'Tis gone at last, and I am glad; it stayed a fearful while,And when the world was light and gay, I could not even smile;It stood before me like a giant, outstretched its iron arm;No matter where I looked, I saw the mortgage on the farm.I'll tell you how it happened, for I want the world to knowHow glad I am this winter day whilst earth is white with snow;I'm just as happy as a lark. No cause for rude alarmConfronts us now, for lifted is the mortgage on the farm.The children they were growing up and they were smart and trim.To some big college in the East we'd sent our youngest, Jim;And every time he wrote us, at the bottom of his screedHe tacked some Latin fol-de-rol which none of us could read.The girls they ran to music, and to painting, and to rhymes,They said the house was out of style and far behind the times;They suddenly diskivered that it didn't keep'm warm—Another step of course towards a mortgage on the farm.We took a cranky notion, Hannah Jane and me one day,While we were coming home from town, a-talking all the way;The old house wasn't big enough for us, although for yearsBeneath its humble roof we'd shared each other's joys and tears.We built it o'er and when 'twas done, I wish you could have seen it,It was a most tremendous thing—I really didn't mean it;Why, it was big enough to hold the people of the townAnd not one half as cosy as the old one we pulled down.I bought a fine pianner and it shortened still the pile,But, then, it pleased the children and they banged it all the while;No matter what they played for me, their music had no charm,For every tune said plainly: "There's a mortgage on the farm!"I worked from morn till eve, and toiled as often toils the slaveTo meet that grisly interest; I tried hard to be brave,And oft when I came home at night with tired brain and arm,The chickens hung their heads, they felt the mortgage on the farm.—But we saved a penny now and then, we laid them in a row,The girls they played the same old tunes, and let the new ones go;And when from college came our Jim with laurels on his brow,I led him to the stumpy field and put him to the plow.He something said in Latin which I didn't understand,But it did me good to see his plow turn up the dewy land;And when the year had ended and empty were the cribs,We found we'd hit the mortgage, sir, a blow between the ribs.To-day I harnessed up the team and thundered off to town,And in the lawyer's sight I planked the last bright dollar down;And when I trotted up the lanes a-feeling good and warm,The old red rooster crowed his best: "No mortgage on the farm!"I'll sleep almighty good to-night, the best for many a day,The skeleton that haunted us has passed fore'er away.The girls can play the brand-new tunes with no fears to alarm,And Jim can go to Congress, with no mortgage on the farm!
"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!"That is what the vision said.In his chamber all alone,Kneeling on the floor of stone,Prayed the Monk in deep contritionFor his sins of indecision,Prayed for greater self-denialIn temptation and in trial;It was noonday by the dial,And the Monk was all alone.Suddenly, as if it lightened,An unwonted splendor brightenedAll within him and without himIn that narrow cell of stone;And he saw the blessed visionOf our Lord, with light ElysianLike a vesture wrapped about Him,Like a garment round Him thrown.Not as crucified and slainNot in agonies of pain,Not with bleeding hands and feet,Did the Monk his Master see;But as in the village street,In the house or harvest field,Halt and lame and blind He healed,When He walked in Galilee.In as attitude imploring,Hands upon his bosom crossed,Wondering, worshiping, adoring,Knelt the Monk, in rapture lost,Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest,Who am I that thus Thou deignestTo reveal Thyself to me?Who am I, that from the centerOf Thy glory Thou shouldst enterThis poor cell, my guest to be?Then amid his exaltation,Loud the convent bell appalling,From its belfrey calling, calling,Rang through court and corridorWith persistent iteration,He had never