صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

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.

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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 throne.

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 past,


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

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

o'er ;

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 known.

"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 holdest from the Prophet of the Cross,

A faith thy children have profaned, and its better doctrines lost;

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 them,

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

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

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 cre 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

And wonder at the sky;

While the bright stars of endless spheres
Measure the rapid dance of years.

"We have the sunbeams while ye lay
In darkness in the vale below;
We see proud navies plough their way
Along the deep in paths of snow.
The clime of hoary rocks our choice,
Companioned with the thunder's voice,
The lightning, and the bow.
Nature's sublimity's aloft,

Her littleness below.

Ye have the delicate and soft,
But we the goodlier show.

"When o'er yon lowland fell disease
Breathes his stern curse, and thousands fall;
When with a broken heart ye wreathe
The bridal favor with the pall,

Then come the shuddering crowd away

From the green vales ye praise so high,
And seek, amidst my turrets gray,
A healthful and salubrious sky.

"We are the keepers of the free,

Who shun the lands which tyrants sway.
He who would keep unbent his knee
To such, should in the mountains stay.
He well deserves a realm of rocks;
We give it him, the crag that blocks
The despot's feet away-

And he, redeem'd from slavery thus,
Shall live and feel like one of us."

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