ONWARD. ORIGINAL, Written on thetrain by a lady expressly for the TRANS-CONTINENTAL. We go toward the Golden Gate, Thro’ deserts which the heart appalls, Where mountains like impressive fate. Rear up their adamantine walls, While rivers rush with fretted foam, From out their wild and rocky home, Nature forbids our onward way, And yet our path is clear to-day. Through arid plain and meadow fair, We pass, unconscious of the powers Which bear us on through earth and air, As swiftly as the circling hours. Thro’ sunshine and thro’ storm we pass, (A rapid glance in magic glass,) While we, in trustful calm await Pacific shores and Golden Gate. A. W. —_——