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 Chino,

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 poncho 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 farther,
The broad breast of Bernal at last.
And, frenzied with pain, the swart herdsman
Closed on him with terrible strength,
And jerked him, despite of his struggles,
Down from the saddle at length.

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.

Mrs. Julia C. Dorr.

AMERICAN.

Julia Caroline Ripley, the daughter of a gentleman for some time President of the Rutland County (Vt.) Bank, was born in Charleston, S. C., in 1825. Her father removed to New York, and she had a Northern education. In 1847 she married Seneca M. Dorr, of Chatham, N. Y., and they removed to Rutland. She has had literary tastes from childhood, and is the author of some halfdozen successful novels. Her first volume of poems appeared in 1872; and in 1879 it was followed by "Friar Anselmo, and other Poems." She shows a truly original vein in these productions, which seem always prompted by genuine feeling and a natural lyrical endowment. A happy wife and mother, her best work has been given to other than literary pursuits.

QUIETNESS.

I would be quiet, Lord, nor tease, nor fret; Not one small need of mine wilt Thou forget. I am not wise to know what most I need;

I dare not cry too loud lest Thou shouldst heed,

Lest Thou at length shouldst say, "Child, have thy will;

As thou hast chosen, lo! thy cup I fill!"
What I most crave, perchance Thou wilt withhold,
As we from hands unmeet keep pearls or gold;

As we, when childish hands would play with fire,
Withhold the burning goal of their desire.
Yet choose Thou for me- -Thou who knowest best;
This one short prayer of mine holds all the rest!

HEIRSHIP.

Little store of wealth have I,
Not a rood of land I own;
Nor a mansion fair and high,
Built of towers of fretted stone.
Stocks nor bonds, nor title-deeds,
Flocks nor herds have I to show;

What dost thou bring to me, O fair To-day,
That comest o'er the mountains with swift feet?
All the young birds make haste thy steps to greet;
And all the dewy roses of the May
Turn red and white with joy. The breezes play
On their soft harps a welcome low and sweet;
All nature hails thee, glad thy face to meet,
And owns thy presence in a brighter ray.
But my poor soul distrusts thee! One as fair
As thou art, O To-day, drew near to me,
Serene and smiling, yet she bade me wear

SOMEWHERE.

How can I cease to pray for thee? Somewhere
In God's great universe thou art to-day.
Can he not reach thee with his tender care?
Can he not hear me when for thee I pray?

What matters it to him who holds within
The hollow of his hand all worlds, all space,
That thou art done with earthly pain and sin?
Somewhere within his ken thou hast a place,

Somewhere thou livest and hast need of him; Somewhere thy soul sees higher heights to climb; And somewhere still there may be valleys dim That thou must pass to reach the hills sublime.

Then all the more because thou canst not hear, Poor human words of blessing will I pray.

O true, brave heart! God bless thee, wheresoe'er In his great universe thou art to-day.

TWENTY-ONE.

Grown to man's stature! O my little child!
My bird that sought the skies so long ago!

My fair, sweet blossom, pure and undefiled,

How have the years flown since we laid thee low!

What have they been to thee? If thou wert here Standing beside thy brothers, tall and fair, With bearded lip, and dark eyes shining clear, And glints of summer sunshine in thy hair,

I should look up into thy face and say, Wavering, perhaps, between a tear and smile, "O my sweet son, thou art a man to-day!"

And thou wouldst stoop to kiss my lips the while.

But-up in Heaven-how is it with thee, dear? Art thou a man-to man's full stature grown? Dost thou count time as we do, year by year?

And what of all earth's changes hast thou known?

Thou hadst not learned to love me. Didst thou take Any small germ of love to heaven with thee, That thou hast watched and nurtured for my sake, Waiting till I its perfect flower may see?

What is it to have lived in heaven always?

To have no memory of pain or sin? Ne'er to have known in all the calm, bright days The jar and fret of earth's discordant din?

OLD FOLKS AT HOME.

'Way down upon de Swannee Ribber, Far, far away,—

Dare's whar my heart is turning ebber,— Dare's whar de old folks stay.

I, who would give my very life for theirs,

I cannot save them from earth's pain or loss; I cannot shield them from its griefs or cares; Each human heart must bear alone its cross!

Was God, then, kinder unto thee than them,
O thou whose little life was but a span?
Ah, think it not! In all his diadem

No star shines brighter than the kingly man,

Who nobly earns whatever crown he wears,

Who grandly conquers, or as grandly dies; And the white banner of his manhood bears, Through all the years uplifted to the skies!

What lofty pæans shall the victor greet!

What crown resplendent for his brow be fit! O child, if earthly life be bitter-sweet, Hast thou not something missed in missing it?

Stephen Collins Foster.

AMERICAN.

