XVIII.

It might be that amidst the countless throng, There swell'd some heart with Pity's weight oppress'd, For the wide stream of human love is strong; And woman, on whose fond and faithful breast Childhood is rear'd, and at whose knee the sigh Of its first prayer is breathed, she, too, was nigh. -But life is dear, and the free footstep bless'd, And home a sunny place, where each may fill Some eye with glistening smiles,—and therefore all were still

XIX.

All still-youth, courage, strength !—a winter laid,

A chain of palsy, cast on might and mind! Still, as at noon a southern forest's shade, They stood, those breathless masses of mankind; Still, as a frozen torrent !—but the wave Soon leaps to foaming freedom-they, the brave, Endured-they saw the martyr's place assign'd In the red flames-whence is the withering spell That numbs each human pulse?-they saw, and thought it well.

XX.

And I, too, thought it well! That very morn
From a far land I came, yet round me clung
The spirit of my own. No hand had torn
With a strong grasp away the veil which hung
Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw,
Dimly, as through a glass. In silent awe

I watch'd the fearful rites; and if there sprung
One rebel feeling from its deep founts up,
Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt's own poison-cup.

XXI.

But I was waken'd as the dreamers waken Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are taken, And they must battle till their blood is shed On their own threshold-floor. A path for light Through my torn breast was shatter'd by the might Of the swift thunder-stroke-and Freedom's tread Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain, Making the blighted place all green with life again.

XXII.

Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass

Of cloud, o'ersweeping, without wind, the sky,
Dream-like I saw the sad procession pass,
And mark'd its victims with a tearless eye.
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 his 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 play'd,
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! earn'd with

blood!

The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams

Smote on my fever'd brow!-Ay, years had pass'd,

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-ev'n as mountain deer,
Hemm'd 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 perish'd
More nobly far, my Alvar!-making known

4

The might of Truth; and be thy memory cherish'd
With theirs, the thousands, that around her throne
Have pour'd 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-own'd, unwhisper'd thought of night,
As a thing written with the sunbeam lies ;

Thou know'st-whose eye through shade and depth can

see,

That this man's crime was but to worship thee,
Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice,

The call'd 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 ev'n for this-O dust, whose mask is power!
Reed, that wouldst 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?