heard before.It was now the appointed hourWhen alike in shine or shower,Winter's cold or summer's heat,To the convent portals cameAll the blind and halt and lame,All the beggars of the street,For their daily dole of foodDealt them by the brotherhood;And their almoner was heWho upon his bended kneesRapt in silent ecstasyOf divinest self-surrender,Saw the vision and the splendor.Deep distress and hesitationMingled with his adoration;Should he go, or should he stay?Should he leave the poor to waitHungry at the convent gate,Till the vision passed away?Should he slight his radiant guest,Slight this visitant celestialFor a crowd of ragged, bestialBeggars at the convent gate?Would the vision there remain?Would the vision come again?Then a voice within his breastWhispered audible and clear,As if to the outward ear:"Do thy duty; that is best;Leave unto thy Lord the rest!"Straightway to his feet he started,And with longing look intentOn the blessed vision bent,Slowly from his cell departed,Slowly on his errand went.At the gate the poor were waiting,Looking through the iron grating,With that terror in the eyeThat is only seen in thoseWho amid their wants and woesHear the sound of doors that close.And of feet that pass them by:Grown familiar with disfavor,Grown familiar with the savorOf the bread by which men die;But to-day, they knew not why,Like the gate of ParadiseSeemed the convent gate to rise,Like a sacrament divineSeemed to them the bread and wine.In his heart the Monk was praying,Thinking of the homeless poor,What they suffer and endure;What we see not, what we see;And the inward voice was saying:"Whatsoever thing thou doestTo the least of mine and lowest,That thou doest unto me."Unto me! but had the visionCome to him in beggar's clothing,Come a mendicant imploring,Would he then have knelt adoring,Or have listened with derision,And have turned away with loathing?Thus his conscience put the question,Full of troublesome suggestion,As at length, with hurried pace,Toward his cell he turned his face,And beheld the convent brightWith a supernatural light,Like a luminous cloud expandingOver floor and wall and ceiling.But he paused with awe-struck feelingAt the threshold of his door,For the vision still was standingAs he left it there before,When the convent bell appalling,From its belfry calling, calling,Summoned him to feed the poor.Through the long hour interveningIt had waited his return,And he felt his bosom burn,Comprehending all the meaning,When the blessed vision said:"Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled."Henry W. Longfellow.
Into a ward of the whitewashed halls,Where the dead and dying lay,Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,Somebody's Darling was borne one day—Somebody's Darling, so young and so brave,Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,The lingering light of his boyhood's grace.Matted and damp are the curls of gold,Kissing the snow of the fair young brow,Pale are the lips of delicate mold—Somebody's Darling is dying now.Back from his beautiful blue-veined browBrush all the wandering waves of gold,Cross his hands on his bosom now—Somebody's Darling is still and cold.Kiss him once for somebody's sake,Murmur a prayer both soft and low;One bright curl from its fair mates take—They were somebody's pride, you know.Somebody's hand hath rested there—Was it a mother's, soft and white?And have the lips of a sister fairBeen baptized in their waves of light?God knows best! he was somebody's love;Somebody's heart enshrined him there;Somebody wafted his name above,Night and morn on the wings of prayer.Somebody wept when he marched away,Looking so handsome, brave, and grand;Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,Somebody clung to his parting hand.Somebody's waiting and watching for him—Yearning to hold him again to her heart;And there he lies with his blue eyes dim,And the smiling, child-like lips apart.Tenderly bury the fair young dead,Pausing to drop on his grave a tear;Carve in the wooden slab at his head,"Somebody's Darling slumbers here."Maria La Coste.
