POE TRY.
SAN FRANCISCO DRSOLATE.
RUIN ontraced the dawn.
When the ports of night were drawn, The feast of Death lay spread ; The city bowed low her bead, Disconsolate in the morn, Sitting amidst her dead,—.
Forlorn! 0 forlorn !
Lo! how the torch of day Rolleth in pity away Over the graves and the fires And the houses, domes and spires Abject and broken in dust. Woe ! on thine ashes and pyres, Young Queen, once august !
Flame had goaded the ground And the valves of the deeps profound Broke through their riven rock. She felt the wrath of the shock And a storm upheaved her floor ;— Dawn saw the grace that crowned My city—no more.
Woe hath befallen thee, And thou wringest in misery Thy bleeding, despairing hands Over thine agonis'd lands !
For a great grief came to pass ; Thy beauty is prey to the brands, My city, alas !
Thou weepest, mother mine, For the dear dead that are thine, And the dark tide of thy tears Is one not of days but years.
The ashes lie grey on thy head, And deep is thy wound and thy biers Lie dense with the dead.
Splendour of thine and pride Are departed ; the waves deride Thee and thy sisters sore And lisp and laugh on the shore, And the sun is brave with gold, But the sea and the sun no more Know thee—as of old.
Remount, 0 Queen, resume The throne of thy hills ; through the doom And the dolor and terror that reign O'er thy walls thou shalt lift again Thy face. Thy sons shall restore Anew, from the wastes of thy pain, Thy splendour once more.
HERMAN SCHEFFAIJER.
725 Devisadero Street, San Francisco, Cal.
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