San Andreas independent., 1858-06-05
Written for the Independent
The Coach in Four; or, the Poor Artist

poor boy stood by lone way side.
And his feet were brown and sore.
Whose brow grew red as he sprang aside
Aside for the coach and four;
Away from a coach and four,
As it swept, ike meteor, by
Each valley and gladsome spring,
Till its jarring sound a sigh,
Or sweep of the night-wind wing.
But why does that poor boy silent stand,
With his eyes cast on the ground?
Dreams he of fame in a brighter lands
Or lists he the coach wheels sound
To the gilded coach wheels sound,
As they bear, to othor cimes afar-
Like Time, in his endless flight
His first fond love-his destiny's star,
With his future glory bright:
'Tis even so, for his quick eye caught
Through the thin and silken blind
The glance of a dark eye, seeming fraught
With feeling warm and kind
With feeling warm and kind,
And his little heart beat loud and Ligh,
AS he slowly homeward ran;
And he swore to win her hand, OF die,
Should he ever be man.
From his humble home, Lis forest cot
His sketch book under his arm,
A pilgrim, he went, to that far spot
That lends to the world charm
That binds mankind with charm,
Of beauties so rare and perfumes sweet,
And skies e'er sunny and fair;
That gallant and gifted wanderers meet
And mingle as brothers there.
Long weary years roll slowly away,
And the midnight lamp still burns,
But strange wild hope foretells the day,
And his heart its secret wins
Still his heart its secret wins;
But his glad bright eye, and beaving breast,
Mutely tells the joy within,
That nameless youth from the distant West,
viii the prize of victory win.
In a lamp-lit hall, in queenly Rome,
Mid gay, admiring crowd,
Stands tall dark man form DER the foam,
By painting, mute and proud
By picture, calm and proud,
And there, on his arm, smiling and WE'LL
But lovelier than of yore,
Is his early love, who fainting fell,
When she saw the coach and four
Twas fancy sketch-the scene was laid
In dim, old, kingly wood,
And gilded coach swept meath its shade,
Where poor boy bushing stood
Where poor boy trembling stood,
nd
Half hid mid the curtains blue;
And a noble man sat musing there,
For memory had been tue.
" Hal Isabel, look =" the old duke cried,
While lifting her from the floor;
And his eye grew bright with inborn pride
"'Tis our own old coach and four
Ayi our own old coach and four;
And see! mid that mellow shade inside,
Is your own sweet face, and mine;
master hand must its skill have tried
On painting so divine"
Where is the artist who painted this?"
He asked of student near
As he gave his daughters brow kiss,
And dropped thereon a tear
And dropped thereon a tear;
For by-gone years came laughing back,
With their bright sunshine and joy;
As in thought he DER the downward track,
To the time he was a boy.
"That painting is mine," the student said;
~ finished it but this morn"
And he meeky bent his noble head
To conceal a smile of scorn-
To conceal smile of scorn,
For the naughty glance of his dark eye,
And the flush upon his cheek,
Would have told to one who stood near by,
What bis lips dared not to speak.
"Young man, I'll give you thousand pounds
For that one small painting there,
And the ring of gold is pleasant sound,
When the walls are bleak and bare
When the room is cold and bare,
And the coat you wear is faded too,
Where the lamp beams DER it play;
Then say you will sell this painting true,
That may bear it away?"
"Not the wealth of Ind could that sketch buy,
Nor diamonds from Afric's shore;
For it leads me meath my native sky,
When the warm bright day is DER
When the warm bright day is DER;
And though in foreign cline dwell,
To win from the world a name.
The star that led me DER hill and dell.
Will guide upward to fame"
"Ah! then by my knighthood's sacred oath,
No more you will lightly roam,
For, by my halidom I'll take you both
To my old ancestral home
To my dear old casted home;
And you'll paint me in its ived walls,
While l dream that am young:
And Isabel's harp shall wake its halls,
With songs the crusaders sung"
In the proudest halls England can boast,
Made gay with beauty and life,
The Artist dwells with his noble host,
And sweet Isabel, his wife
For Isabel is his wife;
And his fame has spread DER the ocean broad,
And brightens upon each shore;
No longer he treads on the dewy sod,
But rides in his coach and four.
ALLEoITo, June, 1858. ALPH
Gone A Dirge.
BY HOWARD P. ROSS.
ne tits the word of the passing belll
ne it forms the funeral knel.
ne spirit peaceful and bright,
to ka Il col L