South Mountain towered upon our right, far off the river lay,And over on the wooded height we held their lines at bay.At last the muttering guns were still; the day died slow and wan;At last the gunners pipes did fill, the sergeant's yarns began.When, as the wind a moment blew aside the fragrant floodOur brierwoods raised, within our view a little maiden stood.A tiny tot of six or seven, from fireside fresh she seemed,(Of such a little one in heaven one soldier often dreamed.)And as we stared, her little hand went to her curly headIn grave salute. "And who areyou?" at length the sergeant said."And where's your home?" he growled again. She lisped out, "Who is me?Why, don't you know? I'm little Jane, the Pride of Battery B.My home? Why, that was burned away, and pa and ma are dead;And so I ride the guns all day along with Sergeant Ned.And I've a drum that's not a toy, a cap with feathers, too;And I march beside the drummer boy on Sundays at review.But now our 'bacca's all give out, the men can't have their smoke,And so they're cross—why, even Ned won't play with me and joke.And the big colonel said to-day—I hate to hear him swear—He'd give a leg for a good pipe like the Yanks had over there.And so I thought when beat the drum, and the big guns were still,I'd creep beneath the tent and come out here across the hillAnd beg, good Mister Yankee men, you'd give me some 'Lone Jack.'Please do: when we get some again, I'll surely bring it back.Indeed I will, for Ned—says he,—if I do what I say,I'll be a general yet, maybe, and ride a prancing bay."We brimmed her tiny apron o'er; you should have heard her laughAs each man from his scanty store shook out a generous half.To kiss the little mouth stooped down a score of grimy men,Until the sergeant's husky voice said,"'Tention squad!" and thenWe gave her escort, till good-night the pretty waif we bid,And watched her toddle out of sight—or else 'twas tears that hidHer tiny form—nor turned about a man, nor spoke a word,Till after awhile a far, hoarse shout upon the wind we heard!We sent it back, then cast sad eyes upon the scene around;A baby's hand had touched the ties that brothers once had bound.That's all—save when the dawn awoke again the work of hell,And through the sullen clouds of smoke the screaming missiles fell,Our general often rubbed his glass, and marveled much to seeNot a single shell that whole day fell in the camp of Battery B.Frank H. Gassaway.
It was kept out in the kitchen, and 'twas long and deep and wide,And the poker hung above it and the shovel stood beside,And the big, black cookstove, grinnin' through its grate from ear to ear,Seemed to look as if it loved it like a brother, pretty near.Flowered oilcloth tacked around it kept its cracks and knot-holes hid,And a pair of leather hinges fastened on the heavy lid,And it hadn't any bottom—or, at least, it seemed that wayWhen you hurried in to fill it, so's to get outside and play.When the noons was hot and lazy and the leaves hung dry and still,And the locust in the pear tree started up his planin'-mill,And the drum-beat of the breakers was a soothin', temptin' roll,And you knew the "gang" was waitin' by the brimmin' "swimmin' hole"—Louder than the locust's buzzin,' louder than the breakers' roar,You could hear the wood-box holler, "Come and fill me up once more!"And the old clock ticked and chuckled as you let each armful drop,Like it said, "Another minute, and you're nowheres near the top!"In the chilly winter mornin's when the bed was snug and warm,And the frosted winders tinkled 'neath the fingers of the storm,And your breath rose off the piller in a smoky cloud of steam—Then that wood-box, grim and empty, came a-dancin' through your dream,Came and pounded at your conscience, screamed in aggravatin' glee,"Would you like to sleep this mornin'? You git up and 'tend to me!"Land! how plain it is this minute—shed and barn and drifted snow,And the slabs of oak a-waitin!, piled and ready, in a row.Never was a fishin' frolic, never was a game of ball,But that mean, provokin' wood-box had to come and spoil it all;You might study at your lessons and 'twas full and full to stay,But jest start an Injun story, and 'twas empty right away.Seemed as if a spite was in it, and although I might forgitAll the other chores that plagued me, I can hate that wood-box yit:And when I look back at boyhood—shakin' off the cares of men—Still it comes to spoil the picture, screamin', "Fill me up again!"Joseph C. Lincoln.
