I live, I move, I know not how, nor why,Float as a transient bubble on the air,As fades the eventide I, too, must die;I came, I know not whence; I journey, where?
I live, I move, I know not how, nor why,Float as a transient bubble on the air,As fades the eventide I, too, must die;I came, I know not whence; I journey, where?
I passed along a mountain road,Which led me through a wooded glen,Remote from dwelling or abodeAnd ordinary haunts of men;And wearied from the dust and heat.Beneath a tree, I found a seat.The tree, a tall majestic spruce,Which had, perhaps for centuries,Withstood, without a moment's truce,The wing-ed warfare of the breeze;A monarch of the solitude,Which well might grace the noblest wood.Beneath its cool and welcome shade,Protected from the noontide rays,The birds amid its branches playedAnd caroled forth their twittering praise;A squirrel perched upon a limbAnd chattered with loquacious vim.E'er yet that selfsame week had sped,On my return, I sought its shade;But where it reared its form, instead;A fallen monarch I surveyed,Prostrate and broken on the ground,Nor longer cast its shade around.Uprooted and disheveled, thereThe monarch of the forest lay;As if in desolate despairIts last resistance fell away,And overwhelmed, in evil hourWent down before the tempest's power.Such are the final works of fate;The birds to other branches flew;And man, whatever his estate,Must face that same mutation, too!To-day, I stand erect and tall,The morrow—may record my fall.
I passed along a mountain road,Which led me through a wooded glen,Remote from dwelling or abodeAnd ordinary haunts of men;And wearied from the dust and heat.Beneath a tree, I found a seat.
The tree, a tall majestic spruce,Which had, perhaps for centuries,Withstood, without a moment's truce,The wing-ed warfare of the breeze;A monarch of the solitude,Which well might grace the noblest wood.
Beneath its cool and welcome shade,Protected from the noontide rays,The birds amid its branches playedAnd caroled forth their twittering praise;A squirrel perched upon a limbAnd chattered with loquacious vim.
E'er yet that selfsame week had sped,On my return, I sought its shade;But where it reared its form, instead;A fallen monarch I surveyed,Prostrate and broken on the ground,Nor longer cast its shade around.
Uprooted and disheveled, thereThe monarch of the forest lay;As if in desolate despairIts last resistance fell away,And overwhelmed, in evil hourWent down before the tempest's power.
Such are the final works of fate;The birds to other branches flew;And man, whatever his estate,Must face that same mutation, too!To-day, I stand erect and tall,The morrow—may record my fall.
There is an air of majesty,A bearing dignified and free,About the mountain peaks;Each crag of weather-beaten stonePresents a grandeur of its ownTo him who seeks.There is a proud, defiant mein,Expressive, stern, and yet serene,About the precipice;Whose rugged form looks grimly down,And answers, with an austere frownThe sunlight's kiss.The mountain, with the snow bank crowned;The gorge, abysmal and profound;Impress with aspect grand:With unfeigned reverence I seeIn canon and declivityThe All-Wise Hand.
There is an air of majesty,A bearing dignified and free,About the mountain peaks;Each crag of weather-beaten stonePresents a grandeur of its ownTo him who seeks.
There is a proud, defiant mein,Expressive, stern, and yet serene,About the precipice;Whose rugged form looks grimly down,And answers, with an austere frownThe sunlight's kiss.
The mountain, with the snow bank crowned;The gorge, abysmal and profound;Impress with aspect grand:With unfeigned reverence I seeIn canon and declivityThe All-Wise Hand.
Think not that the heart is devoid of emotion,Because of a countenance rugged and stern,The bosom may hide the most fervent devotion,As shadowy forests hide floweret and fern;As the pearls which are down in the depths of the ocean,The heart may have treasures which few can discern.Think not the heart barren, because no reflectionIs flashed from the depths of its secret embrace;External appearance may baffle detection,And yet the heart beat with an ethical grace:The breast may be charged with the truest affectionAnd never betray it by action or face.
Think not that the heart is devoid of emotion,Because of a countenance rugged and stern,The bosom may hide the most fervent devotion,As shadowy forests hide floweret and fern;As the pearls which are down in the depths of the ocean,The heart may have treasures which few can discern.
Think not the heart barren, because no reflectionIs flashed from the depths of its secret embrace;External appearance may baffle detection,And yet the heart beat with an ethical grace:The breast may be charged with the truest affectionAnd never betray it by action or face.
SCENE NEAR TELLURIDE."Where nature's chemistry distills,The fountain and the laughing rills."SCENE NEAR TELLURIDE, SAN MIGUEL COUNTY, COLORADO.
