Sierra Madre, Cal.
Ere yet the Spanish cavalier
For this new world set sail,
Ere yet the padres came anear
San Gabriel’s sunny vale,
Ere yet the thirst for gold drew men
Across the western hills,
I rippled down this rocky glen,
The happiest of rills.
The shadows of the spreading oak
Oft lay upon my breast;
Oft through the brown madronas broke
The bear upon his quest.
Past starry yuccas, to my brink,
At many a crimson dawn,
The mountain lion came to drink,
And oft a timid fawn.
The golden moments came and went
Of many a sunny year,
And still I rippled on, content
And solitary here.
At times a weary miner came
And quaffed my cooling stream,
At times I saw the camp-fire flame
Of hardy hunters gleam.
Though oft I paused to hear some bird
Trill in the leaves above,
A maid I never saw nor heard,
Nor knew the name of love.
Oh, there was never rivulet
So merry in a glen;
But now I never can forget,
Nor merry be again.
She came, in thoughtless, girlish mood,
The dizzy trail along.
Upon my ferny marge she stood
And listened to my song.
I saw her, and I leapt for glee
In many a lucent wave,
And when she stooped to drink from me,
My very heart I gave.
She passed, and now no more I sing
Among the granite hills;
Instead, my ceaseless murmuring
The sombre canyon fills.
Oh! ye to whom that maid divine
Hath also heartless been,
Come join your mournful plaint with mine,
The pool of Sant’ Oline.