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II.

They call me through this hush of woods, reposing
In the grey 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

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

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 airJust darkening in its course the lake's bright wave, And sigbing 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
From his strong pinion. Thou that gav'st me

birth,
And lineage, and once home,-my native Spain !
My own bright land—my father's land-my child's!
What hath thy son brought from thee to the wilds ?
He hath brought marks of torture and the chain,

Traces of things which pass not as a breeze, A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, we--thy

gifts are these.

VI.

A blighted name!-I hear the winds of morn-
Their sounds are not of this !--I hear the shiver
Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne
From the high forest, when the light leaves quiver:
Their sounds are not of this !—the cedars, waving,
Lend it no tone: His wide savannahs laving,
It is not murmur'd by the joyous river !

What part hath mortal name, where God alone Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is

known?

VII.

Is it not much that I may worship Him,
With nought my spirit's breathings to control,
And feel His presence in the vast, and dim,
And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll
From the far cataracts ?-Shall I not rejoice
That I have learn'd at last to know His voice
From man's ?-I will rejoice !-my soaring soul

Now hath redeem'd her birth-right of the day, And won, through clouds, to Him, her own unfetter'd

way!

VIII.

And thou, my boy! that silent at my knee
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes,
Fill’d with the love of childhood, which I see
Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise
Thou that hast breath'd in slumber on my breast,
When I have check'd its throbs to give thee rest,
Mine own! whose young thoughts fresh before

me rise ! Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air?

IX.

Why should I weep on thy bright head, my boy?
Within thy fathers' halls thou wilt not dwell,
Nor lift their banner, with a warrior's joy,
Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell
For Spain of old.—Yet what if rolling waves
Have borne us far from our ancestral graves !
Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebel

As mine hath done ; nor bear what I have borne, Casting in falsehood's mould th’ indignant brow of

scorn,

X.

This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child!
I have not sorrow'd, struggled, lived in vain-
Hear me! magnificent and ancient wild;
And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main,
As deep meets deep; and forests, whose dim shade
The flood's voice, and the wind's by swells pervade;
Hear me !-'tis well to die, and not complain,
Yet there are hours when the charg'd heart must

speak,
Ev'n in the desert's ear to pour itself, or break!

XI.

I see an oak before me,3 it hath been
The crown'd one of the woods; and might have

flung
Its hundred arms to Heaven, still freshly green,
But a wild vine around the stem hath clung,
From branch to branch close wreaths of bondage

throwing, Till the proud tree, before no tempest bowing, Hath shrunk and died, those serpent-folds among.

Alas! alas !-what is it that I see? An image of man's mind, land of my sires, with thee!

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