The river down in the valley knew,

For the stream whispered when they metThe brook and river-and, laughing, too,

The hills had never a thought as yet.

In years the mountain's heart of rock
Yields to the subtle brook, and fast,
With thunder peal and earthquake shock,
Crashed chasm open-defeat at last.

Centuries pass. The deep drifted snows

Fade 'neath summers suns, and the stream Widens the gorge, and misty breath throws High up black walls that silvery gleam.

But a web is cast of iron strong,

Like a spider's home of thread-like coil. The brook is tamed, and its echoing song Praises the power of human toil.

SIERRA BLANCA.

North star o'er seas of land,

Mountain, serene and grand,

Sentinel of the Rockies stand,
Sierra Blanca;

Dial of recorded time

Reared in solitude sublime.

Poets, 'raptured, long have told

Of the crown of sunset gold
Resting on thy crest so old,
Sierra Blanca;

In all this land is given

Thee to be nighest Heaven.

Vision to the artist rare

Is the purple robe so fair

Thou with kingly grace doth wear,
Sierra Blanca;

And thy velvet pall of night,

Crown stars deck with jewels bright.

Once the waves of oceans past

Silver waves rolling fast-

Sunny spray o'er thee cast,
Sierra Blanca;

Forests green crept up thy side,
Followed close the ebbing tide.

In the light of that far day

What strange races, who shall say, Lived their lives and went their way?

Sierra Blanca;

What strange monsters of the deep
Went to dust in death's last sleep?

Ere that exile on him fell

Once the Indian loved him well,
Happy in thy shades to dwell,
Sierra Blanca;

Now the wolf in hidden lair

Unmolested scents the air.

Once the Spanish cavalier

Held thee in his heart so dear,

Half in love, half in fear,

Sierra Blanca;

Martyr priests might happy sigh At thy glorious feet to die.

Over all the green plains wide
Peace and joy do now abide,
Happy homes below thee hide,
Sierra Blanca;

High uplifted childish eyes
Liken thee to Paradise.

Faint as the sighing winds which fret
With sweet and subtle harmonies

The silken strands aeolian, set

In mullions old, come memories
That thrill, and pass,

Of thy wild bole which warder stood
Of bygone bournes. Our sandal wood,
Slim sassafras.

Like that green tree of life thou sprang
From out the turf of Paradise.

The heaven of boyhood, but thy tang

Of bark and root among the wise

Tall trees, alas!

With leafy laughter did infect

The woods at thy quaint dialect,
Rude sassafras.

Thy spicy root had blessings great
The blood to purge and purify.

But now, O homely Hippocrate,

My mind hath medicine, for I

Feel all the crass

And evil humors of my soul

Cast off, and thou hast made me whole,

Rare sassafras.

If some blest day when I shall rove

By God's great river, all alone,
Thy breath from out heaven's healing grove
O'er amaranth hills is softly blown
Across the grass,

The tears that blur my sight shall be
Love's tribute then to youth and thee,
O sassafras.

THE OLD TRAIL.

I.

Through columns of cedars begirt with ferns, Over peaks where the pinons climb together In the crimson glow, where the sunset burns

And the purple fringe of mountain heather, Where the otter's pelt, in the emerald pool,

'Mid dancing foam bells dives and glistens, And the ousel flutes in the aspens cool,

Where the dappled doe affrighted listens When she hears our hoof-beats, far away, Runs the famed old trail of the Santa Fe.

II.

I see thee stretching toward the sky,

And I crack my whip o'er the weary cattle. And hear my partners shout "Good bye!"

As they went down in the Indian battle,