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Along the wild wood ringing clear.
But still they mock the solemn owl,
And cheat the wolf with mimic howl.
The cloud-capt ridge, that bounds the west,
Behind it rears a snowy crest,

Whose evening shadows o'er it rest;
And often when the morning cloud
Has wrapt its mantle, like a shroud,
Around the frowning giant's form,
The radiant sun is glancing warm;
And every songster, warbling sweet,
In that lone valley at his feet.
A winding stream the tribute brings
Of melting snows and crystal springs,
That gush along the mountain's side,
And mingling there in silence glide
Beneath green arbors, where the vine,
The jessamine, and eglantine

Their varying hues of beauty twine,
With many a virgin floweret's bloom,
And fill the air with sweet perfume.
Hard by that stream there whilom stood
A lonely hut, o'er which the wood
Spread with its hundred arms on high
A wild luxuriant canopy.

And who was he, that hermit gray,
That thus in loneliness would dwell?

Why did he stray thus far away,
To die in that sequester'd dell?

His look-his form-his speech-his mien
Were not of savage mould, 1 ween;
Nor yet of that dull heavy kind,

That mark so well the common mind.
But such, as chain the wondering eye,
Though none can tell the reason why.
Oft would his broken accents tell,
As half unconsciously they fell,
Of joys and griefs, of hopes and fears,
Now lost amid the wreck of years;
Of love by blood and murder crost;
Of home and friends for ever lost;
And then, as though his very grief
Were link'd with something like relief,
A bitter smile was seen to play
Across his deeply-furrow'd cheek,
And, ere the eye its cause might seek,

Like evening meteors flit away.
His rugged dress and scanty fare
Claim'd but a passing moment's care.
The earth supplied his simple feast.
He stripp'd his garment from the beast;
Not from the tribes of nature mild,
But the fierce tyrants of the wild.
It was his wont o'er hill and dale
To wander forth the livelong day;
Till, by the star of evening pale,
He turn'd to trace his homeward way.
But his was not the sordid toil
Of those, that range the valley wide,
Or climb the mountain's grassy side,
To rend from life their furry spoil.
The browsing doe would raise her head,
When startled by his passing tread,
Would gaze perchance, with wondering eye;
But had not learn'd to fear, and fly;
For often, when he chanced to hear
The bleating of the captive deer,
His ready shot would quell its foe,
And lay the tyrant panther low.


Or New Bedford, Massachusetts. He has been the editor of a paper in Philadelphia.


WITH tearful eyes and swelling hearts they leave Granada's gate,

And the wind blows fair to waft their barks across the nar

row strait;

They have hoisted sail, and they are gone,—the last of all the


Whom bigot zeal hath banish'd from their much-loved Spanish shores.

The remnants of those warlike tribes, who trode on Spanish


Whom, name you to Castilian ears, if you delight to vex; Now broken, not by sword and spear, but papal racks alone, They go, to found, where Dido reign'd, another Moslem


There stood upon the deck, a Moor, who had to Mecca been, Whose hoary hair proclaim'd his years beyond three score and ten.

He had tasted of the water of Zemzeim's holy well,

And could read the monarch's magic ring, and speak the direful spell.

And there he watch'd, that aged man, till they had Calpe


And saw, with eye of boding gloom, the land receding fast. Blow, blow ye winds, and waft us from Xeres' glorious



Then be ye calm, while I pronounce a Moor's curse on Spain.

"Thou didst bow, Spain, for ages, beneath a Moorish yoke, And save Asturia's mountain sons, there were none to strike a stroke;

On mountain top and lowland plain, thy fate was still the


Thy soldiers drew dull scymitars, and the crescent overcame.

"The days, which saw our martial deeds, are fled to come no


A warrior monarch rules thee now, and we give the battle


Abencerrage wakes not, when the battle trumpets call, And Abderame sleeps in death, beside th' Alhambra's wall.

"I leave to thee, my curse, proud Spain! a curse upon thy


Thou shalt be the land of dastard souls, a nursery of crime; And yet, as if to mock her sons, and nake their dark doom


No land shall boast more glorious skies, than the lovely land I


"Thy kings shall wear no royal type, save a diadem alone, And their sovereignty by cruelty and a withering eye be


'T were waste of time to speak my curse; for, Spain, thy

sons shall see,

That magic can invoke no fiend, worse than thy kings will be.

"And that blind faith, thou holdcst from the Prophet of the Cross,

A faith thy children have profaned, and its better doctrines


By the lords that faith shall give thee, not less shalt thou be


Because they grasp a crucifix, instead of spear and sword.

"Bright eyes are in thy land, Spain, and thy virgins want no charms,

But thou art cursed to know no truth in either heart or arms; Their bosoms shall no pillow be, for aught is kind or brave, But lull in mere illicit love, the sensual priest and slave.

"Thy sway shall reach to distant lands, shall yield thee gold and gem,

But a burning and a bloody sword, shall thy sceptre be o'er


Till vengeance meet the murderous bands, from thine accursed shore,

And give them of the land they seek,-a grave of clotted


The Guadalquivir's banks shall be divested of their pride,

The castles of our valiant race deck no more the mountain


And Ruin's mouldering hand shall sweep to Spain's remotest shore,

And all her fertile regions weep the exile of the Moor.


I HEARD the Spirit of a Mountain
Discoursing with a lowland Fay.
They sat beside a prattling fountain,
Just ere the cock proclaim'd the day.
The Mountain Spirit bears a pine,
Sere neighbor to an iron mine—

His locks the rock-moss gray.
The little urchin shakes a vine,
Whereon the rich black clusters shine,
And carols he a lay,

Which bids his mountain listeners note
The joys that o'er the valley float.


"I laugh to think thou wilt compare
Thy mountain with our lowland air;
Thy barren rocks, and leafless pines
To blossom'd trees, and laden vines;

Thy crags, where nought but eagles dwell,
To shady groves where thrushes twitter;
Thy bowers unsought of those who tell
Soft secrets when the moonbeams glitter.
Seest thou yon curling cloud of mist,
A rural dwelling half concealing?
There lives one, innocently kiss'd

Of lips whose sweets are past revealing— A gentle girl who gave her hand To a poor youth, and ne'er repines For the proud palace, and broad land, But finds love richer than the mines.

Thou canst not have the warbling rill,
The village spire, and mossy mill,
And hoary oaks, and nodding firs,
And aspin with a breath that stirs ;
And lowing herds and fleecy flocks
Are strangers to thy clime of rocks.”

I heard the Spirit of mid air

Say to this little lowland Fay,
"Your hills are green, and valleys fair,
Your rivers gently well away;
But meads and valleys lovelier glow,
And gentler seems the river's flow,
Seen from the mountains high.
Oh! could you see beyond the girth
Which circumscribes this narrow earth,
What splendors for your eye!

From eve to morn we nothing do
But gaze upon the realms of blue

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