I stood upon a crowded thoroughfare,Within a city's confines, where were metAll classes and conditions, and surveyed,From a secluded niche or aperture,The various, ever-changing multitudeWhich passed along in restless turbulence,And, as a human river, ebbed and flowedWithin its banks of brick and masonry.Within this vast and heterogeneous throng,One might discern all stages and degrees,From wealth and power to helpless indigence;Extravagance to trenchant penury,And all extremes of want and misery.Some blest by wealth, some cursed by poverty;Some in positions neutral to them both;Some wore a gaunt and ill-conditioned lookWhich told its tale of lack of nourishment;While others showed that irritated airWhich speaks of gout and pampered appetite;Some following vocations quite reverseFrom those which nature had endowed them for;Some passed with face self-satisfied and calm,As if the world bore nothing else but joy;And some there were who, from the cradle's mouth,As they pursued their journey to the grave,Had felt no throb save that of misery;The man of large affairs passed by in haste,With mind preoccupied, nor thought of elseSave undertakings which concerned himself;The shallow son of misplaced opulenceCame strutting by with self-important air,With head erect in a contemptuous poise,As if the stars were subject to his will,And e'en the golden sun was something base,Which had offended with its wholesome lightIn shining on so great a personage,A being more than ordinary clay,And much superior to the vulgar herd!Some faces passed which knew no kindly look,And felt no friendly pressure of the hand;And if the face depict the character,Some passed so steeped in crime and villainyThat Judas' vile, ill-favored countenanceWould seem in contrast quite respectable;Some features glowed with unfeigned honesty,Some grimaced in dissimulating craft,Some smiled benignantly and passed along;Some faces meek, some stern and resolute;Some the embodiment of gentleness;Some whose specific aspects plainly toldTheir fondest dreams were not of earth, but heaven;A newly wedded couple passed that way,In the sweet zenith of their honeymoon,But little dreaming what the future held.The light and trivial fool, the brainless fop;The staid and sober priest and minister;And she who worshiped at proud fashion's shrine;The mental giant, serious and sad;The thoughtful student and philosopher;And some of intellect diminutive;The man of letters, with abstracted mien,And he whose every thought was on the toilWhich made his bare existence possible;The blushing maiden, pure and innocent;The stately grandam, dignified and gray;The matron, with the babe upon her breast;The silly superannuated flirt,Who nursed her waning beauty day by day,And still essayed to act the role of youth;The gay coquette and belle of other days,Who in life's morning, with disdainful laugh,Had quaffed the cup of pleasure to its dregs,And now, grown old, must pay the penaltyIn wrinkles and uncourted loneliness;The widow, who, but newly desolate,Would grasp a hand, then start to find it gone;The spendthrift and the sordid usurer,Who knew no sentiment save lust for gold;The bloated drunkard, sinking 'neath the weightOf wassail inclination dissolute;The youth, who, following his baleful steps,Reeled for the first time from intemperance;And she who had forgot her covenant,In brazen infamy and unwept shame;—The good, the bad, the impious and unjust,The energetic and the indolent,The adolescent and the venerable,Passed by, pursuant of their various ways.The aged and decrepit plodded by,Whom one would think were ripe for any tomb,Yet quailed at dissolution's very thought;The crippled and deformed, with cane and crutch,Came limping by, as eddies in the stream;The mendicant, whose eyes might never seeThe golden sunlight, felt his way along,And though the world was dark, still shrank from death.Some faces showed the trace of recent tears,And some revealed the impress of despair;Others endeavored with a careless smileTo hide a breast surcharged with hopelessness,As one afflicted with a foul diseaseStrives to avoid the scrutinizing gazeBy the assumption of indifference;Some whose misfortunes and adversitiesAnd oft repeated disappointments, driedThe fountain heads of kindness, and had turnedLife's sweetest joys to gall and bitterness.Each face betrayed some sort or form of woe;In more than one I read a tragedy.How complex is existence! What a mazeOf complication and entanglement!Each thread combining with the other threadsFulfills its office in the labyrinth;Each link concatenates the other linksWhich constitute the vast and endless chainOf human life, and human destiny,—The strange phantasmagoria of fate.So we, in life's procession, pass alongTo the accompaniment of secret dirge,Or laughter interspersed with tear and groan;Nor pause a moment, nor retrace a step,But march in Fate's spectacular reviewIn pageant to our common goal—The Grave.
I stood upon a crowded thoroughfare,Within a city's confines, where were metAll classes and conditions, and surveyed,From a secluded niche or aperture,The various, ever-changing multitudeWhich passed along in restless turbulence,And, as a human river, ebbed and flowedWithin its banks of brick and masonry.
