O’er Santiago’s happy homes The parting sun delay’d, And brightly o’er its roofs and domes In gleams of sunset play’d; And toward the dome most bright came throngs Of maidens hastening there; And from them words more sweet than songs Went pulsing through the air. They sought that dome because the home Of God where sins were shriven; Now under it with splendor fit Should prayer to Him be given. Within, a thousand banners bright Would wave o’er walls ablaze; And priests, array’d in gold and white, Like seraphs chant their praise. Within, the organ’s ardent strains Would rise with incense rare; Ah, then, how sweet would be their gains Who breathed that sweeter air! Sent upward so their prayers would flow Like fountains heavenward driven, That far away would break in spray, And fall in blessings given. And soon those thousand banners bright Did wave o’er walls ablaze; And priests, array’d in gold and white, Like seraphs chant their praise— When up there flared a flame that glared Athwart the lamp-strung dome; And hot as hell its red lights fell To fright their victims home; And, o’er and o’er, was heard: “The door!” And cries where fright had striven. But oh, no more would swing that door, On throngs against it driven. Red lips of fire flew to and fro, And kiss’d each maiden’s cheek; They blush’d, but oh, too deep the glow! They kneel’d, but oh, too meek! Death wrapt them round in robes of flame, Let loose their streaming hair, And, when their souls were won, became, Ash-white, their couch-mate fair. Anon, the fire was raging higher. But these to rest were given, Long ere the bells had wail’d farewells When out the belfry driven. To Santiago’s mourning homes At morn a stranger stray’d, And found, where once of all those domes The brightest sunn’d the shade, Four hundred carts of corpses charr’d, Two thousand nameless dead, And scores of thousands weeping hard For life so sadly fled. And all around the smoking ground, Whence all hope else was driven, With lifted eye, their dome the sky, Their prayers to God were given. FARMER LAD. Farmer lad, in the morning gray, Blest may seem the town, and they, Slumbering late, who, void of blame, Seek at their leisure wealth and fame; But how many there, thy race would run To know thy rest when the day is done! Farmer lad, when the herd’s faint bells Clink far off o’er the sunburnt fells, Better may seem the coin that calls Ringing and bright from the town’s cool halls; But how many there, would give all its gleams For the golden light of thy guileless dreams!