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IZ RAM, A MEXICAN TALE.

THE CIRCUMSTANCES OF THE FOLLOWING STORY MAY BE SUPPOSED TO HAVE OCCURRED A CONSIDERABLE TIME PREVIOUS TO THE GREAT STRUGGLE

FOR INDEPENDENCE IN SOUTH AMERICA.

To HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF BEAUFORT, WHOSE HIGH RANK AND EXALTED STATION Tend MoRE CoNSPICUOUSLY TO DISPLAY THose ENDowMENTs of CHRISTIAN HUMILITY, A N D THAT ABUNDANT FRUIT OF GOOD WORKs,

o WHICH,
sPR IN GIN G FR o M FA. It H,
BY THEIR EXAMPLE WIN TO OBEDIENCE,
THIS WOLUME
is Most Respectfully INscRIBED
by H E R G R A C E 's

very GRATEFUL HUMBLE servaNT,

THE AUTHOR.

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“YE verdant shades, that gently bow
Your welcome o'er this throbbing brow,
And soft beneath my burning tread
In flowery moss a carpet spread,
Joyous I hail sweet nature's throne,
Untainted by the breath of men;
These echoes know no mortal tone,
No step unhallowed prints the glen;
All silent, save the feathery throat,
Warbling its wild untutored note,
The rustling leaf, and fluttering wing,
And murmurs of this cooling spring,
Whose silver tides their freshness roll,
Like mercy to a parching soul.”
So spake the pilgrim youth, who strayed
To where those limpid waters played;
Laid his light musquet on the bank,
Bowed with uncovered head, and drank.

Ere from the stream his lip can part,
A savage growl, resounding nigh,
Thrills through the traveller's beating heart;
Starting he views the blood-shot eye:
The jaguar in his wrath is there,
The red ball rolls its fiery glare,
But threats not him:-beneath the shade
The victim in repose is laid;
Native his garb,-while zephyr sighed
O'er his young cheek, and fanned his rest,
Waving the ringlet's glossy pride,
And sporting with the lightsome vest,
Death from his ambush marked the prey;
A moment—and he wakes no more :
The murderer bares, in dread array,
Those grinding fangs to quaff his gore;
Type of the lurking foes, who scan
The heedless hour of dreaming man!
But help is nigh—with purpose true,
Swift to its aim, a death-shot flew ;
The howling monster ploughs the wood,
And tracks it with a stream of blood.

Upstarts the sleeper, lightnings flash
Beneath the long and sable lash:
“Iberian blood-hound ! darest thou creep,
Thou soul of crime, on sacred sleep?”
The glittering dirk is brandished high,
But all unmoved the pilgrim stands:
“No blood-hound, no Iberian I,
My breath was drawn from fairer lands,
Where treachery lurks not: lo, the deed
That succoured thee at utmost need,
Yet moves thine ire.” The fact was plain,
The branches rent, the crimson stain,
Dying the spot where couched the foe,
And roots uptorn, their comment show.

A rapid glance that scene surveys,
Then meets the traveller's stedfast gaze.
“Too scant the grace to bid thee live,
Stranger, I did the wrong—forgive:
Well hast thou 'scaped my knife; the meed
Is to thy birth, and not thy deed.
I ween this bold exploit was shown
Less for my safety than thine own.
Yet what thy nation? quickly tell;
This alien tongue of pompous Spain,
Detested accent! suits thee well;
Beware thou dally not—'twere vain.”
“Thy speech is rude; I answer not
From cold compulsive fear; I know
The galling chain, the bitter lot,
That bids thy country writhe in woe:
Britons can bend in pitying love,
Where threats nor daunt, nor perils move.”

“And art thou of that island race 7
Methinks their lineaments I trace;
Thy bearing lacks the fiendish pride
Of arrogance with craft allied:
I like thee well—thou shalt with me ;-
Yet ere we wend in peace along,
Endure one test in courtesy, -
—Suspicion is the child of wrong—
Somewhat of English speech I know.”
The youth complies with willing smile,

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