Within this vast and heterogeneous throng,One might discern all stages and degrees,From wealth and power to helpless indigence;Extravagance to trenchant penury,And all extremes of want and misery.Some blest by wealth, some cursed by poverty;Some in positions neutral to them both;Some wore a gaunt and ill-conditioned lookWhich told its tale of lack of nourishment;While others showed that irritated airWhich speaks of gout and pampered appetite;Some following vocations quite reverseFrom those which nature had endowed them for;Some passed with face self-satisfied and calm,As if the world bore nothing else but joy;And some there were who, from the cradle's mouth,As they pursued their journey to the grave,Had felt no throb save that of misery;The man of large affairs passed by in haste,With mind preoccupied, nor thought of elseSave undertakings which concerned himself;The shallow son of misplaced opulenceCame strutting by with self-important air,With head erect in a contemptuous poise,As if the stars were subject to his will,And e'en the golden sun was something base,Which had offended with its wholesome lightIn shining on so great a personage,A being more than ordinary clay,And much superior to the vulgar herd!Some faces passed which knew no kindly look,And felt no friendly pressure of the hand;And if the face depict the character,Some passed so steeped in crime and villainyThat Judas' vile, ill-favored countenanceWould seem in contrast quite respectable;Some features glowed with unfeigned honesty,Some grimaced in dissimulating craft,Some smiled benignantly and passed along;Some faces meek, some stern and resolute;Some the embodiment of gentleness;Some whose specific aspects plainly toldTheir fondest dreams were not of earth, but heaven;A newly wedded couple passed that way,In the sweet zenith of their honeymoon,But little dreaming what the future held.The light and trivial fool, the brainless fop;The staid and sober priest and minister;And she who worshiped at proud fashion's shrine;The mental giant, serious and sad;The thoughtful student and philosopher;And some of intellect diminutive;The man of letters, with abstracted mien,And he whose every thought was on the toilWhich made his bare existence possible;The blushing maiden, pure and innocent;The stately grandam, dignified and gray;The matron, with the babe upon her breast;The silly superannuated flirt,Who nursed her waning beauty day by day,And still essayed to act the role of youth;The gay coquette and belle of other days,Who in life's morning, with disdainful laugh,Had quaffed the cup of pleasure to its dregs,And now, grown old, must pay the penaltyIn wrinkles and uncourted loneliness;The widow, who, but newly desolate,Would grasp a hand, then start to find it gone;The spendthrift and the sordid usurer,Who knew no sentiment save lust for gold;The bloated drunkard, sinking 'neath the weightOf wassail inclination dissolute;The youth, who, following his baleful steps,Reeled for the first time from intemperance;And she who had forgot her covenant,In brazen infamy and unwept shame;—The good, the bad, the impious and unjust,The energetic and the indolent,The adolescent and the venerable,Passed by, pursuant of their various ways.
The aged and decrepit plodded by,Whom one would think were ripe for any tomb,Yet quailed at dissolution's very thought;The crippled and deformed, with cane and crutch,Came limping by, as eddies in the stream;The mendicant, whose eyes might never seeThe golden sunlight, felt his way along,And though the world was dark, still shrank from death.Some faces showed the trace of recent tears,And some revealed the impress of despair;Others endeavored with a careless smileTo hide a breast surcharged with hopelessness,As one afflicted with a foul diseaseStrives to avoid the scrutinizing gazeBy the assumption of indifference;Some whose misfortunes and adversitiesAnd oft repeated disappointments, driedThe fountain heads of kindness, and had turnedLife's sweetest joys to gall and bitterness.Each face betrayed some sort or form of woe;In more than one I read a tragedy.
How complex is existence! What a mazeOf complication and entanglement!Each thread combining with the other threadsFulfills its office in the labyrinth;Each link concatenates the other linksWhich constitute the vast and endless chainOf human life, and human destiny,—The strange phantasmagoria of fate.
So we, in life's procession, pass alongTo the accompaniment of secret dirge,Or laughter interspersed with tear and groan;Nor pause a moment, nor retrace a step,But march in Fate's spectacular reviewIn pageant to our common goal—The Grave.
A MOUNTAIN NOCTURNE
In forest shade my couch is made.And there I calmly lie,With thought confined in pensive mind,And contemplate the sky;I wonder if the frowning cliff,The valley and the wood,Or rugged freaks of mountain peaks,Enjoy their solitude.The heavens hold a sphere of gold,A full and placid moon,Suspended high, in cloudless sky,With constellations strewn;Its mellow beam, on rill and stream,In silvery sheen I see;Before its light, the shades of nightAs evil spirits, flee.In space afar, a shooting star,With swift, uncertain course,In dazzling sparks its passage marks,As it expends its force;The mountains bare reflect its glareOf weird, unearthly light,And e'en the skies, in glad surprise,Behold its gorgeous flight.The spruce and pine, at timber-line,In straggling patches strewn,Surcharge the breeze with melodies,The forests' plaintive tune;As they descend, the waters blendIn babbling harmony,And soothe to rest my tranquil breast,With Nature's lullaby.
In forest shade my couch is made.And there I calmly lie,With thought confined in pensive mind,And contemplate the sky;I wonder if the frowning cliff,The valley and the wood,Or rugged freaks of mountain peaks,Enjoy their solitude.
The heavens hold a sphere of gold,A full and placid moon,Suspended high, in cloudless sky,With constellations strewn;Its mellow beam, on rill and stream,In silvery sheen I see;Before its light, the shades of nightAs evil spirits, flee.
In space afar, a shooting star,With swift, uncertain course,In dazzling sparks its passage marks,As it expends its force;The mountains bare reflect its glareOf weird, unearthly light,And e'en the skies, in glad surprise,Behold its gorgeous flight.
The spruce and pine, at timber-line,In straggling patches strewn,Surcharge the breeze with melodies,The forests' plaintive tune;As they descend, the waters blendIn babbling harmony,And soothe to rest my tranquil breast,With Nature's lullaby.
BRIDAL VEIL FALLS."Where the torrent falls o'er the mountain wall."BRIDAL VEIL FALLS, NEAR TELLURIDE, SAN MIGUEL COUNTY, COLORADO.
The spirit of freedom is born of the mountains,In gorge and in cañon it hovers and dwells;Pervading the torrents and crystalline fountains,Which dash through the valleys and forest clad dells.The spirit of freedom, so firm and impliant,Is borne on the breeze, whose invisible wavesDescend from the mountain peaks, stern and defiant—Created for freemen, but never for slaves.
