Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near! How the fences and tules once more re-appear! How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon slough By the hole in the levee the waters broke through! All Nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greet The glance of your eye, and the tread of your feet; For the trails are all open, the roads are all free, And the highwayman's whistle is heard on the lea. Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail, And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale; The oath and the jest ringing high o'er the plain, Where the smut is not always confined to the grain. Once more glares the sunlight on awning and roof, Once more the red clay's pulverized by the hoof, Once more the dust powders the "outsides" with red, Once more at the station the whiskey is spread. Then fly with me, love, ere the summer's begun, And the mercury mounts to one hundred and one; Ere the grass now so green shall be withered and sear, In the spring that obtains but one month in the year. St. Thomas. A Geographical Survey. (1868.) Very fair and full of promise Lay the island of St. Thomas: Ocean o'er its reefs and bars Hid its elemental scars; Groves of cocoanut and guava Grew above its fields of lava. So the gem of the Antilles,-- "Isles of Eden," where no ill is,-- Like a great green turtle slumbered On the sea that it encumbered. Then said William Henry Seward, As he cast his eye to leeward, "Quite important to our commerce Is this island of St. Thomas." Said the Mountain ranges, "Thank'ee, But we cannot stand the Yankee O'er our scars and fissures poring, In our very vitals boring, In our sacred caverns prying, All our secret problems trying,-- Digging, blasting, with dynamit Mocking all our thunders! Damn it! Other lands may be more civil, Bust our lava crust if we will." Said the Sea,--its white teeth gnashing Through its coral-reef lips flashing,-- "Shall I let this scheming mortal Shut with stone my shining portal, Curb my tide, and check my play, Fence with wharves my shining bay? Rather let me be drawn out In one awful water-spout!" Said the black-browed Hurricane, Brooding down the Spanish main, "Shall I see my forces, zounds! Measured by square inch and pounds, With detectives at my back When I double on my track, And my secret paths made clear, Published o'er the hemisphere To each gaping, prying crew? Shall I? Blow me if I do!" So the Mountains shook and thundered, And the Hurricane came sweeping, And the people stared and wondered As the Sea came on them leaping: Each, according to his promise, Made things lively at St. Thomas. Till one morn, when Mr. Seward Cast his weather eye to leeward, There was not an inch of dry land Left to mark his recent island. Not a flagstaff or a sentry, Not a wharf or port of entry,-- Only--to cut matters shorter-- Just a patch of muddy water In the open ocean lying, And a gull above it flying. The Ballad of Mr. Cooke. A Legend of the Cliff House, San Francisco.