Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, SAN FERNANDO REY DE ESPANA, by AMELIA WOODWARD TRUESDELL


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

SAN FERNANDO REY DE ESPANA, by                    
First Line: Here the mountains burn at sunset, with that light / drawn from the skies
Last Line: Is the fierce, hot wind of summer sweeping down this lonely vale.
Subject(s): Courts & Courtiers; Ferdinand `the Catholic,' King Of Spain; Missions & Missionaries


Here the mountains burn at sunset, with that light drawn from the skies—
Trail of glory drifting backward from the young world's sacrifice—

When the Bactrian high priest called to earth celestial splendors down,
And bade mortals worship fire as holy light from Mithra's crown.

In this vale a host angelic floated 'thwart the ebbing day,
Sent to point the fathers to a shrine for San Fernando Rey.

Pointed they to distant mountain set in opalescent haze,
Where it looked adown the valley through the evening's crimson blaze;

Pointed they, then upward floated, and a cloud around them shone,
Soft as smoke of curling incense from the swinging censer thrown.

When the Morn dismissed the night-guard from the border-land of day,
Smiled she to behold the fathers far upon their heavensent way.

But the gardens which they planted, fairest here of all remain,
'Neath the mountain named for royal Ferdinand, the Saint of Spain.

Olive trees still stand gigantic which a hundred years have crowned,
Triple avenues defining all the garden's widest bound.

To their peaceful arms presents its thorny breast the cactus tree,
And the noble aloes lift their coronets of filigree.

High among the storied olives, saintly palms their heads upraise,
And they mingle sighs together for the changed and loveless days;

Grieve they for the glebe unbroken, for the reservoirs long dry,
For the aqueducts where sere leaves in the tiny whirlwinds fly;

Grieve they for the life departed, for the ruined church hard by,
Where they see its cross no longer outlined 'gainst the cloudless sky.

And the only chant that ever sounds within the dreary pale,
Is the fierce, hot wind of summer sweeping down this lonely vale.





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