The spirit of freedom is born of the mountains,In gorge and in cañon it hovers and dwells;Pervading the torrents and crystalline fountains,Which dash through the valleys and forest clad dells.
The spirit of freedom, so firm and impliant,Is borne on the breeze, whose invisible wavesDescend from the mountain peaks, stern and defiant—Created for freemen, but never for slaves.
In the golden West, by fond Nature blest,Lies a vale which my heart holds dear;Where the zephyr blows from eternal snowsAnd tempers the atmosphere;Where the torrent falls o'er the mountain walls,As its thunderous echoes thrill,Where the sparkling mist, by the rainbow kissed,Decks the Valley of San Miguel[B].Where the birds of spring, in their season sing,Their spontaneous melodies;Where the columbine and the stately pineStand quivering in the breeze;Where the aspen tall hugs the trachyte wall,And the wild rose bedecks the hill;Where the willows weep, and their vigils keep,On the banks of the San Miguel.Where the mountains high, cleave the azure sky,With their turrets so bleak and gray;Where the morning light crowns the dizzy height,At the break of the summer's day;Where the crags look down with an austere frown,O'er the valley so calm and still;Where the mesas blue, blend their dreamy hueWith the skies of the San Miguel.Where the mountains hold a vast wealth of gold,In the quartz ledge and placer bar;Where the hills resound with the constant soundOf the stamp mill's battering jar;Where the waters dash with the rhythmic splashOf the cascade and mountain rill,As they laugh and flow to the lands below,Through the turbulent San Miguel.Where the shadows glide, in the eventide,As the sun, to nocturnal rest,With the dazzling rays of a world ablaze,Sinks into the distant west;When the yellow leaf of existence brief,Brings the hour when the pulse is still,May my ashes rest in the golden West,On the banks of the San Miguel.
In the golden West, by fond Nature blest,Lies a vale which my heart holds dear;Where the zephyr blows from eternal snowsAnd tempers the atmosphere;Where the torrent falls o'er the mountain walls,As its thunderous echoes thrill,Where the sparkling mist, by the rainbow kissed,Decks the Valley of San Miguel[B].
Where the birds of spring, in their season sing,Their spontaneous melodies;Where the columbine and the stately pineStand quivering in the breeze;Where the aspen tall hugs the trachyte wall,And the wild rose bedecks the hill;Where the willows weep, and their vigils keep,On the banks of the San Miguel.
Where the mountains high, cleave the azure sky,With their turrets so bleak and gray;Where the morning light crowns the dizzy height,At the break of the summer's day;Where the crags look down with an austere frown,O'er the valley so calm and still;Where the mesas blue, blend their dreamy hueWith the skies of the San Miguel.
Where the mountains hold a vast wealth of gold,In the quartz ledge and placer bar;Where the hills resound with the constant soundOf the stamp mill's battering jar;Where the waters dash with the rhythmic splashOf the cascade and mountain rill,As they laugh and flow to the lands below,Through the turbulent San Miguel.
Where the shadows glide, in the eventide,As the sun, to nocturnal rest,With the dazzling rays of a world ablaze,Sinks into the distant west;When the yellow leaf of existence brief,Brings the hour when the pulse is still,May my ashes rest in the golden West,On the banks of the San Miguel.
LIZARD HEAD."Where the mountains high, cleave the azure sky,With their turrets so bleak and gray."LIZARD HEAD, SAN MIGUEL COUNTY, COLORADO.
FOOTNOTES:
[B]
San Miguel, pronounced "Magill," the Spanish form of St. Michael.
San Miguel, pronounced "Magill," the Spanish form of St. Michael.
As repeated in chorus on the anniversary of her Names-day by the Sisters of St. Hubert at St. Anthony's Hospital, Denver, Col., Oct. 29, 1900.
Mother, our greetings be to thee,On the glad anniversaryOf this, thy festive day;Thy daughters, daughters not of earth,But bound by cords of Heavenly birth,Their love and greetings pay.We thank thee, Mother, for thy care,Thy watchfulness, and fervent prayer;And if 'tis Heaven's will,May many a returning yearAnd namesday find our Mother here,Constant and watchful still.Blest be that autumn brown and sere!Bless-ed the day and blest the year,Of his[C]nativity!Blest be the hospitals, which rise,Resultant of thy enterprise,Thy zeal and fervency.Blest be that hunter[D]saint of thine!Bless-ed the deer, and blest the signBetween its antlers broad!To us, thy daughters, is it givenTo bless thee, in the name of Heaven,And blessing thee, bless God.
Mother, our greetings be to thee,On the glad anniversaryOf this, thy festive day;Thy daughters, daughters not of earth,But bound by cords of Heavenly birth,Their love and greetings pay.
We thank thee, Mother, for thy care,Thy watchfulness, and fervent prayer;And if 'tis Heaven's will,May many a returning yearAnd namesday find our Mother here,Constant and watchful still.
Blest be that autumn brown and sere!Bless-ed the day and blest the year,Of his[C]nativity!Blest be the hospitals, which rise,Resultant of thy enterprise,Thy zeal and fervency.
Blest be that hunter[D]saint of thine!Bless-ed the deer, and blest the signBetween its antlers broad!To us, thy daughters, is it givenTo bless thee, in the name of Heaven,And blessing thee, bless God.
