'Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue,
That once upon the sunny plains of Old Castile was sung,
When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below,
Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe.
Awhile the melody is still, and then breaks forth anew
A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru.

For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side,
And sent him to the war, the day she should have been his bride,
And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right,
And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight.
Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled,
And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed.

A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north;

Thou lookest in vain, sweet maiden; the sharpest sight would

fail

To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale;

For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, And the silent hills, and forest tops, seem reeling in the heat.

That white hand is withdrawn, that fair, sad face is gone;
But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on,-
Not, as of late, with cheerful tones, but mournfully and low,—

A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago,

Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave,

And her who died of sorrow upon his early grave.

But see, along that rugged path, a fiery horseman ride,
See the torn plume, the tarnished belt, the sabre at his side;
His spurs are in his horse's sides, his hand casts loose the rein;
There's sweat upon the streaming flank, and foam upon the

mane;

He speeds toward that olive bower, along the shaded hill:

God shield the hapless maiden there, if he should mean her ill.

And suddenly the song has ceased, and suddenly I hear
A shriek sent up amid the shade-a shriek-but not of fear;
For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak
The overflow of gladness when words are all too weak:
"I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free,
And I am come to dwell beside the olive grove with thee.”

MARCH.

THE stormy March is come at last,

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies:

I hear the rushing of the blast,

That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah! passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee;

Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou to northern lands again,

The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train, And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.

And, in thy reign of blast and storm,
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
When the changed winds are soft and warm,
And heaven puts on the blue of May.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills

And the full springs, from frost set free, That, brightly leaping down the hills, Are just set out to meet the sea.

The year's departing beauty hides
Of wintry storms the sullen threat;

But in thy sternest frown abides

A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft time of sunny showers,

When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,

Seems of a brighter world than ours.

TO THE EVENING WIND.

SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee

To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wild old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast;
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed,
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go-but the circle of eternal change,

That is the life of nature, shall restore,

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,
Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more;
Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf, and running stream.

LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY.

I STAND upon my native hills again,

Broad, round, and green, that in the southern sky, With garniture of waving grass and grain,

Orchards and beechen forests, basking lie;

While deep the sunless glens are scooped between,
Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen

C