And faintly smiles, and hangs her head aside Soon from the bay the mingling crowd ascends, There forests frown in midnight majesty ; Ceiba, and Indian fig, and plane sublime, 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; Soon in the virgin's graceful ear to shine. 66 'Twas he that sung, if ancient Fame speaks truth, Come! follow, follow to the Fount of Youth! Murmuring delight, its living waters rolled CANTO XI. Evening-a Banquet-the Ghost of Cazziva. THE tamarind closed her leaves; the marmoset There odorous lamps adorned the festal rite, Not there forgot the sacred fruit that fed *P. Martyr. dec. i. 5. Mingling in scenes that mirth to mortals give, But whence that sigh? broke! 'Twas from a heart that As from the grave it spoke! And whence that voice? As from the And who, as unresolved the feast to share, Sits half-withdrawn in faded splendour there?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; They that foretold-too soon shall they fulfil; When forth they rush as with the torrent's sweep, Hark, o'er the busy mead the shell proclaims* 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. And many and many a year has passed away, Yet oft in darkness, on my bed of straw, Oft I awake and think on what I saw ! The groves, the birds, the youths, the nymphs recall, And CORA, loveliest, sweetest of them all! CANTO XII. A Vision. STILL Would I speak of Him before I went, Who among us a life of sorrow spent, And, dying, left a world his monument; Still, if the time allowed! My Hour draws near; But He will prompt me when I faint with fear. Alas, He hears me not! He cannot hear! * Twice the Moon filled her silver urn with light. Then from the Throne an Angel winged his flight; He, who unfixed the compass, and assigned O'er the wild waves a pathway to the wind; |