FOOTNOTES:
[C]
St. Hubert.
St. Hubert.
[D]
St. Hubert, the apostle of Ardennes, a saint of the Roman Catholic Church, the patron of huntsmen. He was of a noble family of Acquitaine. While hunting in the forests of Ardennes he had a vision of a stag with a shining crucifix between its antlers, and heard a warning voice. He was converted, entered the church, and eventually became Bishop of Maestricht and Liege. He worked many miracles, and is said to have died in 727 or 729. Spofford's Cyclopædia, Vol. 4, page 470.
St. Hubert, the apostle of Ardennes, a saint of the Roman Catholic Church, the patron of huntsmen. He was of a noble family of Acquitaine. While hunting in the forests of Ardennes he had a vision of a stag with a shining crucifix between its antlers, and heard a warning voice. He was converted, entered the church, and eventually became Bishop of Maestricht and Liege. He worked many miracles, and is said to have died in 727 or 729. Spofford's Cyclopædia, Vol. 4, page 470.
I gazed at the azure-hued mantle of heaven,The measureless depths of ethereal space;I gazed at the clouds, so invisibly driven,And an eagle, which wheeled with symmetrical grace.I gazed at that eagle, majestically wheeling,With dignity, born of the free mountain air;I envied that bird, with an envious feelingWhich springs from a heart that is shackled with care.I envied that eagle, which bowed to no master,But soared at his will, through the ambient skies,Defiant of danger, and scorning disaster,He screamed at the cliffs, which re-echoed his cries.I envied that bird, on that fair summer morning,When nature lay decked with spontaneous art,As he circled, with aspect defiant and scorning,And perched on a pinnacle's loftiest part.
I gazed at the azure-hued mantle of heaven,The measureless depths of ethereal space;I gazed at the clouds, so invisibly driven,And an eagle, which wheeled with symmetrical grace.
I gazed at that eagle, majestically wheeling,With dignity, born of the free mountain air;I envied that bird, with an envious feelingWhich springs from a heart that is shackled with care.
I envied that eagle, which bowed to no master,But soared at his will, through the ambient skies,Defiant of danger, and scorning disaster,He screamed at the cliffs, which re-echoed his cries.
I envied that bird, on that fair summer morning,When nature lay decked with spontaneous art,As he circled, with aspect defiant and scorning,And perched on a pinnacle's loftiest part.
TROUT LAKE."And by the mountain crystal lakeA rustic habitation make."TROUT LAKE, SAN MIGUEL COUNTY, COLORADO.
And scanning the scene with a stern indecision,He spread his dark wings, with intuitive cries,And sped, till acute and inquisitive visionDiscerned but a movable speck in the skies.When the shades of the evening, so listless and dreary,Descend on the valley, his wing never flags,As through the dark shadows he soars to his eyerie,Which nestles among the impregnable crags.Ah! fain would I rise on thy feathery pinions,Above the material cares of the day,And float over earth's most enchanting dominions,As clouds, by the zephyrs, are wafted away!
And scanning the scene with a stern indecision,He spread his dark wings, with intuitive cries,And sped, till acute and inquisitive visionDiscerned but a movable speck in the skies.
When the shades of the evening, so listless and dreary,Descend on the valley, his wing never flags,As through the dark shadows he soars to his eyerie,Which nestles among the impregnable crags.
Ah! fain would I rise on thy feathery pinions,Above the material cares of the day,And float over earth's most enchanting dominions,As clouds, by the zephyrs, are wafted away!
Wherever I wander, my spirit still dwells,In the silvery San Juan[E]with its streamlet and dells;Whose mountainous summits, so rugged and high,With their pinnacles pierce the ethereal sky;Where the daisy, the rose, and the sweet columbineBlend their colors with those of the sober hued pine;Where the ceaseless erosions of measureless time,Have chiseled the grotto and canon sublime;Have sculptured the cliff, and the stern mountain wall;Have formed the bold turret, impressive and tall;Have cut the deep gorge with its wonderful caves,Sepulchral and gloomy; whose vast architravesSupport the stalactites, both pendant and white,Which with the stalagmites beneath them unite;Where nestles a valley, sequestered and grand,Worn out of the rock by the same tireless hand,Surrounded by mountains, majestic and gray,Which smile from their heights on the Town of Ouray.
Wherever I wander, my spirit still dwells,In the silvery San Juan[E]with its streamlet and dells;Whose mountainous summits, so rugged and high,With their pinnacles pierce the ethereal sky;Where the daisy, the rose, and the sweet columbineBlend their colors with those of the sober hued pine;Where the ceaseless erosions of measureless time,Have chiseled the grotto and canon sublime;Have sculptured the cliff, and the stern mountain wall;Have formed the bold turret, impressive and tall;Have cut the deep gorge with its wonderful caves,Sepulchral and gloomy; whose vast architravesSupport the stalactites, both pendant and white,Which with the stalagmites beneath them unite;Where nestles a valley, sequestered and grand,Worn out of the rock by the same tireless hand,Surrounded by mountains, majestic and gray,Which smile from their heights on the Town of Ouray.
BOX CANYON LOOKING INWARD."Where the ceaseless erosions of measureless time,Have chiseled the grotto and canon sublime."BOX CAÑON, LOOKING INWARD, OURAY, COLORADO.
