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
Peace without end;* from these, with blood defiled,
Spread the pure spirit of thy Master mild!
Here, in His train, shall arts and arms attend,
Arts to adorn, and arms but to defend.
Assembling here, all nations shall be blest;
The sad be comforted; the weary rest:
Untouched shall drop the fetters from the slave;
And He shall rule the world he died to save!

Hence, and rejoice. The glorious work is done.
A spark is thrown that shall eclipse the sun!
And, tho' bad men shall long thy course pursue,
As erst the ravening brood o'er chaos flew, +
He, whom I serve, shall vindicate his reign;
The spoiler spoiled of all; the slayer slain;
The tyrant's self, oppressing and opprest,
Mid gems and gold unenvied and unblest:

*See Washington's farewell address to his fellow-citizens.
+ See Paradise Lost. X.

While to the starry sphere thy name shall rise,
(Not there unsung thy generous enterprise!)
Thine in all hearts to dwell-by Fame enshrined,
With those, the Few, that live but for Mankind;
Thine evermore, transcendent happiness!
World beyond world to visit and to bless."

ON the two last leaves, and written in another hand, are some stanzas in the romance or ballad measure of the Spaniards. The subject is an adventure soon related.

M M

Thy lonely watch-tower, Larenille,
Had lost the western sun;

And loud and long from hill to hill
Echoed the evening-gun,

When Hernan, rising on his oar,

Shot like an arrow from the shore.
"Those lights are on St. Mary's Isle;
They glimmer from the sacred pile.'
The waves were rough; the hour was late.
But soon across the Tinto borne,
Thrice he blew the signal-horn,
He blew and would not wait.

Home by his dangerous path he went;
Leaving, in rich habiliment,

Two Strangers at the Convent-gate.

They ascended by steps hewn out in the rock; and, having asked for admittance, were lodged there.

Brothers in arms the Guests appeared;
The Youngest with a Princely grace!
Short and sable was his beard,
Thoughtful and wan his face.

His velvet cap a medal bore,

And ermine fringed his broidered vest;

*The Convent of La Rábida.

And, ever sparkling on his breast,
An image of St. John he wore.

*

The Eldest had a rougher aspect, and there was craft in his eye. He stood a little behind in a long black mantle, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword; and his white hat and white shoes glittered in the moon-shine. +

"Not here unwelcome, tho' unknown.
Enter and rest!" the Friar said.

The moon, that thro' the portal shone,
Shone on his reverend head.

Thro' many a court and gallery dim
Slowly he led, the burial-hymn
Swelling from the distant choir.
But now the holy men retire;
The arched cloisters issuing thro',
In long long order, two and two.

When other sounds had died away,

And the waves were heard alone,
They entered, tho' unused to pray,

* See Bernal Diaz, c. 203; and also a well-known portrait of Cortes, ascribed to Titian. Cortes was now in the 43rd, Pizarro in the 60th year of his age.

+ Augustin Zarate, lib. iv. c. 9.