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.
[ from the mountain peaks crested with snow]
"From the mountain peaks crested with snow."
GREAT SHEPHERD OF THE COUNTLESS
FLOCKS OF STARS
Great Shepherd of the countless flocks of stars,
Which range the azure province of the sky,
Who marked the course for Jupiter and Mars,
Nor leads the comet from its path awry;
Though flaming constellations at Thy call
Pass into being, or created, fall;
Thou, who hast caused the firmament to be,
In humbler pathways, Father, lead Thou me.
Thou, who hast framed the eagle's wing to soar
Above the verdant prospects of the plain;
Whose law hath shaped the pebbles on the shore,
The stately forests and the bearded grain;
Whose hand hath formed the silvery satellite
To shed her tender moonbeams o'er the night;
Thou who hast placed the islands in the sea,