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Mingling in scenes that mirth to mortals give,
There met, as erst, within the wonted grove,
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 And who, as unresolved the feast to share, Sits half-withdrawn in faded splendour there?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! po refuge in the grave! _With sudden spring as at the shout of war, He flies! and, turning in his flight, from far Glares thro' the gloom like some portentous star! Unseen, unheard ! Hence, Minister of Ill ! Hence, 'tis not yet the hour! tho' come it will! 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*
young Climb the green boughs, the murmuring doves among. Who claims the prize, when winged feet contend ; When twanging bows the flaming arrows send ?f 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.
That night, transported, with a sigh I said 'Tis all a dream !"—Now, like a dream, 'tis fled ;
* P. Martyr. dec. iii. c. 7.
| Rochefort, C. XX.
and many a year has passed away, And I alone remain to watch and pray! 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!
Still would I speak of Him before I went,
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;
Who, while approached by none but Spirits pure,
As he descended thro' the upper air,
• The wind recalls thee; its still voice obey.
Not then to leave Thee! to their vengeance cast, Thy heart their aliment, their dire repast !|
* P. Martyr. Epist. 133, 152.
To other eyes shall Mexico unfold
“ What tho' thy gray hairs to the dust descend, Their scent shall track thee, track thee to the end ;* Thy sons reproached with their great father's fame, And on his world inscribed another's name! That world a prison-house, full of sights of woe, Where groans burst forth, and tears in torrents flow ! These gardens of the sun, sacred to song, By dogs of carnage howling loud and long, Swept—till the voyager, in the desert air, Starts back to hear his altered accents there!
Not thine the olive, but the sword to bring, Not peace, but war! Yet from these shores shall spring
* See the Eumenides of Æschylus, v. 246.