Good Deacon Roland—"may his tribe increase!"—Awoke one Sabbath morn feeling at peaceWith God and all mankind. His wants supplied,He read his Bible and then knelt besideThe family altar, and uplifted thereHis voice to God in fervent praise and prayer;In praise for blessings past, so rich and free,And prayer for benedictions yet to be.Then on a stile, which spanned the dooryard fence,He sat him down complacently, and thenceSurveyed with pride, o'er the far-reaching plain,His flocks and herds and fields of golden grain;His meadows waving like the billowy seas,And orchards filled with over-laden trees,Quoth he: "How vast the products of my lands;Abundance crowns the labor of my hands,Great is my substance; God indeed is good,Who doth in love provide my daily food."While thus he sat in calm soliloquy,A voice aroused him from his reverie,—A childish voice from one whose shoeless feetBrought him unnoticed to the deacon's seat;"Please mister, I have eaten naught to-day;If I had money I would gladly payFor bread; but I am poor, and cannot buyMy breakfast; mister, would you mind if IShould ask for something, just for what you callCold pieces from your table, that is all?"The deacon listened to the child's request,The while his penetrating eye did restOn him whose tatters, trembling, quick revealedThe agitation of the heart concealedWithin the breast of one unskilled in ruse,Who asked not alms like one demanding dues.Then said the deacon: "I am not inclinedTo give encouragement to those who findIt easier to beg for bread betimes,Than to expend their strength in earning dimesWherewith to purchase it. A parent oughtTo furnish food for those whom he has broughtInto this world, where each one has his shareOf tribulation, sorrow, toil and care.I sympathize with you, my little lad,Your destitution makes me feel so sad;But, for the sake of those who should supplyYour wants, I must your earnest plea deny;And inasmuch as giving food to youWould be providing for your parents, too,Thus fostering vagrancy and idleness,I cannot think such charity would blessWho gives or takes; and therefore I repeat,I cannot give you anything to eat."Before this "vasty deep" of logic stoodThe child nor found it satisfying food.Nor did he tell the tale he might have toldOf parents slumbering in the grave's damp mould,But quickly shrank away to find reliefIn giving vent to his rekindled grief,While Deacon Roland soon forgot the appealIn meditating on his better weal.Ere long the Sabbath bells their peals rang outTo summon worshippers, with hearts devout,To wait on God and listen to His word;And then the deacon's pious heart was stirred;And in the house of God he soon was foundEngaged in acts of worship most profound.Wearied, however, with his week-day care,He fell asleep before the parson's prayerWas ended; then he dreamed he died and cameTo heaven's grand portal, and announced his name:"I'm Deacon Roland, called from earth afar,To join the saints; please set the gates ajar,That I may 'join the everlasting song,'And mingle ever with the ransomed throng."Then lo! "a horror of great darkness" cameUpon him, as he heard a voice exclaim:"Depart from me! you cannot enter here!I never knew you, for indeed, howe'erYou may have wrought on earth, the sad, sad factRemains, that life's sublimest, worthiest act—"The deacon woke to find it all a dreamJust as the minister announced his theme:"My text," said he, "doth comfort only suchAs practice charity; for 'inasmuchAs ye have done it to the least of theseMy little ones' saith He who holds the keysOf heaven, 'ye have done it unto me,'And I will give you immortality."Straightway the deacon left his cushioned pew,And from the church in sudden haste withdrew,And up the highway ran, on love's swift feetTo overtake the child of woe, and greetHim as the worthy representativeOf Christ the Lord and to him freely giveAll needful good, that thus he might atoneFor the neglect which he before had shown.Thus journeying, God directed all his way,O'er hill and dale, to where the outcast layBeside the road bemoaning his sad fate.And then the deacon said, "My child, 'tis late;Make haste and journey with me to my home;To guide you thither, I myself have come;And you shall have the food you asked in vain,For God himself hath made my duty plain;If he demand it, all I have is thine;Shrink not, but trust me; place thy hand in mine."And as they journeyed toward the deacon's home,The child related how he came to roam,Until the listening deacon understoodThe touching story of his orphanhood.Then, finding in the little waif a gemWorthy to deck the Saviour's diadem,He drew him to his loving breast, and said,"My child, you shall by me be clothed and fed;Nor shall you go from hence again to roamWhile God in love provides for us a home."And as the weeks and months roll on apace,The deacon held the lad in love's embrace;And being childless did on him conferThe boon of sonship.Thus the almonerOf God's great bounty to the destituteThe deacon came to be; and as the fruitOf having learned to keep the golden ruleHis charity became all-bountiful;And from thenceforth he lived to benefitMankind; and when in life's great book were writTheir names who heeded charity's request,Lo! Deacon Roland's "name led all the rest."S.V.R. Ford.
