"Poem" by John Rollin Ridge
Through many an age had rolled
Ere fortune found her favorite seat
Within this land of gold.
The Digger, searching for his roots,
Here roamed the region wide—
Or, wearied with the day's pursuits,
Slept by this restless tide.
The dream of greatness never rose
Upon his simple brain;
The wealth on which a nation grows,
And builds its power to reign,
All darkly lay beneath his tread,
Where many a stream did wind,
Deep slumbering in its yellow bed,
The charm that rules mankind.
Had he and his dark brethren known
Of gold the countless worth,
They now beyond that power had grown
Which sweeps them from the earth.
But happier he perchance, by far,
Still digging for his roots,
Than thousand paler wanderers are
Whose toil hath had no fruits.
Still following luck's unsteady star,
Where'er its light hath gleamed,
To many a gulch and burning bar,
Which proved not what it seemed.
How wearied they have sat them down,
To watch the passers by—
The throng that still 'gainst Fortune's frown,
Their varied ''a prospects'' try.
Behold the active and the young,
Whose strength not yet doth fail,
And hear them, with a cheerful tongue,
Encourage those that quail.
With mournful, melancholy look,
The broken-hearted come,
Whose souls we read as in a book,
Though shut their lips and dumb!
And mark yon aged, trembling one,
How weak his step and slow!
Ah, hear him as he totters on,
Sigh painfully and low!
Far from the peaceful home he left,
In fever-rage for gold—
Of friends, almost of hope bereft,
He now is trebly old.
And Fortune often favors not,
Who most her favors need;
Thus he may wander on forgot,
While strong ones gain the meed.
How many hearts like his have pined,
As prisoned bird of air,
For sunny homes they left behind,
And friends who loved them there.
And many a merry heart shall pine,
Through long and lonesome years,
And watch the light of life decline
Amidst uncounted tears.
Far off among the mountains stern,
Shall thousands meet with blight,
And many a raven lock shall turn
To hairs frosty white;
And many a lonely grave shall hide
The mouldering form of him
For whom sad eyes are never dried,
With age and sorrow dim.
Yet, though the wayside all be strewn
With sorrows and with graves,
The glory of the race is shown
By what it does and braves.
What though the desert's mouldering heaps
Affright the startled eye—
What though in wilds the venturer sleeps,
His bones uncovered lie,
'T is not the living that have won
Alone the victory:
But each dead soldier, too, has done
His part as loftily.
'Tis they–the living and the dead—
Who have redeemed our land;
Have cities reared, the arts have spread,
And placed us where we stand.
As led Adventure bold before,
The Arts and Learning came;
And now, behold! upon this shore
They have a place and name.
Where roamed erewhile the rugged bear ;
Amid these oaks of green,
And wandering from his mountain lair
The cougar's steps were seen,
Lo! Peace hath built her quiet nest;
And “mild-eyed Science” roves,
As was her wont when Greece was blest,
In Academic groves.
Oh! tranquil be these shades for aye,
These groves forever green;
And youth and age still bless their day
That here their steps have been.
May Learning here still have her seat,
Her empire of the mind;
The home of Genius, Wit's Retreat,
Whate'er is pure refined.
And thus the proudest boast shall be
Of young Ambition crowned—
''The woods of Oakland sheltered me,
Their leaves my brow have bound.”
* Delivered at Commencement of Oakland College, Cal., June 6th, 1861.