The morning call., 1891-06-21
CALIFORNIA.


Twas bidding good night after tarrylng Iate;
But Its warm, lingering beams, as though parting
regretting
Had smiled till the last my own native State.
From her cool mountain pastures the night wind
was bringing
The musical call OF her wandering herds;
And her valleys Of VIII eat-heldS and vineyards were
ringing
With last goodnight song from her thousands 6f
birds
stood on the crest OF a mountain. Before mo
The sea stretched away like an ocean Of gold;
And tet that glad pride in my country come DER
me
Which only those firm in their freedom can hold
Far, far down below me the ocean breaking,
The deep-sounding pillows OF Freedom relateI
And each note OF their song in my bosom was
waking
New pride In my country, new pride in my StstG
My Countryi the heart OF the craven would holden,
Could he but inherit such freedom thine.
My Statel from the first she christened the
golden;
Mid the stars our banner her star is the farest.
Mid the banners OF nations that flag Is the best;
In the States or our Union Gods gifts are the
rarest,
But rich in his bounty she leads all the rest.
Our Union Jewel set with fairest of crystals;
All are fawless and sparkling, none furnished or
small.
But the gem OF my State Is the farest OF all.
She sits by the side of the bright western waters,
Blithe spirits Of plenty fit over her, green;
They've chose her the first Of the Unions fair
daughters,
They've decked her with plenty and crowned her
their queen.
Her plains with the focks Of the shepherd are
whltened,
The wealth Of the herdsman roams over her hiIlsI
The worth OF her pastures never be Iightened,
Her flock is not stinted 1t feeds as it wills.
For down from the sides of her SnoWc Overed noun
tans
Bright springs Of the purest of crystals have
burst
And what else were a desert now sparklss with
fountains
Where her wandering herds may slacken their
thirst.
OYER her orchard-decked hills the soft zephyrs are
blowing
The sweetest Of perfume from fOwer-covered
groves
Where the orange, the lemon and olive are growing,
And the sweet laden bee with full harvest roVes.
The almOnd. the fig and the prune trees bending
Meath the rich gifts that nature ofrsey besEOws,
And the wealth Of their far-reaching fragrance ID
blending
AS through grand whest-feld her rivers are
purling
song Of contentment and rush toward The sea
Here bountifu nature. her treasures unfurling,
Has scattered her best in this land of the free.
In that great golden valley the reapers are singing
The song of the harvest they're gathering homet
And far up the mountain their glad notes ringing
Like a carol OF thanks toward heavens great dome.
The fast rpnlng vineyard It's bright dress is wear
ing,
It's robe of the harvest, its golden and green.
And through the thick leaves of the screen It II
bearing
The deep purpling hues OF its clusters are seen.
MT
With the worth OF the harvest and orchard COM
And adds to the wealth OF the unstinted measure
A rich luscious torrent-a river of wine.
On her fair western highlands huge redwoods are
sending
Their tops toward the skies TIL the clouds they
uphold.
And the snowy Sierras Ike giants are defending
Her mountains Of quartz and her rivers OF gold.
In the deep treacherous canyons these mountains
dividing
The bright gold peeps out from the mosscOversd
And scattered afar DER the land 1t is hiding
In the beds of her rivers, the sands of her shore.
When the bright dew with crystals is decking the
flowers
The Iaborer returns to his foweI-coVered home.
Rere, resting he dreams through the loved twilight
hours;
And his rude wayward fancfes exuItingIy roam.
He harks TO the song of the lark she calls,
Till the notes seem to ring AZ am free am free"
And he answers the words of her boast it falls
With our glad song OF freedom: My country, OF
thee"
IT'S land that Is rich In the things of heaven
Ger whose pastures the herds may cOntentedlT
roam.
IT'S land where perpetual summer is given
That the lemon and orange have claimed for their
home.
IT'S a land full of plenty where wheatneIds are
waving,
IT'S lana OF the vintage where clusters hung.
IT'S land full OF treasure whose streams gold Is
paving,
IT'S land Of the happy where freedom Is sung.
June, 1891 FRANKLIN HICHBoRN.