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CANTO XI. 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 And who, as unresolved the feast to share, Sits half-withdrawn in faded splendour there?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
. And now the old sit round; and now the 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.
That night, transported, with a sigh I said « 'Tis all a dream !"-Now, like a dream, 'tis fled ; And many 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.
As he descended thro' the upper air,