From man's?—I will rejoice!-my soaring soul Now hath redeem'd her birthright of the day, And won, through clouds, to Him, her own unfetter'd way!

VIII.

And thou, my boy! that silent at my knee
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes,
Fill'd with the love of childhood, which I see
Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise;
Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast,
When I have check'd its throbs to give thee rest,
Mine own! whose young thoughts fresh before me
rise!

Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer, And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air?

IX.

Why should I weep on thy bright head, my boy? Within thy fathers' halls thou wilt not dwell, Nor lift their banner, with a warrior's joy, Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell For Spain of old.-Yet what if rolling waves Have borne us far from our ancestral graves? Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebel, As mine hath done; nor bear what I have borne, Casting in falsehood's mould th' indignant brow of

scorn.

X.

This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child!
I have not sorrow'd, struggled, lived in vain-
Hear me magnificent and ancient wild;
And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main,

As deep meets deep; and forests, whose dim shade The flood's voice, and the wind's, by swells pervade; Hear me !-'tis well to die, and not complain, Yet there are hours when the charged heart must speak,

E'en in the desert's ear to pour itself, or break!

XI.

I see an oak before me: (3) it hath been

The crown'd one of the woods; and might have flung

Its hundred arms to heaven, still freshly green, But a wild vine around the stem hath clung, From branch to branch close wreaths of bondage throwing,

Till the proud tree, before no tempest bowing, Hath shrunk and died those serpent-folds among. Alas! alas! what is it that I see?

An image of man's mind, land of my sires, with thee!.

XII.

Yet art thou lovely!-Song is on thy hills-
Oh, sweet and mournful melodies of Spain,
That lull'd my boyhood, how your memory thrills
The exile's heart with sudden-wakening pain!
Your sounds are on the rocks:-That I might hear
Once more the music of the mountaineer!

And from the sunny vales the shepherd's strain
Floats out, and fills the solitary place

With the old tuneful names of Spain's heroic race.

XIII.

But there was silence one bright, golden day, Through my own pine-hung mountains. Clear, yet lone,

In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay,
And from the fields the peasant's voice was gone;
And the red grapes untrodden strew'd the ground,
And the free flocks, untended, roam'd around:-
Where was the pastor?- where the pipe's wild
tone?

Music and mirth were hush'd the hills among, While to the city's gates each hamlet pour'd its throng.

XIV.

Silence upon the mountains! But within The city's gate a rush, a press, a swell Of multitudes, their torrent way to win; And heavy boomings of a dull deep bell, A dead pause following each-like that which parts The dash of billows, holding breathless hearts Fast in the hush of fear-knell after knell ; And sounds of thickening steps, like thunder-rain That plashes on the roof of some vast echoing fane!

XV.

What pageant's hour approach'd? The sullen gate Of a strong ancient prison-house was thrown Back to the day. And who, in mournful state, Came forth, led slowly o'er its threshold-stone? They that had learn'd, in cells of secret gloom, How sunshine is forgotten! They, to whom

The very features of mankind were grown

Things that bewilder'd! O'er their dazzled sight They lifted their wan hands, and cower'd before the light!

XVI.

To this, man brings his brother! Some were there,
Who, with their desolation, had entwined
Fierce strength, and girt the sternness of despair
Fast round their bosoms, even as warriors bind
The breastplate on for fight; but brow and cheek
Seem'd theirs a torturing panoply to speak!

And there were some, from whom the very mind Had been wrung out:-they smiled-oh! startling smile,

Whence man's high soul is fled! Where doth it sleep the while?

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