When forth, along their thousand rills,
The mountain people come,

Join thou their worship on those hills
Of glorious martyrdom.

And while the song of praise ascends,
And while the torrent's voice,

Like the swell of many an organ, blends,
Then let thy soul rejoice.

Rejoice, that human hearts, through scorn,
Through shame, through death made strong,
Before the rocks and heavens have borne
Witness of God so long!

SONG OF THE SPANISH WANDERER.

PILGRIM! O say, hath thy cheek been fann'd
By the sweet winds of my sunny land?
Know'st thou the sound of its mountain pines?
And hast thou rested beneath its vines?

Has thou heard the music still wandering by,
A thing of the breezes, in Spain's blue sky,
Floating away o'er hill and heath,

With the myrtle's whisper, the citron's breath!

Then say, are there fairer vales than those

Where the warbling of fountains for ever flows?

Are there brighter flowers than mine own, which wave
O'er Moorish ruin and Christian grave?

O sunshine and song! they are lying far
By the streams that look to the western star;
My heart is fainting to hear once more
The water-voices of that sweet shore.

Vaudois. The inhabitants of these Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summit of the hills during the summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the year assemble on that sacred day to worship in the open air.

Many were they that have died for thee,
And brave, my Spain! though thou art not free;
But I call them blest-they have rent their chain-
They sleep in thy valleys, my sunny Spain !

THE CONTADINA.

WRITTEN FOR A PICTURE.

Nor for the myrtle, and not for the vine,
Though its grape, like a gem, be the sunbeam's shrine;
And not for the rich blue heaven that showers
Joy on thy spirit, like light on the flowers;
And not for the scent of the citron trees-
Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for these.

Not for the beauty spread over thy brow,

Though round thee a gleam, as of spring, it throw;
And not from the lustre that laughs from thine eye,
Like a dark stream's flash to the sunny sky,
Though the south in its riches nought lovelier sees-
Fair peasant! I call thee not blest for these:

But for those breathing and loving things-
For the boy's fond arm that around thee clings,
For the smiling cheek on thy lap that glows,
n the peace of a trusting child's repose-
or the hearts whose home is thy gentle breast
Oh! richly I call thee, and deeply blest!

TROUBADOUR SONG.

THE warrior cross'd the ocean's foam
For the stormy fields of war;
The maid was left in a smiling home
And a sunny land afar.

His voice was heard where javelin showers
Pour'd on the steel-clad line;

Her step was 'midst the summer flowers,
Her seat beneath the vine.

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven,
And the red blood stain'd his crest;
While she-the gentlest wind of heaven,
Might scarcely fan her breast

Yet a thousand arrows pass'd him by,
And again he cross'd the seas;
But she had died as roses die
That perish with a breeze.

As roses die, when the blast is come
For all things bright and fair-

There was death within the smiling home
How had death found her there?

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME