IN THE MISSION GARDEN, SAN GABRIEL
O goldenday, wherein at last,Long leagues and wintry overpast,I stand beneath a sky as blueAs April violets drenched in dew,And live within a dream come true!From rosy-berried pepper-treesThe winds blow spicy fragrances;The palms sway softly to and fro,And down below,Between the glossy leaves of these,The sparkling, yellow sunbeams steepThe mission garden, where the beesAre hoarding deepOf heliotrope that hangs the wallAs for some princely festival,While white and tallBright lilies bloom in grace untold,And those rare roses, passing allIn splendor, called “The Cloth of Gold!”O heart, my heart, throb high and fastWith rapture! for how couldst thou knowAmid the far-off frost and snowWhere all the skies are overcastAnd shrill and chill the north-winds blow,How couldst thou knowDecember heavens anywhereCould show such rareSuch tender and divinest guise,That earth and airCould weave such strange, resistless spellAs this that folds us flower-wiseAt sweet San Gabriel!San Gabriel! the holy wordsFall soft as music on the ear;I think they are as sweet to hearAs any song of summer birds;And harkening them, the while in clear,Pure, quivering notes,The ancient bells begin to chime,In shadowy-wise before me floatsA vision of the vanished time.I see againThe little band from sunny Spain,Those godly ones, and full of grace,And without stain,Who, heeding neither toil nor pain,Desiring men of every race,That such might see sweet Jesus’ face,And that at length the Lord might reignAmong all peoples, even so,Sought in the wilderness this place,And consecrated, long ago.And gazing on the sacred pileTheir hands upreared in loving zeal,My heart goes forth to them the while,Those faithful fathers, true and leal!How oft along each cloistered aisleThey counted o’er and o’er their beads,While in this garden, unawares,The fragrant flowers sowed their seeds.—And richly as the flowers, the prayersBore fruit in gentle deeds!In arched embrasures, lifted highAgainst the sky,The bells in clear-cut beauty show;And loftier still, surmounting all,And blessing thus the ancient wall,A cross,—and on its summit, lo!A slender bird with pearly breastSits peacefully at rest!Ah me! Ah me! I know not whyThis little bird with folded wings,The cross, the tender azure sky,Their pure, exceeding beauty bringsSwift tears, and smites my heart, till IAm almost fainTo hide mine eyes for very pain!Yet though thus for a little spaceI bow my face,Nor any graceOf rose or lily can I see,I know the while that memory,Clear-eyed and free,Upon my heart is graving deepEach least, sweet loveliness, to keepThrough all the coming years for me.And it shall be,In afterwhiles, when far away,When wintry skies are bleak and grayAnd no birds sing,I shall grow glad rememberingThe sweetness of this scarlet day.
O goldenday, wherein at last,Long leagues and wintry overpast,I stand beneath a sky as blueAs April violets drenched in dew,And live within a dream come true!From rosy-berried pepper-treesThe winds blow spicy fragrances;The palms sway softly to and fro,And down below,Between the glossy leaves of these,The sparkling, yellow sunbeams steepThe mission garden, where the beesAre hoarding deepOf heliotrope that hangs the wallAs for some princely festival,While white and tallBright lilies bloom in grace untold,And those rare roses, passing allIn splendor, called “The Cloth of Gold!”O heart, my heart, throb high and fastWith rapture! for how couldst thou knowAmid the far-off frost and snowWhere all the skies are overcastAnd shrill and chill the north-winds blow,How couldst thou knowDecember heavens anywhereCould show such rareSuch tender and divinest guise,That earth and airCould weave such strange, resistless spellAs this that folds us flower-wiseAt sweet San Gabriel!San Gabriel! the holy wordsFall soft as music on the ear;I think they are as sweet to hearAs any song of summer birds;And harkening them, the while in clear,Pure, quivering notes,The ancient bells begin to chime,In shadowy-wise before me floatsA vision of the vanished time.I see againThe little band from sunny Spain,Those godly ones, and full of grace,And without stain,Who, heeding neither toil nor pain,Desiring men of every race,That such might see sweet Jesus’ face,And that at length the Lord might reignAmong all peoples, even so,Sought in the wilderness this place,And consecrated, long ago.And gazing on the sacred pileTheir hands upreared in loving zeal,My heart goes forth to them the while,Those faithful fathers, true and leal!How oft along each cloistered aisleThey counted o’er and o’er their beads,While in this garden, unawares,The fragrant flowers sowed their seeds.—And richly as the flowers, the prayersBore fruit in gentle deeds!In arched embrasures, lifted highAgainst the sky,The bells in clear-cut beauty show;And loftier still, surmounting all,And blessing thus the ancient wall,A cross,—and on its summit, lo!A slender bird with pearly breastSits peacefully at rest!Ah me! Ah me! I know not whyThis little bird with folded wings,The cross, the tender azure sky,Their pure, exceeding beauty bringsSwift tears, and smites my heart, till IAm almost fainTo hide mine eyes for very pain!Yet though thus for a little spaceI bow my face,Nor any graceOf rose or lily can I see,I know the while that memory,Clear-eyed and free,Upon my heart is graving deepEach least, sweet loveliness, to keepThrough all the coming years for me.And it shall be,In afterwhiles, when far away,When wintry skies are bleak and grayAnd no birds sing,I shall grow glad rememberingThe sweetness of this scarlet day.
