THE POOL OF SANT’ OLINE. 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.