“LA BOLSA DE LAS SIERRAS.”
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“La Bolsa de las Sierras,”—the Pocket or Pouch of the Mountains,—is the fanciful title given by the Spaniards to a very picturesque and lovely spot in Texas,—the terminus of the ocean-reach, stretching up towards San Antonio, the mines of San Saba, Chihuahua, and the Rocky Mountains. The scene is one of the rarest loveliness. The meadows are clothed with flowers even in February. The waters spread away among groves that relieve the prospect with a constant variety. Here come, wandering along the margin of lakes and waters, that lose themselves amidst the rich grasses of the slopes, the most wonderful flocks of the flamingo and the swan. But the verses must do the work of description.
Peace woos us here with flowers;—
Peace in the solitude, where Nature still
Looks unpolluted forth from mountain towers,
And takes no shape of ill;
Where, fleet through vales that sleep in lakes below,
The deer leaps free in herds and never dreads the foe.
The swan speeds wild in grace,
Through the sweet lakes that freshen all the vale;
A meadowy sea, far as the eye may trace,
Ripples beneath the trade-wind's soothing gale;
Here woods and groves that never lose their green,
Fringe the fair streams, and crown the heights between.
The gay flamingo there,
Marching with crest erect and footsteps slow,
Looks down to watch his form in waters clear,
Nor heeds the trooping flocks that come and go;
Legions of white-wing'd innocents, that glide,
Or dart, with sense of joy, and mirth, that sweetens pride.
Pensive, the palms arise,
As if o'er cherish'd graves; the mezquite towers
Through the dense chapparal; a thousand dyes
Blend sweetly, and the aroma of the flowers
From thousand shrubs, by ocean zephyrs fann'd,
With music borne afar, makes grateful all the land.
With never-dying song,
The glad winds gather through the blossoming day,
Like truants still, their sportive play prolong,
Forgetful in their pleasures that they stray;
While in the sky the flecking clouds lie calm,
White, soft, as drinking glad from skies below their balm.
Peace! Peace!—the sad heart's cry,
That blossom of security, here finds
Meet echo,—and with voices never high,
Yet absolute in their sweetness, blends and binds
With natural metes her empire, soft as wild,
Takes from the innocent fear, weds rapture to the mild.
Peace! Peace! the peace of Love,
Serene and sure in favor of the skies,—
Waters that lend their voices to the grove,
Groves singing back to waters;—grateful eyes,
From each, that kindle in requited fires,
Blest in the embrace of sanctified desires—
Commerce of kindred things,
Whose instincts find communion and rejoice,
With all that being ever circling brings,—
Each with its power to bless, and each with voice
To answer for the blessing, and requite
The giver in happy song of ever-wing'd delight.
How swells the common strain;
The day-star waking ocean; the gay breeze
That welcomes still the brightness back again,
Skirrs the white beach, and skims among the trees,
Yet whispers to the sea-shell on the shore,
Which thenceforth aye repeats the sweet song o'er and o'er!
Oh! voices of delight,
Wings of my joy, and blossoming stars that gleam,
With still a present fondness for the sight,
That once has gloried in celestial dream;
Here still ye find each dear dismember'd part,
That in youth's first fresh fancies bless'd its heart.
The peace that harbors here
Is that of the soul's infancy,—when first,
Untroubled with to-morrow-haunting fear,
The young affections into blossom burst,
And found in breeze and sky, and earth and sea,
Realms sacred—homes and haunts where Love goes singing free.
Enough for happiness
Is here—where beauty harbors in the shade,
And asks but privilege to tend and bless,
To come in beams and blossoming charms array'd,
And soothe to slumberous sweetness with a strain,
Once heard, that never leaves the happy heart again.
One heart shall grow to mine,
Here in the holy wilderness—shall share
All its sweet treasures, and the peace divine,
That robs the precious rapture of its fear;
Nor sigh for that the mountain in its breast
Holds—which, with lure of hell, would rob our hearts of rest.
Love thus, at last, shall crown
The warfare of long seasons. Born of peace,
She will bring soothing. We shall both lie down
Beneath the slender palm, and feel the increase
That fruitfully belongs to natural joys,
Meet toils, pure thoughts and hopes, delight that never cloys.