Foster (1826-1864), known chiefly for his musical compositions, was a native of Pittsburgh, Pa. At an early age he had become a skilful performer on the flute, flageolet, and piano-forte. His voice was clear, and well under control. When a boy of sixteen he produced his song "Oh, Susanna," which was sung by a travelling minstrel troupe, was published by Peters of Cincinnati, and largely sold. Foster was accustomed to attend Methodist camp-meetings, both white and black, and thus got many a hint for his wonderfully popular "folk-songs," founded many of them on extemporized, unwritten negro melodies. Of his "Old Folks at Home," 200,000 copies were sold; of" My Old Kentucky Home," 150,000; of "Ellen Bayne," 125,000; and of several others, the sale was enormous. Foster was a poet, as his songs attest, the words of nearly every one of them being of his own composition. Though he enriched others, he laid up little for himself. Unhappily, he was intemperate. His death was occasioned by a severe fall at a Bowery hotel, in New York. At Pittsburgh, his native city, interesting ceremonies were held in his honor; and a large concourse gathered to do homage to his memory.

Sadly I roam;

Still longing for de old plantation,

And for de old folks at home.
All de world am sad and dreary,
Eb'rywhere I roam;

Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home!

All round de little farm I wandered,
When I was young;

Den many happy days I squandered,
Many de songs I sung.

When I was playing with my brudder,
Happy was I;

Oh, take me to my kind old mudder!
Dare let me live and die!

All de world am sad and dreary, etc.

One little hut among de rushes,--.
One dat I love,-

Still sadly to my memory rushes,
No matter where I rove.
When will I see de bees a-humming,
All round de comb?
When will I hear de banjo tumming
Down in my good old home?
All de world am sad and dreary, etc.

Coates Kinney.

AMERICAN.

Kinney was born on Crooked Lake, near Penn Yan, Yates County, N. Y., in 1826. He went West while a boy, taught school, edited newspapers, and finally practised law. Besides writing for the magazines, he has publish ed "Kecuka: an American Legend, and other Poems" (160 pages, 1854). He made his mark as a poet by his "Rain on the Roof;" but has given evidence of original power in other productions.

FROM THE "MOTHER OF GLORY."

Celebrity by some great accident,
Some single opportunity, is like
Aladdin's palace in the wizard tale,
Vanished when envy steals the charm away.

Thy name within that architectural pile
Which others' intellect has builded; none-
For all the hieroglyphs of glory-none

Save but the builder's name, shall sound along
The everlasting ages. Heart and brain
Of thine must resolutely yoke themselves

To slow-paced years of toil, else all the trumps
Of hero-heraldry that ever twanged,
Gathered in one mad blare above the graves,
Shall not avail to resurrect thy name
To the salvation of remembrance then,
When once the letters of it have slunk back
Into the alphabet from off thy tomb.

[crumbles

Ay, thou must think, think! Marble frets and
Back into undistinguishable dust

At last, and epitaphs grooved into brass
Yield piecemeal to the hungry elements;

But truths that drop plumb to the depths of time
Anchor the name forever:-thou must think
Such truths, and speak, or write, or act them forth—
Thyself must do this-or the centuries

Shall take thee, as the maelstrom gulps a wreck,
To the dread bottom of oblivion.-Think!
A bibulous memory sponging up the thoughts
Of dead men, is not thought; it holds no sway,
Where genius is: not freighted argosies,
But thunder-throated guns of battle-ships
Command the high seas. Destiny is not
About thee, but within; thyself must make
Thyself: the agonizing throes of Thought,
These bring forth glory, bring forth destiny.

And a thousand recollections

Weave their bright hues into woof,

As I listen to the patter

Of the rain upon the roof.

Now in fancy comes my mother
As she used to, years agone,
To survey her darling dreamers,

Ere she left them till the dawn;
Oh! I see her bending o'er me,
As I list to this refrain,
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.

Then my little seraph sister,

With her wings and waving hair, And her bright-eyed cherub brotherA serene, angelic pair!-Glide around my wakeful pillow, With their praise or mild reproof, As I listen to the murmur

Of the soft rain on the roof.

And another comes to thrill me
With her eyes' delicious blue;
And forget I, gazing on her,

That her heart was all untrue:
I remember but to love her
With a rapture kin to pain,
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate
To the patter of the rain.

There is naught in Art's bravuras

That can work with such a spell In the spirit's pure, deep fountains, Whence the holy passions well, As that melody of Nature,

That subdued, subduing strain Which is played upon the shingles By the patter of the rain.

RAIN ON THE ROOF. When the humid shadows hover Over all the starry spheres, And the melancholy darkness Gently weeps in rainy tears, What a joy to press the pillow

Of a cottage-chamber bed, And to listen to the patter

Of the soft rain overhead!

Every tinkle on the shingles

Has an echo in the heart; And a thousand dreamy fancies Into busy being start;

Mrs. Craik (Dinah Maria Mulock).

Miss Mulock (1826-....) became Mrs. Craik in 1865, after she had gained considerable literary distinction under her maiden name. She has written a series of admirable novels, and her short lyrical pieces are remarkable for a union of tenderness and force, beauty and feeling. She was born at Stoke-upon-Trent, Staffordshire, and her first novel, "The Ogilvies," appeared in 1849; “John Halifax," the most popular of her fictions, in 1857. She is also the author of "Studies from Life" (1860) and "Sermons out of Church" (1875).