Often, out the hazy distance, come the horsemen, day by day,

But they come not as Bernardo, — she can see it, far away;

Well she knows the airy gallop of his mettled alazàn,

Light as any antelope upon the Hills of Gavilan.

She would know him 'mid a thousand, by his free and gallant air;

By the featly-knit sarápè, such as wealthy traders

wear;

By his broidered calzoneros and his saddle, gayly

spread,

With its cantle rimmed with silver, and its horn a lion's head.

None like him the light riáta on the maddened bull can throw ;

None amid the mountain-cañons track like him the stealthy doe;

And at all the Mission festals, few indeed the revellers are

Who can dance with him the jota, touch with him the gay guitar.

He has said to Manuela, and the echoes linger

still

In the cloisters of her bosom, with a secret, tender

thrill,

When the bay again has blossomed, and the valley stands in corn,

Shall the bells of Santa Clara usher in the wedding

morn.

He has pictured the procession, all in holiday attire, And the laugh of bridal gladness, when they see the distant spire;

Then their love shall kindle newly, and the world be doubly fair

In the cool, delicious crystal of the summer morning air.

Tender eyes of Manuela! what has dimmed your lustrous beam?

'Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the casket of her dream.

Ah, the eye of Love must brighten, if its watches would be true,

For the star is falsely mirrored in the rose's drop of dew!

But her eager eyes rekindle, and her breathless bosom thrills,

As she sees a horseman moving in the shadow of the hills:

Now in love and fond thanksgiving they may loose their pearly tides,

'Tis the alazan that gallops, 't is Bernardo's self that rides!

THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR.

USTY and raw was the morning,

A fog hung over the seas,

And its gray skirts, rolling inland,

Were torn by the mountain trees;

No sound was heard but the dashing

Of waves on the sandy bar, When Pablo of San Diego

Rode down to the Paso del Mar.

The pescador, out in his shallop,
Gathering his harvest so wide,
Sees the dim bulk of the headland
Loom over the waste of the tide ;
He sees, like a white thread, the pathway
Wind round on the terrible wall,
Where the faint, moving speck of the rider
Seems hovering close to its fall.

Stout Pablo of San Diego

Rode down from the hills behind;
With the bells on his gray mule tinkling
He sang through the fog and wind.
Under his thick, misted eyebrows
Twinkled his eye like a star,

And fiercer he sang as the sea-winds
Drove cold on the Paso del Mar.

Now Bernal, the herdsman of Chino,
Had travelled the shore since dawn,

Leaving the ranches behind him

Good reason had he to be gone!
The blood was still red on his dagger,
The fury was hot in his brain,

And the chill, driving scud of the breakers
Beat thick on his forehead in vain.

With his poncho wrapped gloomily round him, He mounted the dizzying road,

And the chasms and steeps of the headland
Were slippery and wet, as he trod :
Wild swept the wind of the ocean,
Rolling the fog from afar,

When near him a mule-bell came tinkling,
Midway on the Paso del Mar.

"Back!" shouted Bernal, full fiercely,
And "Back!" shouted Pablo, in wrath,
As his mule halted, startled and shrinking,
On the perilous line of the path,
The roar of devouring surges

Came up from the breakers' hoarse war; And "Back, or you perish!" cried Bernal, I turn not on Paso del Mar!"

The gray mule stood firm as the headland :
He clutched at the jingling rein,
When Pablo rose up in his saddle

And smote till he dropped it again.
A wild oath of passion swore Bernal,
And brandished his dagger, still red,
While fiercely stout Pablo leaned forward,
And fought o'er his trusty mule's head.

They fought till the black wall below them
Shone red through the misty blast;
Stout Pablo then struck, leaning farther,
The broad breast of Bernal at last.
And, frenzied with pain, the swart herdsman
Closed on him with terrible strength,
And jerked him, despite of his struggles,
Down from the saddle at length.

They grappled with desperate madness,

On the slippery edge of the wall;
They swayed on the brink, and together
Reeled out to the rush of the fall.
A cry of the wildest death-anguish
Rang faint through the mist afar,
And the riderless mule went homeward
From the fight of the Paso del Mar.

THE PINE FOREST OF MONTEREY.

HAT point of Time, unchronicled, and dim

As yon gray mist that canopies your
heads,

Took from the greedy wave and gave the sun
Your dwelling-place, ye gaunt and hoary Pines ?
When, from the barren bosoms of the hills,
With scanty nurture, did ye slowly climb,
Of these remote and latest-fashioned shores
The first-born forest? Titans gnarled and rough,
Such as from out subsiding Chaos grew
To clothe the cold loins of the savage earth,
What fresh commixture of the elements,
What earliest thrill of life, the stubborn soil
Slow-mastering, engendered ye to give

The hills a mantle and the wind a voice?
Along the shore ye lift your rugged arms,
Blackened with many fires, and with hoarse
chant,

Unlike the fibrous lute your co-mates touch