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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 And who, as unresolved the feast to share, Sits half-withdrawn in faded splendour there?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 *
* P. Martyr. dec. iii. c. 7. + Rochefort. c. xx.