O’er Yerba Buena’s lonely isle I watch the morning’s rosy smile; And while it gilds the wave and mast, From Contia Costa’s summit cast, I think of those it woke before It touched this mountain-sloping shore. In that far off and hallowed home Beyond the Allegheny’s sky, Where breaks the white Atlantic foam, And all life’s dear affections lie! Ah me! what of these mountain scenes, O’er which the blue sky sweetly beams! This land of wild romantic charms That man’s imperial wish embalms; This clime of gold, whose sound to greet, Swift hither rush the world’s life-fleet. What of these treasures wrung by toil, Their might, their magic, and their lure, Without one sweet domestic smile, In which the heart may feel secure. * * * * * THE QUIET ARBOR. BY W. H. C. HOSMER. “Hence let me haste into the midwood shade, And on the dark green grass, beside the brink Of haunted stream, that by the roots of oak Rolls o’er the rocky channel, lie at large.” When study pales my visage, and I feel Oppressive languor chaining heart and brain, Away from toil and books I often steal, Exploring haunts where Quiet holdeth reign. I love the wild, the picturesque—and when Her nest of moss the roving linnet weaves, And the low thorn is beautiful with flowers, I seek my favorite glen, While warm winds wanton with the twinkling leaves, And pass in pleasant idleness the hours. Where a dark arbor, by the mingling boughs Of two gigantic hemlock-trees, is made, I rest my limbs, and with wild shout arouse The ruffed-grouse from her cover in the shade; The tapping flicker does not keep aloof, But plies his noisy bill above my head, To greet my coming, while the summer heat Falls on the verdant roof That canopies my green, luxurious bed, With the fresh odors of the forest sweet. I lie and listen to the lulling tones Of the clear brook that works its winding way, Far down through brush, and over mossy stones, The green marge wetting with its silver spray; The path is steep and perilous that leads To the cold flushing waters—and few dare Descend to quaff refreshment from their flow; For thick, entangling weeds, In the loose soil seem matted to ensnare The foot of him who ventureth below.