The Overland Monthly/Volume 1/San Francisco

SAN FRANCISCO.

FROM THE SEA.

Serene, indifferent of Fate, Thou sittest at the Western Gate;

Upon thy heights so lately won Still slant the banners of the sun;

Thou seest the white seas strike their tents, O Warder of two Continents!

And scornful of the peace that flies Thy angry winds and sullen skies,

Thou drawest all things, small or great, To thee, beside the Western Gate.

* * * * *

O, lion’s whelp, that hidest fast In jungle growth of spire and mast,

I know thy cunning and thy greed, Thy hard high lust and wilful deed,

And all thy glory loves to tell Of specious gifts material.

Drop down, O fleecy Fog, and hide Her skeptic sneer, and all her pride!

Wrap her, O Fog, in gown and hood Of her Franciscan Brotherhood.

Hide me her faults, her sin and blame, With thy grey mantle cloak her shame!

So shall she, cowléd, sit and pray Till morning bears her sins away.

Then rise, O fleecy Fog, and raise The glory of her coming days;

Be as the cloud that flecks the seas Above her smoky argosies.

When forms familiar shall give place To stranger speech and newer face;

When all her throes and anxious fears Lie hushed in the repose of years;

When Art shall raise and Culture lift The sensual joys and meaner thrift,

And all fulfilled the vision, we Who watch and wait shall never see—

Who, in the morning of her race, Toiled fair or meanly in our place—

But, yielding to the common lot, Lie unrecorded and forgot.