sounds,--
The life that sings among the flowers,
The lisping of the breeze,
The hot cicada's sultry cry,
The murmurous dream of bees.

The butterfly--a flying flower--
Wheels swift in flashing rings,
And flutters round his quiet kin
With brave flame-mottled wings.
The wild Pinks burst in crimson fire,
The Phlox' bright clusters shine,
And Prairie-cups are swinging free
To spill their airy wine.

* * * * *

Far in the East, like low-hung clouds
The waving woodlands lie;
Far in the West, the glowing plain
Melts warmly in the sky;
No accent wounds the reverent air,
No foot-print dints the sod,--
Lone in the light the prairie lies,
Rapt in a dream of God.

[Footnote 104: Born in Indiana. Gave up the practice of the law to become
Secretary and Aide-de-camp to President Lincoln. Served briefly in the
Rebellion war with the rank of Colonel, and was afterward Secretary of
Legation at Paris and Madrid, and for some months, Charge d'Affaires at
Vienna. Subsequently applied himself to literature and journalism.]

* * * * *

=_Joaquin Miller._=[105]

From "Songs of the Sierras."

=_432._= THE FUTURE OF CALIFORNIA.

Dared I but say a prophecy,
As sang the holy men of old,
Of rock-built cities yet to be
Along those shining shores of gold,
Crowding athirst into the sea,
What wondrous marvels might be told!
Enough to know that empire here
Shall burn her brightest, loftiest star;
Here art and eloquence shall reign,
As o'er the wolf-reared realm of old;
Here learn'd and famous from afar,
To pay their noble court, shall come,
And shall not seek or see in vain,
But look on all, with wonder dumb.

Afar the bright Sierras lie,
A swaying line of snowy white,
A fringe of heaven hung in sight
Against the blue base of the sky.

I look along each gaping gorge,
I near a thousand sounding strokes,
Like giants rending giant oaks,
Or brawny Vulcan at his forge;
I see pick-axes flash and shine,
And great wheels whirling in a mine.
Here winds a thick and yellow thread,
A moss'd and silver stream instead;
And trout that leap'd its rippled tide
Have turn'd upon their sides and died.

Lo! when the last pick in the mine
Is rusting red with idleness,
And rot yon cabins in the mould,
And wheels no more croak in distress,