Wherever I wander, my ears hear the soundOf thy waters, which plunge with a turbulent boundO'er the precipice, seething and laden with foam;My ears hear their music wherever I roam;Where the cataract's rhapsody, joyous and light,Enchants in the morning and soothes in the night;Where blend the loud thunders, sonorous and deep,With the sobs of the rain as the black heavens weep;Where the whispering zephyr, and murmuring breeze,Unite with the soft, listless sigh of the trees;And where to the fancy, the voices of airWail in tones of distress, or in shrieks of despair;Where mourneth the night wind, with desolate breath,In accents suggestive of sorrow and death;As falls from the heavens, so fleecy and light,The winter's immaculate mantle of white;Wherever I wander, these sounds greet my ears,And the silvery San Juan to my fancy appears.
Wherever I wander, my ears hear the soundOf thy waters, which plunge with a turbulent boundO'er the precipice, seething and laden with foam;My ears hear their music wherever I roam;Where the cataract's rhapsody, joyous and light,Enchants in the morning and soothes in the night;Where blend the loud thunders, sonorous and deep,With the sobs of the rain as the black heavens weep;Where the whispering zephyr, and murmuring breeze,Unite with the soft, listless sigh of the trees;And where to the fancy, the voices of airWail in tones of distress, or in shrieks of despair;Where mourneth the night wind, with desolate breath,In accents suggestive of sorrow and death;As falls from the heavens, so fleecy and light,The winter's immaculate mantle of white;Wherever I wander, these sounds greet my ears,And the silvery San Juan to my fancy appears.
FOOTNOTES:
[E]
Pronounced San Wan. Spanish form of St. John.
Pronounced San Wan. Spanish form of St. John.
As the shifting sands of the desertAre born by the simoon's wrath,And in wanton and fleet confusion,Are strewn on its trackless path;So our lives with resistless fury,Insensibly and unknown,With a restless vacillationBy the winds of fate are blown;But an All-Wise HandMay have changed the sand,For a purpose of His own.As the troubled and turbulent waters,As the waves of the angry main,Respond with their undulationsTo the breath of the hurricane;So our lives on Time's boundless oceanUnwittingly toss and roll,And unconsciously drift with the currentWhich evades our assumed control;But a Hand of love,From the skies above,May have guided us past a shoal.Ephemeral, mobile, and fleeting,Our delible paths we tread;And fade as the crimson sunset,When the heavens are tinged with red;As the gorgeously tinted rainbowRetains not its varied dyes,We change, with the constant mutation,Of desert, of sea, and skies;But the Hand which made,Knows each transient shade,Which passes before the eyes.
As the shifting sands of the desertAre born by the simoon's wrath,And in wanton and fleet confusion,Are strewn on its trackless path;So our lives with resistless fury,Insensibly and unknown,With a restless vacillationBy the winds of fate are blown;But an All-Wise HandMay have changed the sand,For a purpose of His own.
As the troubled and turbulent waters,As the waves of the angry main,Respond with their undulationsTo the breath of the hurricane;So our lives on Time's boundless oceanUnwittingly toss and roll,And unconsciously drift with the currentWhich evades our assumed control;But a Hand of love,From the skies above,May have guided us past a shoal.
Ephemeral, mobile, and fleeting,Our delible paths we tread;And fade as the crimson sunset,When the heavens are tinged with red;As the gorgeously tinted rainbowRetains not its varied dyes,We change, with the constant mutation,Of desert, of sea, and skies;But the Hand which made,Knows each transient shade,Which passes before the eyes.
OURAY, COLORADO."Which smile from their heights on the town of Ouray."OURAY, COLORADO.
Pity the child who never feelsA mother's fond caress;That childish smile a void concealsOf aching loneliness.Pity the heart which loves in vain,What balm or mystic spellCan soothe that bosom's secret pain,The pain it may not tell?Pity those missed by Cupid's darts,For 'twas ordained for such,Who love at random, but whose heartsFeel no responsive touch.
Pity the child who never feelsA mother's fond caress;That childish smile a void concealsOf aching loneliness.
Pity the heart which loves in vain,What balm or mystic spellCan soothe that bosom's secret pain,The pain it may not tell?
Pity those missed by Cupid's darts,For 'twas ordained for such,Who love at random, but whose heartsFeel no responsive touch.
If I have lived before, some evidenceShould that existence to the present bind;Some innate inkling of experienceShould still imbue and permeate the mind,If we, progressing, pass from state to state,Or retrograde, as turns the wheel of fate.If I have lived before, and could my eyesBut view the scenes wherein that life was spent,Or even for an instant recognizeThe climes, conditions and environmentBeloved by them in that pre-natal span,Though past and future both be sealed to man;Or, if perchance, kind memory should ope'Her floodgates, with fond recollection fraught,'Twould then renew the dormant fires of hope,Now smothered out by speculative thought;'Twould then rekindle faith within a breast,Where doubt is now the sole remaining guest.
If I have lived before, some evidenceShould that existence to the present bind;Some innate inkling of experienceShould still imbue and permeate the mind,If we, progressing, pass from state to state,Or retrograde, as turns the wheel of fate.
