A fallen roof beside a tawny trail,
    A moldered cross upon a haunted hill,
And, out at sea, ghost of a ragged sail—
    These hold fond memories of him still.

Cities are builded where his sandals trod,
    Yet not forgotten in the din and greed
Is he who won so fair a land for God,
    Whose faith the heathen from the darkness free.

A thousand vales with deathless bloom aflame,
    A thousand mountain peaks white-capped with snow,
Still love to speak the gray Franciscan's name
    Who came to California—long ago.

The newer race that destiny has thrust
    Where he with dauntless tread was first to fare,
Lifts up his ruined altars from the dust,
    And sets again the lost lights glowing there.

He won for God the fairest land of all—
    And now, where bright a well-loved river leaps,
And lark and linnet to the sunrise call,
    At peace among the ancient tribes he sleeps.