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Show A P.OEM OF SAN' FR'ANCISCO R The Tavern on the Front. M By Howard B. Sutherland. Down on tho water-front, empty, forsaken, H Stands an old tavern, dust-covered and grey; M Daily and nightly its timbers are shaken M By the rough breezes that sport on the bay. M Barred are its windows with meaningless shut- M Locked is the portal that never knew key;i M Filled are the halls with the ominous mutters- H Of winds that, imprisoned, make moan for the M Many long years the old tavern has carried M The sign that is sad and too common: "To H Few people saw it, and none of them tarried, M None of them viewed the old inn with regret. M Brave were the men who attempted to run it; H Loafers will pass it nor .give it a glance; IH Even the venturesome little ones shun it, H Policemen and wharf-rats will eye it askance. H Yet it is- said that in days long departed H Came to this tavern, from countries afar, H Men that were mighty of limb, lion-hearted H Men who had braved tribulation and war. H Some of them came seeking fabulous treasure; H Some of them came seeking freedom or rest. H We of today may not venture to measure H The hopes of tho men who first came to tho H West M Here came the miners and squandered their H wages, H Bought the red wine with a ruddier gold; H Wrote in red letters the earliest pages H Of doings long famous and ever re-told. H Till the young sun with its golden-tipped finger H Woke the great mountains with bosoms dew- H pearled, H Here in the tavern the heroes would linger H Telling the tales that awakened a world. H Once the rooms echoed the sounds of men's H laughter, H Heard, as they drank, the clear clink of the glass; H Heard the brave singing that followed right H after M Songs of the home, or the mine, or the. lass. M Now the strong singers are silent and sleeping, H Drear are the chambers they sang In, and cold; ,'H Death and forgetfulness have In their keeping lM Those who once drank in the days that are M Empty the house is, rat-ridden and rotten, M Only the sunbeams caress its poor face; .J There it is standing, despised and forgotten, M Left far behind in the city's mad race. M Only at night-time, when slumbers the city,. H When the white mist covers hillside and street, H Come the old spirits who love it and pity iH The place that once shook 'neath the tread of H their feet. H From "Songs of a City." - |