Stout Pablo of San Diego

Rode down from the hills behind;
With the bells on his gray mule tinkling,
He sang through the fog and wind.
Under his thick, misted eyebrows,
Twinkled his eye like a star,

And fiercer he sang, as the sea-winds
Drove cold on the Paso del Mar.

Now Bernal, the herdsman of Corral,
Had travelled the shore since dawn,
Leaving the ranches behind him—
Good reason had he to be gone!
The blood was still red on his dagger,
The fury was hot in his brain,

And the chill, driving scud of the breakers
Beat thick on his forehead in vain.

With his blanket wrapped gloomily round him,
He mounted the dizzying road,

And the chasms and steeps of the headland
Were slippery and wet, as he trode;
Wild swept the wind of the ocean,

Rolling the fog from afar,

When near him a mule-bell came tinkling,
Midway on the Paso del Mar!

"Back!" shouted Bernal, full fiercely,
And "Back!" shouted Pablo, in wrath;
As his mule halted, startled and shrinking,
On the perilous line of the path!

The roar of devouring surges

Came up from the breakers' hoarse war; And "Back, or you perish!" cried Bernal, "I turn not on Paso del Mar!”

The gray mule stood firm as the headland;
He clutched at the jingling rein,
When Pablo rose up in his saddle,
And smote, till he dropped it again.
A wild oath of passion swore Bernal,
And brandished his dagger, still red,
While fiercely stout Pablo leaned forward,
And fought o'er his trusty mule's head.

They fought, till the black wall below them
Shone red through the misty blast;
Stout Pablo then struck, leaning further,
The broad breast of Bernal at last.
And, phrensied with pain, the swart herdsman
Closed round him his terrible grasp,
And jerked him, despite of his struggles,
Down from the mule, in his clasp.

They grappled with desperate madness
On the slippery edge of the wall,
They swayed on the brink, and together
Reeled out to the rush of the fall!
A cry of the wildest death-anguish
Rang faint through the mist afar,
And the riderless mule went homeward
From the fight of the Paso del Mar!

BAYARD TAYLOR.

112. LAMENT OF THE INDIAN CHIEFTAIN.

AT Onondaga burned the sacred fire

A thousand winters, with unwasting blaze; In guarding it, son emulated sire,

And far abroad were flung its dazzling rays: Followed were happy years by evil days;

Blue-eyed and pale, came children of the Dawn,

Tall spires on site of bark-built town to raise ;

Change graves of beauty to a naked lawn,

And whirl their chariot wheels where led the doe her fawn.

Where are the mighty ?-morning finds them not!

I call-and echo gives response alone;

The fiery bolt of Ruin hath been shot

The blow is struck-the winds of death have blownCold are their hearths-their altars overthrown!

For them with smoking venison the board, Reward of toilsome chase, no more will groan :

Sharper than hatchet proved the Conqueror's sword, And blood, in fruitless strife, like water they outpoured.

Oh! where is Garangùla-Sachem wise,

Who was the father of his people ?---where

King Hendrick-Cay-en-guacto?-who replies?
And, Skenandoah, was thy silver hair
Brought to the dust in sorrow and despair

By pale oppressors, though thy bow was strung
To guard their Thirteen Fires?-they did not spare
E'en thee, old chieftain! and thy tuneful tongue
The death-dirge of thy race, in measured cadence, sung.
The-an-de-nea-ya* of the martial brow,
Gy-ant-wat-Hon-ne-yà-wus, where are they?
Sa-gay-ye-wat-hah§! is he silent now,

Will listening throngs no more his voice obey? Like visions have the mighty passed away:

Their tears descend in raindrops, and their sighs Are heard in wailing winds when evening gray Shadows the landscape, and their mournful eyes Gleam in the misty light of moon-illumined skies. Gone are my tribesmen, and another race,

Born of the foam, disclose with plough and spade Secrets of battle-field and burial-place;

And hunting-grounds, once dark with pleasant shade, Bask in the golden light;—but I have made

A pilgrimage from far to look once more

On scenes through which in childhood's hour I strayed;
Though robbed of might my limbs-my locks all hoar,
And on this holy mount mourn for the days of yore.

Around me soon will bloom unfading flowers,
Ye glorious Spirit-Islands of the just!
No fatal axe will hew away your bowers,
Or lay the green-robed forest king in dust;-
Far from the spoiler's fury, and his lust

Of boundless power, will 1 my fathers meet,
Tiaras wearing never dimmed by rust;

And they, while airs waft music passing sweet, To blest abodes will guide my silver-sandalled feet.

* Brant.
Farmer's Brother.

W. H. C. HOSMER.

+ Corn-planter.

Red Jacket.

113. ORIGIN OF THE CROW.

(A LEGEND OF THE SENECAS.)

WEARY and worn old Tar-yon-eè
Was slumbering in the days of yore,
Under a leafy white-wood tree,

That grew beside his cabin door;
Giving the wood a deeper brown,
A raven, huge and black, came down,
And hungering for human prey,
In his talons bore the Chief away.

A rush of wings—a dismal shriek,

The Tribe, with horror voiceless, heard,
While sailed to a distant mountain peak,
With bleeding prize, that cruel bird:
Soon finished was its dread repast,
And up the monster hurried fast,
Leaving, to whiten in the wind,
A pile of naked bones behind.

Heh-nu-dark Thunder-God !-espied
The creature flying to its nest,
Far in those regions blue and wide,
That over stormy Cloudland rest :-
On his resounding bow he laid
A shaft of ragged lightning made,
While the gorged monster, at the sight,
Clapped pinions for a swifter flight.

Outstretched was its long neck in vain,
Soaring through air with frightful cries,
To reach its azure perch again

On wall that fenced remoter skies: O'ertaken by a missile dire,

Scorched was each plume by hissing fire, And redly the dismembered form

Was showered to earth in atoms warm.

A hunter on the hills, in fear,

Watched the torn fragments as they fell,

Forgetful of a wounded deer

That limped for shelter to the dell ;

But wilder terror thrilled his heart,
When shape took each disrupted part,
And darkly, from the ground uprose,
Croaking their joy, a flock of crows.

Beneath a cedar tall and green,

The bones of Tar-yon-eè were laid:
His mountain tomb may yet be seen
Within its ever-during shade:
Ill-omened ravens blacken oft
Its branches towering aloft,
And load with clamor loud the air,

As if they held a council there.

W. H. C. HOSMER.

114.

WATCHWORDS.

WE are living, we are dwelling
In a grand and awful time;
In an age, on ages telling,
To be living-is sublime.

Hark! the waking up of nations,

Gog and Magog, to the fray;
Hark! what soundeth, is Creation's
Groaning for its latter day.

Will ye play then! will ye dally,
With your music, with your wine?
Up! it is Jehovah's rally!

God's own arm hath need of thine.

Hark, the onset! will ye fold your
Faith-clad arms in lazy lock!
Up, oh up, thou drowsy soldier!
Worlds are charging to the shock.

Worlds are charging-Heaven beholding;
Thou hast but an hour to fight;
Now, the blazoned cross unfolding,
On-right onward, for the right!

What! still hug thy dreamy slumbers?
"Tis no time for idling play: