Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SAN DIEGO, by AMELIA WOODWARD TRUESDELL


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SAN DIEGO, by                    
First Line: In the college san fernando, in the state of mejico
Last Line: ^1^ the yucca, or spanish bayonet.
Subject(s): Holidays; Memorial Day; Missions & Missionaries; Sailing & Sailors; San Diego, California; Soldiers; Declaration Day


In the College San Fernando, in the State of Mejico,
Hangs a canvas dim with shadows thrown a century ago;

From it looks a monk Franciscan, in his order's robe complete,
Cowléd serge and hempen girdle falling to his sandaled feet;

In his hand he holds a stone with which to beat his naked breast;
Near him lie a skull and scourge, and stands the chalice ever blessed;

Scintillant 'neath glowing faith, burns zeal as deathless and as bright
As the fire on Aztec temples through a fervid tropic night:

Such was Padre Serra preaching, as they say who knew him well,
Fray Junípero whose labors now but ruined altars tell.

Serra thence all blindly wandered, dreaming not the stores of fate,
O'er the place which should be later by his brothers consecrate;

O'er the land where Coronado and De Niça sought in vain
For the seven-storied city—the Quivira of the plain,

Where the marigolds upspringing o'er the hasty graves should tell,
By a miracle of verdure, where the faithful friars fell;

Where procession of the murdered should pace o'er the blood-stained sand,
Each one bearing through night's darkness torch flamboyant in his hand,

While before them cross majestic, borne by unseen ones along,
Should cast such unearthly radiance on the chanting white-robed throng,

They should seem as flaming spirits, purging desecrated ground
With their versicles and incense, broken altars round and round;

Till these pagans, sorely frighted at the phantom night by night,
Should flee hasty leagues far southward from the weird avenging sight.

Hence out-straying from his course to borders of the desert-land,
Where the cacti and mesquit yet mingle with the drifting sand;

Where shrink from the dry lakes sand-choked, e'en the bitter streams away,
And dead craters, with their burnt lips, lap the red sun's blasting ray;

Still they toiled the hot earth o'er, where sea-shells gleamed on waves of sand;
Swept o'er them the dread sirocco 'neath the fierce light of that land.

Then with guile a strange mirage raised fevered mountains in their sight;
Rose such walls as once on Patmos lay against supernal light;

Sprung tall minarets from temples tipped with balls of golden glow,
Casting spires of waving shadow on the bird-flecked lakes below.

Toiled they on through Arizuma, land as wondrous winter fair;
But the spring-time's life had withered and the summer death was there.

Onward, though the red simoon still sullen o'er the white dunes roll;
Spake the soldiers, "God in heaven! hath this hideous place a soul?"

Then quoth Serra, "Lo! the answer," pointing where their eager eyes
Saw from whorl of spikéd cactus, tall white tree of blossoms rise.^1^

Shaft, as marble of Carrara—graved as with a sculptor's care;
Carven tower of polished petals, graced with stamens waxen fair.

Spake he, "Children, let your lives be e'en thus rich in holy deeds,
Blooming in the fiery desert which would stifle common weeds."

Thus encouraged, toiled they onward, till from height of sea-girt shore,
Saw they ship masts upward pointing, telling their long journey o'er;

For the rude ships from La Paz, which sought Viscaino's Monterey,
Lay with sailors sick or dead in San Diego's close-locked bay.

Three moons Serra's friends had waited for his band they mourned as dead,
Roaming o'er the coast and mesa where Spring's blazonry was spread—

Turquoise stars and stars of sapphire laid she on her burnished green,
Sweetly decking, fitly matching lawns of every hue and sheen;

Honeysuckle's conscious sweetness—white petunia's graceful cup,
Blue-eyed, meek forget-me-nots that never for a maid looked up.

The ambitious pigmy thistles—tiny heads with pluméd hair—
And the oxalis white-petaled, with her nun-like grace, were there;

Censers all unblessed with incense—wild Eschscholtzias' golden bowls;
Rose they call Castile, from mem'ries planted deep in homesick souls.

Sick and dying, from their vessels came the Spaniards to such land,
But ere Serra saw it, ravished—shorn by Summer's scorching hand.

But naught quenched his deathless ardor; pealed his bells from scrubby
tree—
Glad as if from storied turret, told they Christmas jubilee.

When at length th' impatient soldiers, with their suff'rings reckless grown,
And despairing of th' Antonio, storm-bound long in seas unknown,

Goaded fierce with cruel hunger, measure set for their delay,
Saying, "Leave we on Saint Joseph's, if she come not ere that day,"

All night at the altar lay he, till th' appointed dawn, when, lo!
Saw they by vouchsaféd vision in the clouds a good ship go.

Still prayed on th' undoubting Serra; when the fourth day nigh was done,
O'er the tide a ship bread-laden sailed athwart the setting sun.

All his life the grateful father, for deliv'rance of that day,
Celebrated mass memorial on the feast of San José.

And some tell that still they see in San Diego's sunny sky,
On this day, through phantom clouds, a phantom ship go sailing by.

And they named the first young Mission for the humblest of the saints,
Eremite at tender age, when life her richest colors paints;

Didacus, the Andalusian, who came from his hermit cave
To serve Alcalá's sick beggars, eager life's worst ills to brave.

Then was reared the once fair structure, which to-day a ruined pile,
Stolid sits upon the hillside, frowning at the valley's smile;

Frowning e'en upon the river, where the hill its current hems,
Shining thread of curling tinsel twisted round the olive stems;

Olives weird and ever moon-lit flecking all the plain with light,
Till the groining of their shadows mocks the artist's cunning rite.

Arméd cacti, as defending, by the garden wall now stand;
But the gentle palms, desponding, scarcely lift protesting hand.

Gone all sign of churchly usage—gone the trace of padres' care;
Bells nor cross proclaim the story that His worship e'er was there.

Not a saint nor altar standing; not a mural legend dear;
In the windows' deep embrasure dismal owls hold orgies drear.

Mass of sun-burnt bricks adóbe, half embanked in red decay;
Walls and roof proclaim its story—dust to dust and clay to clay.

Parent Mission, well belovéd! built in faith, baptized in tears!
Man sees only Time's fruition—God looks farther than the years!

^FOOTNOTE^

^1^ The Yucca, or Spanish Bayonet.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net