Hath paused to start, with whirring sound The wheel of yon old mill Now pulseless grown, and still THE sweet brook-song was scarcely o'er, When on our ears fell murmuring sounds Of life upon another shore; On speeds our bark with quickening bounds Until, among the ships, we lay Beside a city on the bay. [Illustration] LIKE some pure thought, by unknown lips let fall, Which grows, and bears abroad, rich truths for all, So fell a seed by Yerba Buena cove, And, like a giant young, who smiling lies, Nor heeds the dormant powers, so soon to rise-- So lay this seed--a village fair-- A score of years, then forth a city came, And cast aside its quaint old Spanish name For San Francisco, Western Queen! And, like the saint whose name it proudly boasts, A friend to all who come within its posts-- This city with a gate of gold. [Illustration] When dust-stained, "desert ships" came halting in, Her gates swung wide, and friendly welcome gave Those sun-kissed valiant pioneers. [Illustration] While ocean ships, wind-tossed around Cape Horn, Oft refuge found within her harbor calm, Protected by her queenly grace. [Illustration] AN isle with rugged, rock-bound shore Along our glittering pathway lay-- A lonely isle, whose bare coast bore No trace of gentle spring, that day. A cot upon a brown hill there, A path that to a lighthouse led; These simple scenes, a picture fair With pleasing dreams, our fancy fed, We seemed to see that gleaming ray Pierce far away the midnight gloom, In fancy too across the bay We heard the fog-horn's warning tone [Illustration] [Illustration] Wake echoes from the cliffs so bare While mariner, with listening ear The warning heard, and steered with care His ship past rocks that frowned near. THE vision passed as glides a star; Our ship, meanwhile, went on its way Past busy wharf, past reef and bar, Until she neared a marsh that lay Low-curving, with its sandy beach, Or weeds that to the waters reach. [Illustration] 'TWAS dull and gray, the marsh that lay Out-stretched afar--a dreary waste Of tide lands low, where ebb and flow The waters, that with reckless haste Have crept inland, and silent stand In reedy pools, or tiny lakes. There skimming low, now swift, now slow, The sea-bird pauses oft and takes A plunge among the luckless throng That here have found a quiet home; Or rising there, in lofty air, A snowy speck in sunlight shone. [Illustration]