The passing of the storm, and other poems . ls of the mountains lay in calm neath their robes of white. [the end] 120 The Passing of the Storm DOLORES I will sing of a quaint old tradition, A legend romantic and strange,Which was whispered to me by the pine trees High up on the wild mountain away in the mystical Westland, From the mountain peaks crested with snow,Glides Dolores, the river of sorrow, Dolores, the river of woe. Time was when this river of sorrow Had never a thought to be meandered in joy through the meadows. With bluebell and columbi
The passing of the storm, and other poems . ls of the mountains lay in calm neath their robes of white. [the end] 120 The Passing of the Storm DOLORES I will sing of a quaint old tradition, A legend romantic and strange,Which was whispered to me by the pine trees High up on the wild mountain away in the mystical Westland, From the mountain peaks crested with snow,Glides Dolores, the river of sorrow, Dolores, the river of woe. Time was when this river of sorrow Had never a thought to be meandered in joy through the meadows. With bluebell and columbine ripples were ripples of laughter, And the soft, dulcet voice of her flowWas suggestive of peace and affection. Not accents of anguish and woe. Long ago, ere the foot of the white man Had left its first print on the sod,A people, both free and contented, Her mesas and canon-ways Dolores, the river of sorrow. Was a river of laughter and glee,As she playfully dashed through the caiions In her turbulent rush to the sea. 1. Dolores 121 High up on the cliffs in their dwellings, Which were apertures walled up with rocks,Lived this people, sequestered and happy; Their dwellings now serve the wild planted the maize and potato. The kind river caused them to they worshipped the river with singing Which blent with its musical flow. This people, so artless and peaceful. Knew nothing of carnage and war,But dwelt in such quiet and plenty They knew not what weapons were gathered the maize in its season, Unmindful of famine or foeAnd chanted their thanks to the spirits That dwelt in the canons below. But one evil day from the Northland Swept an army in battle fell on this innocent people And massacred all in a bodies were cast in the river, A feast for the vultures, when lo!The laughter and song of the river Were changed to the wailing of woe. Gone, gone are this people a vestige nor remnant remains 122 The Passin
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