The following Poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, who, flying from the religious persecutions of his own country in the 16th century, takes refuge with his child in a North American forest. The story is supposed to be related by himself amidst the wilderness which has afforded him an asylum.

I.

Tux voices of my home!-I hear them still! They have been with me through the dreamy night

The blessed household voices, wont to fill
My heart's clear depths with unalloy`d delight!
I hear them still, unchang'd:-though some
from earth

Are music parted, and the tones of mirthWild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright!

Have died in others,-yet to me they come, Singing of boy hood back-the voices of my home! II.

They call me through this hush of woods, reposing

In the gray stillness of the summer morn, They wander by when heavy flowers are closing, And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born;

E'en as a fount's remember'd gushings burst On the parch'd traveller in his hour of thirst, E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till

worn

Remorse, a Tragedy.

By quenchless longings, to my soul I say Oh! for the dove's swift wings, that I might fee away,

III.

And find mine ark !-yet whither ?—I must bear
A yearning heart within me to the grave.
I am of those o'er whom a breath of air-
Just darkening in its course the lake's bright

wave,

And sighing through the feathery canes(1)hath power

To call up shadows, in the silent hour, From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave! So must it be !-These skies above me spread, Are they my own soft skies?-Ye rest not here, my dead!

IV.

Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping,
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear,
Save one!-a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping
High o'er one gentle head-ye rest not here! -
'Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying,
Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing
Through my own chesnut groves, which fill
mine ear;

But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, And for their birth-place moan, as moans the ocean-shell.(2)

V.

Peace!-I will dash these fond regrets to earth, Ev'n as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain

They moved before me but as pictures, wrought
Each to reveal some secret of man's thought,
On the sharp edge of sad mortality,
Till in nis place came one-oh! could it be?
My friend, my heart's first friend!—and did I
gaze on thee?

XXIII.

On thee! with whom in boyhood I had played, At the grape-gatherings, by my native streams; And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid Bare, as to Heaven's, its glowing world of dreams; And by whose side 'midst warriors I had stood, And in whose helm was brought-oh! earned with blood!

The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams Snote on my fevered brow!-Ay, years had passed,

Severing our paths, brave friend!—and thus we met at last!

XXIV.

I see it still-the lofty mien thou borest-
On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power!
The very look that once thou brightly worest
Cheering me onward through a fearful hour,
When we were girt by Indian bow and spear,
'Midst the white Andes-e'en as mountain deer,
Hemmed in our camp-but through the javelin
shower

We rent our way, a tempest of despair! --And thou-hadst thou but died with thy true brethren there!

XXV.

I call the fond wish back-for thou hast perished More nobly far, my Alvar!-making known The might of truth;(4) and be thy memory cherished

With theirs, the thousands, that around her throne

Have poured their lives out smiling, in that doom Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb!

-Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown, And with the wind their spirit shall be spread, Filling man's heart and home with records of the dead.

XXVI.

Thou Searcher of the Soul! in whose dread sight Not the bold guilt alone, that mocks the skies, But the scarce-owned, unwhispered thought of night,

As a thing written with the sunbeam lies; Thou know'st-whose eye through shade and dept.. can see,

That this man's crime was but to worship thee,

Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, The called of yore; wont by the Saviour's side On the dim Olive-Mount to pray at eventide.

XXVII.

For the strong spirit will at times awake,
Piercing the mists that wrap her clay-abode;
And, born of thee, she may not always take
Earth's accents for the oracles of God;
And e'en for this-O dust, whose mask is power!
Reed, that would be a scourge thy little hour!
Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod,
And therefore thou destroyest!-where were
flown

Our hope, if man were left to man's decree alone?

XXVIII.

But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze On him, my friend; while that swift moment threw

A sudden freshness back on vanished days, Like water-drops on some dim picture's hue; Calling the proud time up, when first I stood Where banners floated, and my heart's quick blood

Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew,

And he his sword was like a brother's worn, That watches through the field his mother's young

est born.

XXIX.

