symbol of blood divine.

Then, says the legend (and they who doubt
The same as heretics be accurst),

From the dry and feverish soil leaped out
A living fountain; a well-spring burst
Over the dusty and broad champaign,
Over the sandy and sterile plain,

Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones
That lay in the valley-the scattered bones-
Moved in the river and lived again!

Such was the wonderful miracle

Wrought by the cup of wine that fell

From the hands of the pious Padre Serro,
The very reverend Junipero.

THE RÉVEILLÉ.

HARK! I hear the tramp of thousands,
And of armed men the hum;
Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered
Round the quick alarming drum,—
Saying, "Come,

Freemen, come!

Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick alarming drum.

66

'Let me of my heart take counsel :
War is not of Life the sum;

Who shall stay and reap the harvest
When the autumn days shall come?”
But the drum

Echoed, "Come!

Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the solemn. sounding drum.

"But, when won the coming battle,
What of profit springs therefrom?
What if conquest, subjugation,
Even greater ills become?"
But the drum

Answered, "Come!

You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankeeanswering drum.

"What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder,

Whistling shot and bursting bomb,

When my brothers fall around me,

Should my heart grow cold and numb?"
But the drum

Answered, "Come!

Better there in death united than in life a recreant,— come!"

Thus they answered,-hoping, fearing,

Some in faith, and doubting some,

Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming
Said, "My chosen people, come!"
Then the drum

Lo! was dumb,

For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, "Lord, we come!"

TO A SEA-BIRD.

SANTA CRUZ, 1869.

SAUNTERING hither on listless wings,
Careless vagabond of the sea,
Little thou heedest the surf that sings,
The bar that thunders, the shale that rings,—
Give me to keep thy company.

Little thou hast, old friend, that's new;
Storms and wrecks are old things to thee;
Sick am I of these changes, too;
Little to care for, little to rue,-

I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

All of thy wanderings, far and near,

Bring thee at last to shore and me;
All of my journeyings end them here,
This our tether must be our cheer,-

I on the shore, and thou on the sea.

Lazily rocking on ocean's breast,

Something in common, old friend, have we;
Thou on the shingle seek'st thy nest,

I to the waters look for rest,—

I on the shore, and thou on the sea.