If I have lived before, and could my eyesBut view the scenes wherein that life was spent,Or even for an instant recognizeThe climes, conditions and environmentBeloved by them in that pre-natal span,Though past and future both be sealed to man;
Or, if perchance, kind memory should ope'Her floodgates, with fond recollection fraught,'Twould then renew the dormant fires of hope,Now smothered out by speculative thought;'Twould then rekindle faith within a breast,Where doubt is now the sole remaining guest.
They say that all nature is smiling and gay,And the birds the most happy of all,But the sparrow, pursued by the sparrowhawk,Savors more of the wormwood and gall.They say that all nature is smiling and gay,But the groan may dissemble the laugh;E'en now from the meadow is wafted the soundOf a bovine bewailing her calf.They say that all nature is smiling and gay,But the moss often covers the rock;Every animal form is beset by a foe,For the wolf always follows the flock.For the animal holds all inferior fleshAs its just and legitimate prey;Every scream of the eagle a panic createsAs the weaker things scamper away.They say that all nature is smiling and gay,But the smiles are all needed to sweetenThe struggle we see so incessantly wagedTo eat, and avoid being eaten.And men, with their genial competitive waysPresent no decided improvements,For their personal gain they will sacrifice allWho may stand in the way of their movements.
They say that all nature is smiling and gay,And the birds the most happy of all,But the sparrow, pursued by the sparrowhawk,Savors more of the wormwood and gall.
They say that all nature is smiling and gay,But the groan may dissemble the laugh;E'en now from the meadow is wafted the soundOf a bovine bewailing her calf.
They say that all nature is smiling and gay,But the moss often covers the rock;Every animal form is beset by a foe,For the wolf always follows the flock.
For the animal holds all inferior fleshAs its just and legitimate prey;Every scream of the eagle a panic createsAs the weaker things scamper away.
They say that all nature is smiling and gay,But the smiles are all needed to sweetenThe struggle we see so incessantly wagedTo eat, and avoid being eaten.
And men, with their genial competitive waysPresent no decided improvements,For their personal gain they will sacrifice allWho may stand in the way of their movements.
Clink! Clink! Clink!The song of the hammer and drill!At the sound of the whistle so shrill and clear,He must leave the wife and the children dear,In his cabin upon the hill.Clink! Clink! Clink!But the arms that deliver the sturdy stroke,Ere the shift is done, may be crushed or broke,Or the life may succumb to the gas and smoke,Which the underground caverns fill.Clink! Clink! Clink!The song of the hammer and drill!As he toils in the shaft, in the stope or raise,'Mid dangers which lurk, but elude the gaze,His nerves with no terrors thrill.Clink! Clink! Clink!For the heart of the miner is strong and brave;Though the rocks may fall, and the shaft may caveAnd become his dungeon, if not his grave,He braves every thought of ill.Clink! Clink! Clink!The song of the hammer and drill!But the heart which is beating in unisonWith the steady stroke, e'er the shift is done,May be cold and forever still.Clink! Clink! Clink!He may reap the harvest of danger sowed,The hole which he drills he may never load,For the powder may e'en in his hand explode,To mangle, if not to kill.Clink! Clink! Clink!The song of the hammer and drill!Facing dangers more grim than the cannon's mouth;Breathing poisons more foul than the swamps of the southIn their tropical fens distill.Clink! Clink! Clink!Thus the battle he fights for his daily bread;Thus our gold and our silver, our iron and lead,Cost us lives, as true as our blood is red,And probably always will.
Clink! Clink! Clink!The song of the hammer and drill!At the sound of the whistle so shrill and clear,He must leave the wife and the children dear,In his cabin upon the hill.Clink! Clink! Clink!But the arms that deliver the sturdy stroke,Ere the shift is done, may be crushed or broke,Or the life may succumb to the gas and smoke,Which the underground caverns fill.
Clink! Clink! Clink!The song of the hammer and drill!As he toils in the shaft, in the stope or raise,'Mid dangers which lurk, but elude the gaze,His nerves with no terrors thrill.Clink! Clink! Clink!For the heart of the miner is strong and brave;Though the rocks may fall, and the shaft may caveAnd become his dungeon, if not his grave,He braves every thought of ill.
Clink! Clink! Clink!The song of the hammer and drill!But the heart which is beating in unisonWith the steady stroke, e'er the shift is done,May be cold and forever still.Clink! Clink! Clink!He may reap the harvest of danger sowed,The hole which he drills he may never load,For the powder may e'en in his hand explode,To mangle, if not to kill.
Clink! Clink! Clink!The song of the hammer and drill!Facing dangers more grim than the cannon's mouth;Breathing poisons more foul than the swamps of the southIn their tropical fens distill.Clink! Clink! Clink!Thus the battle he fights for his daily bread;Thus our gold and our silver, our iron and lead,Cost us lives, as true as our blood is red,And probably always will.
Within the precincts of a hospital,I wandered in a sympathetic mood;Where face to face with wormwood and with gall,With wrecks of pain and stern vicissitude,The eye unused to human miseryMight view life's undercurrent vividly.My gaze soon rested on the stricken formOf one succumbing to the fever's drouth,With throbbing brow intolerably warm,With wasted lips and mute appealing mouth;And when I watched that prostrate figure thereI thought that fate must be the worst to bear.I next beheld a thin but patient face,Aged by the constant twinge of hopeless pain,Wheeled in an easy chair from place to place,A form which ne'er might stand erect again;I viewed that human shipwreck in his chair,And thought a fate like that was worst to bear.Within her room a beauteous maiden lay,Moaning in agony no words express,A cancer eating rapidly awayHer vital force,—so foul and pitiless;And when I saw that face, so young and fair,I thought such anguish was the worst to bear.
