It was the twilight age, when gods from the heaven descending, Choosing some grassy dell or cañon bordered with pine-trees, Made them lodges of boughs and dwelt among men and were happy. But one unknown to them all had chosen this for her dwelling;

Perhaps she had wandered away from the land of frost and of glacier, Or come from the cold sea-deeps, for her face was white, and speechless She glided over the vale with a graceful, willowy motion.

Her robe was of silvery texture with woven pearls for her girdle, Her tresses white as snow, a veil of ineffable splendor,

And all who looked in her face reflected its luminous beauty.

By day she dwelt unseen, but night after night she wandered

Pacing soft and slow the dewy emerald verdure,

And if some child awoke and cried out in midnight terros,

Lo! she stood in the door of his lodge and her sweet look calmed him. Fain would the children of men have kept her always among them, But a god, more mighty than they, with covetous eyes looked on her, One who had dwelt with them long, -SO long he had almost forgotten His tent in the starry plains and the hunting-grounds of the morning, Followed her night by night and urged her to hear his devotion.

"High over hill and cloud," he said, "let us journey together,

I will build thee a lodge afar in the purple meadows,

With curtains of fleecy mist, and when thou shalt walk at even, The stars at thy feet shall blossom, a garden of golden daisies." Ah! though her face was cold, and her

beautiful lips were silent, The heart within her was warm, and at last to his passion responded. Then came a night when in vain the chil

dren of men watched her coming,Hushed were the fragrant winds, and ev

erywhere silent, trembling, Old and young looked forth and waited in strange expectation. Suddenly, up in the sky, forever away and above them,

Shone the beautiful face enveloped in snow-white tresses,

And they knew that the god who loved her had taken her up into heaven! Age after age they bowed before her in fond adoration;

For though she was now the Moon, and queen of the heavenly gardens, Once she had dwelt among them, dwelt in Los Angeles valley.

O Lady of Los Angeles!
Not on such eerie tales as these

Let now thy musing fancy feed;
Though surely never moonlight fell
With such a wild enchanting spell

On mount or glen or velvet mead.

It was thy happier fate to see
The Indians' rude idolatry

Of spirits both of earth and heaven,
Of voices in the darkness heard,
Of serpent, beast, and singing-bird,
From every ancient fastness driven.

What loftier music fills the ear?
What forms are these approaching near,
Their brows alight with coming day?
While up the shadowy mountain-side
The sullen tribes of darkness glide,

And from the daybreak hide away?

Again a twilight veil enshrouded the dreamland valley,

Again the walls and spires and blossoming orchards vanished; Wide spread the silent plain, and like the slow path of a serpent

Wound over glistening sands the trail of Los Angeles river.

Silent all, did I say? There is music heard in the distance! Nearer it swells and nearer, a clangor of

gladness and triumph.

And now, distinct to the vision, ap: proaches a strange procession. First come gray-haired men, the soldiers of many battles,

Loyal sons of Spain, grown old in her honored service,

After them walk the Fathers, priests of
San Gabriel Mission,
Their Indian neophytes bearing the can
dles, the cross, and the banner

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On which like a holy lily is painted the face of Our Lady.

Women were there and children, all lifting up jubilant voices,

For here henceforth was their home, the royal gift of their monarch. Home! the word on their lips was sweet

as the dew of heaven! Wayworn soldiers' wives, who had wandered and wept full sorely Since on the hills of Spain their dark eyes lingered in parting.

And oh the joy of the little ones, flitting from hands that led them, Greeting each startled bird and every flower of the wayside

With ripples of happy laughter, enhancing the song of gladness.

On they come, their hearts thrilled high with a fond expectation,

Visions of happy rest after long years of service,

Visions of rose-embowered cots in a land of perpetual summer,

Olives and figs and grapes in gardens easily nurtured;

For their days of toil were over, and rest was their utmost longing,

Rest, and the grateful worship of Mary, Queen of the Angels.

Thus the pioneers came into Los Angeles valley;

Hands clasped hands in joy where now is the shaded Plaza,

And while with ringing voices they chanted the loud Te Deum And christened with musical name the home of their hope and longing, San Bernardino looked down from his

kingly throne in the distance, And the Sierra Madre hills, with bare, brown foreheads,

Stood in the breathless sunshine and Benedicite echoed.

O city of Los Angeles!
Thy days go on,- the days of peace;
And wide along the fertile mead,
Each in its garden Paradise,
I see the Spanish dwellings rise,
With earthen wall and roof of reed.

