The azure dome of space o'erhead, With scintillating grandeur spread, Looked down with cold inquiring eyes, On earth with all her mysteries; The while reflecting in their snows, These glittering jewels of the night, The mountains lay in calm repose, Slumbering 'neath their robes of white. [THE END] DOLORES I will sing of a quaint old tradition, A legend romantic and strange, Which was whispered to me by the pine trees High up on the wild mountain range. Far away in the mystical Westland, From the mountain peaks crested with snow, Glides Dolores, the river of sorrow, Dolores, the river of woe. Time was when this river of sorrow Had never a thought to be sad, But meandered in joy through the meadows, With bluebell and columbine clad. Her ripples were ripples of laughter, And the soft, dulcet voice of her flow Was suggestive of peace and affection, Not accents of anguish and woe. Long ago, ere the foot of the white man Had left its first print on the sod, A people, both free and contented, Her mesas and cañon-ways trod. Then Dolores, the river of sorrow, Was a river of laughter and glee, As she playfully dashed through the cañons In her turbulent rush to the sea. High up on the cliffs in their dwellings, Which were apertures walled up with rocks, Lived this people, sequestered and happy; Their dwellings now serve the wild fox. They planted the maize and potato, The kind river caused them to grow, So they worshipped the river with singing Which blent with its musical flow. This people, so artless and peaceful, Knew nothing of carnage and war, But dwelt in such quiet and plenty They knew not what weapons were for. They gathered the maize in its season, Unmindful of famine or foe And chanted their thanks to the spirits That dwelt in the cañons below. But one evil day from the Northland Swept an army in battle array, Which fell on this innocent people And massacred all in a day. Their bodies were cast in the river, A feast for the vultures, when lo! The laughter and song of the river Were changed to the wailing of woe. Gone, gone are this people forever, Not a vestige nor remnant remains To gather the maize in its season And join in the harvest refrains; But the river still mourns for her people With weird and disconsolate flow, Dolores, the river of sorrow, Dolores--the river of woe. [Illustration: "From the mountain peaks crested with snow."] GREAT SHEPHERD OF THE COUNTLESS FLOCKS OF STARS