Talking of sects quite late one eve,What one and another of saints believe,That night I stood in a troubled dreamBy the side of a darkly-flowing stream.And a "churchman" down to the river came,When I heard a strange voice call his name,"Good father, stop; when you cross this tideYou must leave your robes on the other side."But the aged father did not mind,And his long gown floated out behindAs down to the stream his way he took,His hands firm hold of a gilt-edged book."I'm bound for heaven, and when I'm thereI shall want my book of Common Prayer,And though I put on a starry crown,I should feel quite lost without my gown."Then he fixed his eye on the shining track,But his gown was heavy and held him back,And the poor old father tried in vain,A single step in the flood to gain.I saw him again on the other side,But his silk gown floated on the tide,And no one asked, in that blissful spot,If he belonged to "the church" or not.Then down to the river a Quaker strayed;His dress of a sober hue was made,"My hat and coat must be all of gray,I cannot go any other way."Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chinAnd staidly, solemnly, waded in,And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tightOver his forehead, so cold and white.But a strong wind carried away his hat,And he sighed a few moments over that,And then, as he gazed to the farther shoreThe coat slipped off and was seen no more.Poor, dying Quaker, thy suit of grayIs quietly sailing—away—away,But thou'lt go to heaven, as straight as an arrow,Whether thy brim be broad or narrow.Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of psalmsTied nicely up in his aged arms,And hymns as many, a very wise thing,That the people in heaven, "all round," might sing.But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh,As he saw that the river ran broad and high,And looked rather surprised, as one by one,The psalms and hymns in the wave went down.And after him, with his MSS.,Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness,But he cried, "Dear me, what shall I do?The water has soaked them through and through."And there, on the river, far and wide,Away they went on the swollen tide,And the saint, astonished, passed through alone,Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.Then gravely walking, two saints by name,Down to the stream together came,But as they stopped at the river's brink,I saw one saint from the other shrink."Sprinkled or plunged—may I ask you, friend,How you attained to life's great end?""Thus, with a few drops on my brow";"But I have beendipped, as you'll see me now."And I really think it will hardly do,As I'm 'close communion,' to cross with you.You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss,But you must go that way, and I'll go this."And straightway plunging with all his might,Away to the left—his friend at the right,Apart they went from this world of sin,But how did the brethren "enter in"?And now where the river was rolling on,A Presbyterian church went down;Of women, there seemed an innumerable throng,But the men I could count as they passed along.And concerning the road they could never agree,Theoldor thenewway, which it could be;Nor ever a moment paused to thinkThat both would lead to the river's brink.And a sound of murmuring long and loudCame ever up from the moving crowd,"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new,That is the false, and this is the true":Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new,Thatis the false, andthisis the true."But the brethren only seemed to speak,Modest the sisters walked, and meek,And if ever one of them chanced to sayWhat troubles she met with on the way,How she longed to pass to the other side,Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,A voice arose from the brethren then,"Let no one speak but the 'holy men,'For have ye not heard the words of Paul?'Oh, let the women keep silence all.'"I watched them long in my curious dream.Till they stood by the border of the stream,Then, just as I thought, the two ways met.But all the brethren were talking yet,And would talk on, till the heaving tideCarried them over, side by side;Side by side, for the way was one,The toilsome journey of life was done,And priest and Quaker, and all who died,Came out alike on the other side;No forms or crosses, or books had they,No gowns of silk, or suits of gray,No creeds to guide them, or MSS.,For all had put on "Christ's righteousness."Elizabeth H. Jocelyn Cleaveland.
