On Narragansett's sunny breast This necklace of fair islands shone, And Philip, muttering, "All my own!"

Looked north and south and east and west,

And waved his sceptre from this alabaster throne.

His beacon on Pocasset hill,

Lighting the hero's path to fame Whene'er the crafty Pequot came, Blazed as the windows of yon mill Now blaze at set of sun with day's expiring flame.

Always, at midnight, from a cloud,

An eagle swoops, and hovering nigh This peak, utters one piercing cry Of wrath and anguish, long and loud, And plunges once again into the silent sky!

The Wampanoags, long since dead,

Who to these islands used to cling, Spake of this shrieking midnight thing

With bated breath, and, shuddering, said,

""T is angry Philip's voice, the spectre of the king!"

All things are changed. Here Bristol sleeps

And dreams within her emerald tent;
Yonder are picnic tables bent

Beneath their burden; up the steeps The martial strains arise and songs of merriment.

I pluck an aster on the crest;
It is a child of one, I know,

Plucked here two hundred years ago, And worn upon the slave - queen's breast,

O, that this blossom had a tongue to tell its woe.

FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE.

[U. S. A.]

LOS ANGELES.

SHE sits amid her orange-trees,
Our Lady of Los Angeles,

The shining city of the sun,
And counts the seasons as they flee,
Like beads from off a rosary,

That slip and sparkle one by one.

Upon the outer solitudes

The demon of the desert broods,

The ocean chafes and murmurs near;
But safe within her garden wall
She hears these ancient foemen call,
With tranquil, inattentive ear.

At close of day from yonder height
I saw her robed in evening light,

One white star like an opal showing; Her roses drooped in slumber sweet, But oh, the lilies at her feet

Upheld their censers overflowing.

"Tell me," I said, "O city fair, What dreams pervade this sunset air, What memories stir this purple splen

dor?

For surely magic worketh here, And in the stillness I can hear Reverberations wild yet tender."

Was it enchantment? Suddenly all her roses had vanished!

Fled were the vestal lilies, their incense spilled and forsaken,

Palace and cottage were gone, and the orange-groves and the vineyards Rolled away like a wave and were lost

in the ocean of sunset.

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 terror,

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

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, enhan cing 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.

349

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, exultant 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 legends 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?