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She turns, and thinks; and, lost in wild amaze,
Nor can thy flute, Alonso, now excite,
Soon from the bay the mingling crowd ascends, Kindred first met! by sacred instinct Friends! Thro' citron-groves, and fields of yellow maize, Thro' plantain-walks where not a sun-beam plays. Here blue savannas fade into the sky. There forests frown in midnight majesty; Ceiba, and Indian fig, and plane sublime, Nature's first-born, and reverenced by Time! There sits the bird that speaks! there, quivering, rise Wings that reflect the glow of evening skies! Half bird, half fly, the fairy king of flowers Reigns there, and revels thro' the fragrant hours ;
Gem full of life, and joy, and song divine,
'Twas he that sung, if ancient Fame speaks truth, “ Come! follow, follow to the Fount of Youth! I quaff the ambrosial mists that round it rise, Dissolved and lost in dreams of Paradise !" For there called forth, to bless a happier hour, It met the sun in many a rainbow-shower! Murmuring delight, its living waters rolled 'Mid branching palms and amaranths of gold !
Evening-a banquet-the ghost of Cazziva. THE tamarind closed her leaves; the marmoset Dreamed on his bough, and played the mimic yet. Fresh from the lake the breeze of twilight blew, And vast and deep the mountain-shadows grew; When many a fire-fly, shooting thro' the glade, Spangled the locks of many a lovely maid,
Who now danced forth to strew our path with flowers,
There odorous lamps adorned the festal rite,
There met, as erst, within the wonted grove,
But whence that sigh? 'Twas from a heart that broke! And whence that voice? As from the grave it spoke! And who, as unresolved the feast to share, Sits half-withdrawn in faded splendour there? 'Tis he of yore, the warrior and the sage, Whose lips have moved in prayer from age to age; Whose eyes, that wandered as in search before, Now on COLUMBUS fixed-to search no more! Cazziva, gifted in his day to know The gathering signs of a long night of woe; Gifted by Those who give but to enslave; No rest in death! no refuge in the grave!
* P. Martyr. dec. i. 5.
- With sudden spring as at the shout of war,
Hark, o'er the busy mead the shell proclaims
young Climb the green boughs, the murmuring doves among. Who claims the prize, when winged feet contend; When twanging bows the flaming arrows send? + Who stands self-centred in the field of fame, And, grappling, flings to earth a giant's frame? Whilst all, with anxious hearts and eager eyes, Bend as he bends, and, as he rises, rise! And Cora's self, in pride of beauty here, Trembles with grief and joy, and hope and fear! (She who, the fairest, ever flew the first, With cup of balm to quench his burning thirst; Knelt at his head, her fan-leaf in her hand, And hummed the air that pleased him, while she fanned) How blest his lot!-tho', by the Muse unsung, His name shall perish, when his knell is rung.
* P. Martyr, dec. iii. c. 7. Rochefort. C. XX