I can't tell much about the thing, 'twas done so powerful quick;But 'pears to me I got a most outlandish heavy lick:It broke my leg, and tore my skulp, and jerked my arm 'most out.But take a seat: I'll try and tell jest how it kem about.You see, I'd started down to town, with that 'ere team of mine,A-haulin' down a load o' corn to Ebenezer Kline,And drivin' slow; for, jest about a day or two before,The off-horse run a splinter in his foot, and made it sore.You know the railroad cuts across the road at Martin's Hole:Well, thar I seed a great big sign, raised high upon a pole;I thought I'd stop and read the thing, and find out what it said,And so I stopped the hosses on the railroad-track, and read.I ain't no scholar, rekollect, and so I had to spell,I started kinder cautious like, with R-A-I and L;And that spelt "rail" as clear as mud; R-O-A-D was "road."I lumped 'em: "railroad" was the word, and that 'ere much I knowed.C-R-O and double S, with I-N-G to boot,Made "crossing" jest as plain as Noah Webster dared to do't."Railroad crossing"—good enough!—L double-O-K, "look";And I wos lookin' all the time, and spellin' like a book.O-U-T spelt "out" just right; and there it was, "look out,"I's kinder cur'us like, to know jest what't was all about;F-O-R and T-H-E; 'twas then "look out for the—"And then I tried the next word; it commenced with E-N-G.I'd got that fur, when suddintly there came an awful whack;A thousand fiery thunderbolts just scooped me off the track;The hosses went to Davy Jones, the wagon went to smash,And I was histed seven yards above the tallest ash.I didn't come to life ag'in fur 'bout a day or two;But, though I'm crippled up a heap, I sorter struggled through;It ain't the pain, nor 'taint the loss o' that 'ere team of mine;But, stranger, how I'd like to know the rest of that 'ere sign!Hezekiah Strong.
ITurn back the leaves of history. On yon Pacific shoreA world-known city's fall and rise shall thrill your hearts once more.'Twas April; nineteen-six the year; old San Francisco layEffulgent in the splendor of the dying orb of dayThat bathed in flood of crimson light Mount Tamalpais' lonely heightAnd kissed the sister towns "goodnight" across the misty bay.It burst in glory on the hills, lit up the princely homes,And gleamed from lofty towers and spires and flashed from gilded domes;It glorified the massive blocks caught in its widening flow,Engulfed the maze of streets and parks that stretched away below,Till marble white and foliage green and vales of gray, and silvery sheenOf ocean's surface vast, serene, were tinted by its glow.The tranquil murmurs of the deep were borne on balmy airAll odorous with lily breath and roses sweet and rare.The zephyrs sang a lullaby as the slow, fiery ballEnded its trail of gorgeousness behind horizon's wall.Then gray absorbed each rainbow hue and dark the beauteous landscape grewAs shadowy Evening softly drew her curtain over all.IIThat night around the festal board, 'mid incandescence gay,Sat Pomp and Pride and Wealth and Power, in sumptuous array,That night the happy, careless throng were all on pleasure bent,And Beauty in her jewelled robes to ball and opera went.'Mid feasting, laughter, song and jest; by music's soothing tones caressed;The Sunset City sank to rest in peace, secure, content.IIIUnconscious of approaching doom, old San Francisco sleepsWhile from the east, all smilingly, the April morning creeps.See! Playful sunbeams tinge with gold the mountains in the sky,And hazy clouds of gray unfold—but, hark! What means that cry?The ground vibrates with sadden shock. The buildings tremble, groan and rock.Wild fears the waking senses mock, and some wake but to die.A frightful subterranean force the earth's foundation shakes;The city quivers in the throes of fierce, successive quakes,And massive structures thrill like giant oaks before the blast;Into the streets with deafening crash the frailer ones are cast.Half garbed, the multitude rush out in frantic haste, with prayer and shout,To join the panic stricken rout. Ho! DEATH is marching past.A rumbling noise! The streets