O goldenday, wherein at last,Long leagues and wintry overpast,I stand beneath a sky as blueAs April violets drenched in dew,And live within a dream come true!
O goldenday, wherein at last,
Long leagues and wintry overpast,
I stand beneath a sky as blue
As April violets drenched in dew,
And live within a dream come true!
From rosy-berried pepper-treesThe winds blow spicy fragrances;The palms sway softly to and fro,And down below,Between the glossy leaves of these,The sparkling, yellow sunbeams steepThe mission garden, where the beesAre hoarding deepOf heliotrope that hangs the wallAs for some princely festival,While white and tallBright lilies bloom in grace untold,And those rare roses, passing allIn splendor, called “The Cloth of Gold!”
From rosy-berried pepper-trees
The winds blow spicy fragrances;
The palms sway softly to and fro,
And down below,
Between the glossy leaves of these,
The sparkling, yellow sunbeams steep
The mission garden, where the bees
Are hoarding deep
Of heliotrope that hangs the wall
As for some princely festival,
While white and tall
Bright lilies bloom in grace untold,
And those rare roses, passing all
In splendor, called “The Cloth of Gold!”
O heart, my heart, throb high and fastWith rapture! for how couldst thou knowAmid the far-off frost and snowWhere all the skies are overcastAnd shrill and chill the north-winds blow,How couldst thou knowDecember heavens anywhereCould show such rareSuch tender and divinest guise,That earth and airCould weave such strange, resistless spellAs this that folds us flower-wiseAt sweet San Gabriel!
O heart, my heart, throb high and fast
With rapture! for how couldst thou know
Amid the far-off frost and snow
Where all the skies are overcast
And shrill and chill the north-winds blow,
How couldst thou know
December heavens anywhere
Could show such rare
Such tender and divinest guise,
That earth and air
Could weave such strange, resistless spell
As this that folds us flower-wise
At sweet San Gabriel!
San Gabriel! the holy wordsFall soft as music on the ear;I think they are as sweet to hearAs any song of summer birds;And harkening them, the while in clear,Pure, quivering notes,The ancient bells begin to chime,In shadowy-wise before me floatsA vision of the vanished time.I see againThe little band from sunny Spain,Those godly ones, and full of grace,And without stain,Who, heeding neither toil nor pain,Desiring men of every race,That such might see sweet Jesus’ face,And that at length the Lord might reignAmong all peoples, even so,Sought in the wilderness this place,And consecrated, long ago.
San Gabriel! the holy words
Fall soft as music on the ear;
I think they are as sweet to hear
As any song of summer birds;
And harkening them, the while in clear,
Pure, quivering notes,
The ancient bells begin to chime,
In shadowy-wise before me floats
A vision of the vanished time.
I see again
The little band from sunny Spain,
Those godly ones, and full of grace,
And without stain,
Who, heeding neither toil nor pain,
Desiring men of every race,
That such might see sweet Jesus’ face,
And that at length the Lord might reign
Among all peoples, even so,
Sought in the wilderness this place,
And consecrated, long ago.
And gazing on the sacred pileTheir hands upreared in loving zeal,My heart goes forth to them the while,Those faithful fathers, true and leal!How oft along each cloistered aisleThey counted o’er and o’er their beads,While in this garden, unawares,The fragrant flowers sowed their seeds.—And richly as the flowers, the prayersBore fruit in gentle deeds!
And gazing on the sacred pile
Their hands upreared in loving zeal,
My heart goes forth to them the while,
Those faithful fathers, true and leal!
How oft along each cloistered aisle
They counted o’er and o’er their beads,
While in this garden, unawares,
The fragrant flowers sowed their seeds.
—And richly as the flowers, the prayers
Bore fruit in gentle deeds!
In arched embrasures, lifted highAgainst the sky,The bells in clear-cut beauty show;And loftier still, surmounting all,And blessing thus the ancient wall,A cross,—and on its summit, lo!A slender bird with pearly breastSits peacefully at rest!
In arched embrasures, lifted high
Against the sky,
The bells in clear-cut beauty show;
And loftier still, surmounting all,
And blessing thus the ancient wall,
A cross,—and on its summit, lo!
A slender bird with pearly breast
Sits peacefully at rest!
Ah me! Ah me! I know not whyThis little bird with folded wings,The cross, the tender azure sky,Their pure, exceeding beauty bringsSwift tears, and smites my heart, till IAm almost fainTo hide mine eyes for very pain!
Ah me! Ah me! I know not why
This little bird with folded wings,
The cross, the tender azure sky,
Their pure, exceeding beauty brings
Swift tears, and smites my heart, till I
Am almost fain
To hide mine eyes for very pain!
Yet though thus for a little spaceI bow my face,Nor any graceOf rose or lily can I see,I know the while that memory,Clear-eyed and free,Upon my heart is graving deepEach least, sweet loveliness, to keepThrough all the coming years for me.And it shall be,In afterwhiles, when far away,When wintry skies are bleak and grayAnd no birds sing,I shall grow glad rememberingThe sweetness of this scarlet day.
Yet though thus for a little space
I bow my face,
Nor any grace
Of rose or lily can I see,
I know the while that memory,
Clear-eyed and free,
Upon my heart is graving deep
Each least, sweet loveliness, to keep
Through all the coming years for me.
And it shall be,
In afterwhiles, when far away,
When wintry skies are bleak and gray
And no birds sing,
I shall grow glad remembering
The sweetness of this scarlet day.