The father thought upon his child,

And hasted to return;

But of that lovely isle, alas!

No trace could he discern.

Anxious, and sad, and sore perplex'd,
He wander'd here and there,
Till childish accents clear and sweet
Rang through the thicken'd air.

It was his darling's well-known voice,
Exclaiming, "Father dear,

You cannot see me through the mist; But steer straight on! I'm here!" The parent to his joyful heart

Hath press'd his child once more, And safely through the blinding fog Their bark has reach'd the shore.

But in a fortnight from that day,
Tears, briny tears, were shed;
The mourners went about the streets;
The fair young boy was dead.

They laid the little lifeless form
Beneath the verdant sod,

And thought upon the darling one
Gone home to dwell with God.

THE SPANISH GIPSY-BOY.

But when that mourning parent stands

Beside the tiny grave,

He hears those accents silver-sweet

Once heard across the wave.

From heaven above they seem to fall;

"Oh! father, father dear!

Earth's mists obscure me from thy sight;
But steer straight on! I'm here!"

69

SUNDAY AT HOME.

THE SPANISH GIPSY-BOY.
(TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.)

FAIR lovely Spain, to southward lying!
Spain, my native home-land dear!
Where zephyr, through the chestnuts sighing,
Sounds o'er Ebro's waters clear!

'Tis there the roseate almonds bloom,
And the clustering grapes invite;

The roses shed a rich perfume,

And the moonlight sparkles bright.

Here with my lute I wander sadly,
Pacing slow from door to door;
No pitying eyes e'er bend upon me,
Though my heart is faint and sore.

Grudgingly their alms they proffer;
Harshly bid me not annoy.
Ah! no soul that I encounter
Understands the nut-brown boy.

This darksome fog, like a hanging pall,
Wraps in gloom your leaden skies,
Till my merriest songs are one and all
Vocal only with my sighs.

In every melody and strain

One thrilling note swells highest,—
Might I but see my home again,
Of sunny spots the brightest!

When at harvest-home and village-fairs
The circling dance tripp'd lightly,
I play'd my best and my liveliest airs,
Stamping my foot so deftly;

Still as the couples whirl'd around

In the evening's glimmering twilight,
In tears, hot tears, my cheeks were drown'd,
Which fast obscured my eye-sight.

And as on they danced, I inly thought
Of my country's rural fêtes,

When our every heart with joy was fraught 'Neath the shade of leafy dates;

ALEXANDER SELKIRK.

Each swift-wing'd foot flew round in glee,
As the soft guitar was sounded,
And the village lads and lasses free
In the wild Fandango bounded.

Oh! the throbbings of the restless heart,
I can ne'er repress them more;
For with every other bliss I'd part
To regain my native shore.
Away to the South! away to Spain!
To the sunshine of the past!
There in a chestnut-shadow'd plain,
Will I make my grave at last!

S. II.

71

VERSES

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ.

I AM monarch of all I

survey,

My right there is none to dispute; From the centre all round to the sea,

I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O Solitude, where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,

Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech,
I start at the sound of my own.
The beasts, that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestow'd upon man,
Oh, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage

In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word! More precious than silver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford. But the sound of the church-going bell These valleys and rocks never heard, Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a Sabbath appear'd.