Poem by Francis Bret Harte

Lone Mountain

(CEMETERY, SAN FRANCISCO)

This is that hill of awe
That Persian Sindbad saw,--
    The mount magnetic;
And on its seaward face,
Scattered along its base,
    The wrecks prophetic.

Here come the argosies
Blown by each idle breeze,
    To and fro shifting;
Yet to the hill of Fate
All drawing, soon or late,--
    Day by day drifting;

Drifting forever here
Barks that for many a year
    Braved wind and weather;
Shallops but yesterday
Launched on yon shining bay,--
    Drawn all together.

This is the end of all:
Sun thyself by the wall,
    O poorer Hindbad!
Envy not Sindbad’s fame:
Here come alike the same
    Hindbad and Sindbad.

1. Half an Hour before Supper
2. Miss Blanche Says
3. Don Diego of the South
4. The Latest Chinese Outrage
5. To a Sea-Bird

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