Blush on, blush en, thou ruddy rose;
Thy crimson face with beauty glows:
Pure symbol thou of a sinless breast,
Where truth and peace, like angels rest.
THE MONEY GETTER.
The gold that with the sunlight lies
In bursting heaps at dawn,
The silver spilling from the skies
At night to walk upon,
The diamonds gleaming in the dew
He never saw, he never knew.
He got some gold dug from the mud,
Some silver crushed from stones;
But the gold was red with the dead man's blood,
The silver black with groans;
And when he died he moaned aloud,
"They'll make no pocket in my shroud."
—Joaquin Miller.
THE HOME OF ART.
There is an old poetic land
Of purple vales and violet heights,
Where sculptors wrought and marble breathed
And thought took wildest, widest flights,—