upheave, and sink again, like waves;And shattered piles and shapeless wrecks are strewn with human graves.Danger at every corner lurks. Destruction fills the air.Death-laden showers of mortar, bricks, are falling everywhere.IV"Fire! Fire!" And lo! the dread fiend starts. Mothers with babes clasped to their heartsAre struggling for the open parts in frenzy of despair.A hundred tiny tongues of flame forth from the ruins burst.No water! God! what shall we do to slake their quenchless thirst?The shocks have broken all the mains! "Use wine!" the people cry.The red flames laugh like drunken fiends; they stagger as to die,Then up again in fury spring, on high their crimson draperies fling;From block to block they leap and swing, and smoke clouds hide the sky.Ha! from the famed Presidio that guards the Golden GateCome Funston and his regulars to match their strength with Fate.The soldiers and the citizens are fighting side by sideTo check that onslaught of red wrath, to stem destruction's tide.With roar, and boom, and blare, and blast, an open space is cleared at last.The fiends of fury gallop past with flanks outstretched and wide;Around the city's storehouses they wreathe and twine and dance,And wealth and splendor shrivel up before their swift advance.Before their devastating breath the stricken people flee."Mine, mine your treasures are!" cried Death, and laughs in fiendish glee.Into that vortex of red hell sink church and theatre, store, hotel.With thunderous roar and hissing yell on sweeps the crimson sea.Again with charge of dynamite the lurid clouds are riven;Again with heat and sulphur smoke the troops are backward driven.All day, all night, all day again, with that infernal hostThey strive in vain for mastery. Each vantage gained is lost,—On comes the bellowing flood of flame in furious wrath its own to claim;Resistless in its awful aim each space is bridged and crossed.Ah God! the miles and miles of waste! One half the city gone!And westward now—toward Van Ness—the roaring flames roll on."Blow up that mile of palaces!" It is the last command,And there, at broad Van Ness, the troops make their heroic stand.The fight is now for life—sweet life, for helpless babe and homeless wife—The culmination of the strife spectacularly grand.On sweeps the hurricane of fire. The fatal touch is given.The detonation of the blast goes shrieking up to heaven.The mansions of bonanza kings are tottering to their doom;That swirling tide of fiery fate halts at the gaping tomb.Beyond the cataclysm's brink, the multitude, too dazed to think,Behold the red waves rise and—sink into the smoldering gloom.VThe fire has swept the waterfront and burned the Mission down,The business section—swallowed up, and wiped out Chinatown—Full thirty thousand homes destroyed, Nob Hill in ashes lies,And ghastly skeletons of steel on Market Street arise.A gruesome picture everywhere! 'Tis desolation grim and bareWaits artisan and millionaire beneath rank sulphurous skies.To-night, within the city parks, famished, benumbed and mute,Two hundred thousand refugees, homeless and destitute!Upon the hard, cold ground they crouch—the wrecks of Pomp and Pride;Milady and the city waifs are huddled side by side.And there, 'neath shelter rude and frail, we hear the new-born infants wail,While' nations read the tragic tale—how San Francisco died.VIPROPHECY—1906Not dead! Though maimed, her Soul yet lives—indomitable will—The Faith, the Hope, the Spirit bold nor quake nor fire can kill.To-morrow hearts shall throb again with western enterprise,And from the ruins of to-day a city shall arise—A monument of beauty great reared by the Conquerors of Fate—The City of the Golden Gate and matchless sunset skies!VIIFULFILLMENT--1915Reborn, rebuilt, she rose again, far vaster in expanse—A radiant city smiling from the ashes of romance!A San Francisco glorified, more beauteous than of yore,Enthroned upon her splendid hills, queen of the sunset shore;Her flags of industry unfurled, her portals open to the world!Thus, in the Book of Destiny, she lives for evermore.Isabel Ambler Gilman.