But a lance met me in that day's career, Senseless I lay amidst th' o'ersweeping fight, Wakening at last-how full, how strangely clear, That scene on memory flashed!—the shivery light,

Moonlight, on broken shields-the plain of slaughter,

The fountain-side-the low sweet sound of wa

ter

And Alvar bending o'er me--from the night Covering me with his mantle !-all the past Flowed back-my soul's far chords all answered to the blast.

XXX.

Till, in that rush of visions, I became

As one that by the bands of slumber wound, Lies with a powerless, but all-thrilling frame, Intense in consciousness of sight and sound, Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things! Troubled e'en thus I stood, but chained and

bound

On that familiar form mine eye to keep-Alas! I might not fall upon his neck and weep!

XXXI. He passed me--and what next?--I looked on two,

Following his footsteps to the same dread place,

Unheard by day. It seemed as if her breast Had hoarded energies, till then suppressed Almost with pain, and bursting from control. And finding first that hour their pathway free:

The beauty on those brows, though each young

face

Was changed-so deeply changed!—a dungeon's air

Is hard for loved and lovely things to bear, And ye, O daughters of a lofty race, Queen-like Theresa! radiant Inez!-flowers So cherished! were ye then but reared for those dark hours?

XXXII.

A mournful home, young sisters! had ye left, With your lutes hanging hushed upon the wail, And silence round the aged man, berest Of each glad voice, once answering to his call. Alas, that lonely father! doom'd to pine For sounds departed in his life's decline, And, 'midst the shadowing banners of his hall, With his white hair to sit, and deem the name A hundred chiefs had borne, cast down by you to shame'(6)

XXXIII.

And wo for you, 'midst looks and words of love, And gentle hearts and faces, nursed so long! How had I seen you in your beauty move, Wearing the wreath, and listening to the song! -Yet sat, e'en then, what seemed the crowd to shun,

Half veiled upon the clear pale brow of one, And deeper thoughts than oft to youth belong, Thoughts, such as wake to evening's whispery

sway,

Within the drooping shade of her sweet eyelids lay.

XXXIV.

And if she mingled with the festive train,
It was but as some melancholy star
Beholds the dance of shepherds on the plain,
In its bright stillness present, though afar.
Yet would she smile-and that, too, hath its
smile-

Circled with joy which reached her not the while,
And bearing a lone spirit, not at war
With earthly things, but o'er their form and hue
Shedding too clear a light, too sorrowfully true.

XXXV.

But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might|
Which had lain bedded in the silent soul,
A treasure all undreamt of;-as the night
Calls out the harmonics of streams that roll

emblem be!

XXXVI.

For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn, Was fled; and fire, like prophecy's had sprung Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scornPride-sense of wrong-ay, the frail heart is bound

By these at times, even as with adamant round, Kept so from breaking!—yet not thus upborne She moved, though some sustaining passion's

wave

Lifted her fervent soul-a sister for the brave!

XXXVII.

And yet, alas! to see the strength which clings Round woman in such hours!-a mournful sight, Though lovely!-an overflowing of the springs, The full springs of affection, deep as bright! And she, because her life is ever twined With other lives, and by no stormy wind May thence be shaken, and because the light Of tenderness is round her, and her eye Doth weep such passionate tears-therefore she thus can die.

XXXVIII.

Therefore didst thou, through that heart-shaking

scene,

As through a triumph move; and cast aside Thine own sweet thoughtfulness for victory's mien,

O faithful sister! cheering thus the guide,
And friend, and brother of thy sainted youth,
Whose hand had led thee to the source of truth,
Where thy glad soul from earth was purified;
Nor wouldst thou, following him through all the

past,

That he should see thy step grow tremulous at last.

XXXIX.

For thou hadst made no deeper love a guest 'Midst thy young spirit's dreams, than that which

grows

Between the nurtured of the same fond breast The sheltered of one roof; and thus it rose Twined in with life.-How is it, that the hours Of the same sport, the gathering early flowera Round the same tree, the sharing one repose, And mingling one first prayer in murmurs soft. From the heart's memory fade, in this world a breath, so oft?