From every cottage sounds afar,
At setting of the morning star,

The sunrise song. A single voice The strain begins; some aged dame,

Long waking, sees the brightening flame,
And gives the signal to rejoice.

The old, the young take up the strain,
Till over all the dewy plain

The hymn to the Madonna swells;
The priests glide noiseless o'er the sward,
And Hail! O Mother of the Lord!"

Clang out the shrill, exuitant bells. But this has ceased to be, and now, Queen city, lift thy dreaming brow,

Look onward, outward into time! The sunrise song is of the past, What mightier music shall at last

Be worthy of thy peerless clime?

I see thee like a vast white rose
Expand, until the desert glows

A tawny captive at thy feet!
I see thy sunburnt mountains shine
With palaces, and at thy shrine

Of Summer all the nations meet.

Smile on amid thy orange-trees,
O city of Los Angeles!

Yet in thy coming hour of prime Keep thou thy ancient legend's dear, And through all loftier pæans hear The echo of the Mission chime!

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

THE MAID OF GRISHORNISH. THE clouds are scowling on the hill, the mist is thick and gray,

The sun slants out behind the cloud a cold and meagre ray,

The shepherd wraps his plaid about, and reads the tristful skies, And to his faithful collie dog across the moor he cries;

But in my heart there sings a bird, with song both loud and clear,

A song that makes me bright within, while all without is drear; And thus the little bird doth sing with happy chirp to me,—

The lovely maid of Grishornish thy bonnie bride shall be !

O Grishornish, thy rocks are black, thy moors are brown and bare! Who would have thought so fair a thing was kindly nurtured there?

O Grishornish, and Vaternish, and every Nish in Skye,

On you let heaven pour down the rain till all its wells be dry!

With rain and wind and mist and storm I am content to dwell,

If but the maid of Grishornish shall live and love me well;

If but her fine and dainty lip, and mildly beaming eye,

Shall make me lord of more than all Macleod commands in Skye;

If but the little bird shall sing within my breast to me,

The lovely maid of Grishornish thy winsome wife shall be!

FREDERICK LOCKER.

THE UNREALIZED IDEAL.

My only love is always near,
In country or in town;

I see her twinkling feet, I hear
The whisper of her gown.

She foots it ever fair and young;
Her locks are tied in haste,
And one is o'er her shoulder flung,
And hangs below her waist.

She ran before me in the meads;

And down the world-worn track She leads me on; but while she leads, She never gazes back.

And yet her voice is in my dreams
To witch me more and more.
That wooing voice! Ah me, it seems
Less near me than of yore.

Lightly I sped when hope was high,

And youth beguiled the chase:

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
The spring is rust ing in the tree-
The tree the wind is blowing through —
It sets the blossoms flickering white.
I knew not skies could burn so blue,
Nor any breezes blow so light.
They blow an old-time way for me,
Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?
Sir Poet, with the rusty coat,
Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.
How have you heart for any tune,
You with the way worn russet shoon?
Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,
Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide:
I'll brim it well with pieces red,
If you will tell the way to tread.

Oh, I am bound for Arcady,
And if you but keep pace with me,
You tread the way to Arcady.

And whereaway lies Arcady?
And how long yet may the journey be?

Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know-
Across the clover and the snow-
Across the frosts, across the flowers ·
Through summer seconds and winter hours.
I've trod the way my whole life long,
And know not now where it may
My guide is but the stir to song,
That tells me I cannot go wrong,
Or clear or dark the pathway be
Upon the road to Arcady.

be;

But how shall I do who cannot sing?
I was wont to sing, once on a time
There is never an echo now to ring
Remembrance back to the trick of
rhyme.

'Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he); The folk all sing in Arcady.

But how may he find Arcady
Who hath nor youth nor melody?

What! know you not, old man (quoth he),

Your hair is white, your face is wise,
That Love must kiss that mortal's eyes
Who hopes to see fair Arcady?
No gold can buy you entrance there;
But beggared Love may go all bare —
No wisdom won with weariness;
But Love goes in with Folly's dress -

No fame that wit could ever win; But only Love may lead Love in To Arcady, to Arcady.

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Ah, woe is me, through all my days
Wisdom and wealth I both have got,
And fame and name, and great men's
praise;

But Love, ah, Love! I have it not.
There was a time, when life was new,
But far away, and half forgot;
I only know her eyes were blue;

But Love I fear I knew it not.
We did not wed, for lack of gold,
And she is dead, and I am old.
All things have come since then to me,
Save Love, ah, Love! and Arcady.

Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he);
My way's for Love and Arcady.