XVII.

But onward moved the melancholy train,
For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die.
This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain-
Heaven's offering from the land of chivalry!
Through thousands, thousands of their race they
moved-

Oh! how unlike all others !—the beloved,

The free, the proud, the beautiful! whose eye Grew fix'd before them, while a people's breath Was hush'd, and its one soul bound in the thought of death!

XVIII.

It might be that, amidst the countless throng, There swell'd some heart with pity's weight oppress'd,

For the wide stream of human love is strong; And woman, on whose fond and faithful breast Childhood is rear'd, and at whose knee the sigh Of its first prayer is breathed, she, too, was nigh. But life is dear, and the free footstep bless'd, And home a sunny place, where each may fill Some eye with glistening smiles, and therefore all were still.

XIX.

All still,-youth, courage, strength!—a winter laid,

A chain of palsy cast, on might and mind!

Still, as at noon a southern forest's shade

They stood, those breathless masses of mankind;

Still, as a frozen torrent !—but the wave Soon leaps to foaming freedom-they, the brave, Endured-they saw the martyr's place assign'd In the red flames-whence is the withering spell That numbs each human pulse?—they saw, and thought it well.

XX.

And I, too, thought it well! That very morn From a far land I came, yet round me clung The spirit of my own. No hand had torn With a strong grasp away the veil which hung Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw Dimly, as through a glass. In silent awe

I watch'd the fearful rites; and if there sprung One rebel feeling from its deep founts up, Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt's own poisoncup.

XXI.

But I was waken'd as the dreamers waken

Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are taken,

And they must battle till their blood is shed

On their own threshold-floor. A path for light Through my torn breast was shatter'd by the might

Of the swift thunder-stroke—and freedom's tread Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain, Making the blighted place all green with life again.

XXII.

Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass

Of cloud, o'ersweeping, without wind, the sky,
Dream-like I saw the sad procession pass,
And mark'd its victims with a tearless eye.
They moved before me but as pictures, wrought
Each to reveal some secret of man's thought,
On the sharp edge of sad mortality,

Till in his place came one-oh! could it be? My friend, my heart's first friend!—and did I gaze on thee?

XXIII.

On thee with whom in boyhood I had play'd,
At the grape-gatherings, by my native streams;
And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid
Bare, as to Heaven's, its glowing world of dreams;
And by whose side 'midst warriors I had stood,
And in whose helm was brought-oh! earn'd with
blood!

The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams Smote on my fever'd brow!—Ay, years had pass'd, Severing our paths, brave friend!—and thus we met at last!

XXIV.

I see it still—the lofty mien thou borest—
On thy pale forehead sat a sense of power!
The very look that once thou brightly worest,
Cheering me onward through a fearful hour,
When we were girt by Indian bow and spear,
'Midst the white Andes-even as mountain deer,

Hemm'd in our camp-but through the javelin shower

We rent our way, a tempest of despair!

And thou hadst thou but died with thy true brethren there!

XXV.

I call the fond wish back-for thou hast perish'd More nobly far, my Alvar!-making known The might of truth; and be thy memory cherish'd With theirs, the thousands that around her throne Have pour'd their lives out smiling, in that doom Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb!Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown, And with the wind their spirit shall be spread, Filling man's heart and home with records of the dead.

XXVI.

Thou Searcher of the soul! in whose dread sight Not the bold guilt alone that mocks the skies, But the scarce-own'd, unwhisper'd thought of night, As a thing written with the sunbeam lies;

Thou know'st-whose eye through shade and depth

can see,

That this man's crime was but to worship thee, Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, The call'd of yore—wont by the Saviour's side On the dim Olive-Mount to pray at eventide.

XXVII.

For the strong spirit will at times awake,
Piercing the mists that wrap her clay abode;

And, born of thee, she may not always take Earth's accents for the oracles of God; And even for this-O dust, whose mask is power! Reed, that would'st be a scourge thy little hour! Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod, And therefore thou destroyest!—where were flown Our hopes, if man were left to man's decree alone?

XXVIII.

But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze
On him, my friend; while that swift moment threw
A sudden freshness back on vanish'd days,
Like water-drops on some dim picture's hue;
Calling the proud time up, when first I stood
Where banners floated, and my heart's quick blood
Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew,

And he his sword was like a brother's worn, That watches through the field his mother's youngest born.

XXIX.

But a lance met me in that day's career,
Senseless I lay amidst th' o'ersweeping fight,
Wak'ning at last-how full, how strangely clear,
That scene on memory flash'd!—the shivery light,
Moonlight, on broken shields-the plain of slaugh-

ter,

The fountain-side-the low sweet sound of water

And Alvar bending o'er me— -from the night Covering me with his mantle !—all the past Flow'd back-my soul's far chords all answer'd to the blast.