Two days passed: the Mission folk Out of their rosy dream awoke; Some of them looked a trifle white, But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright. Three days: there was sore distress, Headache, nausea, giddiness. Four days: faintings, tenderness Of the mouth and fauces; and in less Than one week--here the story closes; We won't continue the prognosis-- Enough that now no trace is seen Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin. MORAL You see the point? Don't be too quick To break bad habits: better stick, Like the Mission folk, to your ARSENIC. THE ANGELUS (HEARD AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868) Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music Still fills the wide expanse, Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present With color of romance! I hear your call, and see the sun descending On rock and wave and sand, As down the coast the Mission voices, blending, Girdle the heathen land. Within the circle of your incantation No blight nor mildew falls; Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition Passes those airy walls. Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, I touch the farther Past; I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, The sunset dream and last! Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers, The white Presidio; The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, The priest in stole of snow. Once more I see Portala's cross uplifting Above the setting sun; And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting, The freighted galleon. O solemn bells! whose consecrated masses Recall the faith of old; O tinkling bells! that lulled with twilight music The spiritual fold! Your voices break and falter in the darkness,-- Break, falter, and are still; And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending, The sun sinks from the hill! CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO (PRESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO, 1800) I Looking seaward, o'er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and quaint, By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint,-- Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed, On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel's golden reed; All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed away; And the flag that flies above it but a triumph of to-day. Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering eye, Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by; Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of gold With the plain and homespun present, and a love that ne'er grows old;