Within the precincts of a hospital,I wandered in a sympathetic mood;Where face to face with wormwood and with gall,With wrecks of pain and stern vicissitude,The eye unused to human miseryMight view life's undercurrent vividly.
My gaze soon rested on the stricken formOf one succumbing to the fever's drouth,With throbbing brow intolerably warm,With wasted lips and mute appealing mouth;And when I watched that prostrate figure thereI thought that fate must be the worst to bear.
I next beheld a thin but patient face,Aged by the constant twinge of hopeless pain,Wheeled in an easy chair from place to place,A form which ne'er might stand erect again;I viewed that human shipwreck in his chair,And thought a fate like that was worst to bear.
Within her room a beauteous maiden lay,Moaning in agony no words express,A cancer eating rapidly awayHer vital force,—so foul and pitiless;And when I saw that face, so young and fair,I thought such anguish was the worst to bear.
BOX CANYON LOOKING OUTWARD."Have cut the deep gorge with its wonderful curves."BOX CAÑON, LOOKING OUTWARD, OURAY, COLORADO.
A helpless paralytic met my eyes,Whose hands might never grasp a friendly hand,But hung distorted and of shrunken size,Insensible to muscular command;His face an abject picture of despair;I thought a fate like that was worst to bear.With wasted form, emaciate and wan,A pale consumptive coughed with labored breath,His sunken eyes and hectic flush uponHis cheek, foretold a sure but lingering death;I thought, whene'er I met his hollow stare,A wasting death like that was worst to bear.That day with fetters obdurate and fast,With chain of summer, winter, spring and fall,Is bounden to the dim receding past;Time o'er my life has spread a somber pall,With sightless eyes I grope and clutch the air,My lot is now the hardest lot to bear.
A helpless paralytic met my eyes,Whose hands might never grasp a friendly hand,But hung distorted and of shrunken size,Insensible to muscular command;His face an abject picture of despair;I thought a fate like that was worst to bear.
With wasted form, emaciate and wan,A pale consumptive coughed with labored breath,His sunken eyes and hectic flush uponHis cheek, foretold a sure but lingering death;I thought, whene'er I met his hollow stare,A wasting death like that was worst to bear.
That day with fetters obdurate and fast,With chain of summer, winter, spring and fall,Is bounden to the dim receding past;Time o'er my life has spread a somber pall,With sightless eyes I grope and clutch the air,My lot is now the hardest lot to bear.
They cannot see the wreaths we placeUpon the silent bier,They cannot see the tear-stained face,Nor feel the scalding tear,And now can flowers or graven stone,For wrongs done them in life atone?Better the flower that smooths the thornsOn earthly pathway found,Than that which uselessly adornsThe bier or silent mound.And neither tear nor floral tokenRetracts the hasty word, when spoken.Then strew the flowers ere life has fled,While yet their eyes discern;Why waste their fragrance on the deadWho no fond smile return?The heaving breast with sorrow aches,Comfort the throbbing heart which breaks.
They cannot see the wreaths we placeUpon the silent bier,They cannot see the tear-stained face,Nor feel the scalding tear,And now can flowers or graven stone,For wrongs done them in life atone?
Better the flower that smooths the thornsOn earthly pathway found,Than that which uselessly adornsThe bier or silent mound.And neither tear nor floral tokenRetracts the hasty word, when spoken.
Then strew the flowers ere life has fled,While yet their eyes discern;Why waste their fragrance on the deadWho no fond smile return?The heaving breast with sorrow aches,Comfort the throbbing heart which breaks.
Mother! Mother!The startled cry of childish frightRang through the silence of the night,As but the mother's fond caressCould soothe its infantile distress;And the mother answered, with loving strokeOf her gentle hand, as she softly spoke:"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"Mother! Mother!Long years have passed, and the fevered browOf a bearded man, she is stroking now,As through delirium and painHe cries as a little child, again.And the mother answered, with loving strokeOf her careworn hand, as she softly spoke:"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"Mother! Mother!Still time rolls on, and an old man standsTrembling on life's declining sands;As memory bridges the flood of yearsHe cries as a child, with childish tears;And memory answers, with loving strokeOf a vanished hand, and an echo spoke:"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"
Mother! Mother!The startled cry of childish frightRang through the silence of the night,As but the mother's fond caressCould soothe its infantile distress;And the mother answered, with loving strokeOf her gentle hand, as she softly spoke:"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"
Mother! Mother!Long years have passed, and the fevered browOf a bearded man, she is stroking now,As through delirium and painHe cries as a little child, again.And the mother answered, with loving strokeOf her careworn hand, as she softly spoke:"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"
Mother! Mother!Still time rolls on, and an old man standsTrembling on life's declining sands;As memory bridges the flood of yearsHe cries as a child, with childish tears;And memory answers, with loving strokeOf a vanished hand, and an echo spoke:"Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?"