LIKE some pure thought, by unknown lips let fall,
Which grows, and bears abroad, rich truths for all,
So fell a seed by Yerba Buena cove,
And, like a giant young, who smiling lies,
Nor heeds the dormant powers, so soon to rise —
So lay this seed — a village fair —
A score of years, then forth a city came,
And cast aside its quaint old Spanish name
For San Francisco, Western Queen!
And, like the saint whose name it proudly boasts,
A friend to all who come within its posts —
This city with a gate of gold.
When dust-stained, “desert ships” came halting in,
Her gates swung wide, and friendly welcome gave
Those sun-kissed valiant pioneers.
While ocean ships, wind-tossed around Cape Horn,
Oft refuge found within her harbor calm,
Protected by her queenly grace.