With accordant steps, or gathering
Forest fruit with social hands;

Or whispering like two reeds that in the cold moonbeam

Bend with the breeze their heads, beside a crystal stream.

On a friendly deck reposing,

They at length for Venice steer;

There, when they had closed their voyage,
One, who daily on the pier

Watch'd for tidings from the east, beheld his lord, Fell down and clasp'd his knees for joy, not uttering word.

Mutual was the sudden transport;
Breathless questions follow'd fast,
Years contracting to a moment,
Each word greedier than the last;

Hie thee to the countess, friend! return with speed,

And of this stranger speak by whom her lord was freed.

"Say that I, who might have languish'd,
Droop'd, and pined till life was spent,
Now before the gates of Stolberg
My deliverer would present

For a crowning recompense, the precious grace
Of her who in my heart still holds her ancient place.

"Make it known that my companion
Is of royal Eastern blood,
Thirsting after all perfection,

Innocent, and meek, and good,

Though with misbelievers bred; but that dark night Will Holy Church disperse by beams of gospel light."

Swiftly went that gray-hair'd servant,
Soon return'd a trusty page
Charged with greetings, benedictions,
Thanks and praises, each a gage

For a sunny thought to cheer the stranger's way,
Her virtuous scruples to remove, her fears allay.

Fancy (while, to banners floating
High on Stolberg's castle walls,
Deafening noise of welcome mounted,
Trumpets, drums, and atabols)

The devout embraces still, while such tears fell
As made a meeting seem most like a dear farewell.

Through a haze of human nature,
Glorified by heavenly light,

Look'd the beautiful deliverer

On that overpowering sight,

While across her virgin cheek pure blushes stray'd,
For every terder sacrifice her heart had made.

On the ground the weeping countess
Knelt, and kiss'd the stranger's hand;
Act of soul-devoted homage,

Pledge of an eternal band:

Nor did aught of future days that kiss belie,
Which, with a generous shout, the crowd did ratify.

Constant to the fair Armenian,
Gentle pleasures round her moved,
Like a tutelary spirit

Reverenced, like a sister loved.

Christian meekness smooth'd for all the path of life, Who loving most, should wiseliest love, their only strife.

Mute memento of that union

In a Saxon church survives,

Where a cross-legg'd knight lies sculptured
As between two wedded wives-

Figures with armorial signs of race and birth,
And the vain rank the pilgrims bore while yet on
earth.

THE SOMNAMBULIST.

LIST, ye who pass by Lyulph's tower*
At eve; how softly then

Doth Aira force, that torrent hoarse,
Speak from the woody glen!
Fit music for a solemn vale!

And holier seems the ground
To him who catches on the gale
The spirit of a mournful tale,
Embodied in the sound.

Not far from that fair site whereon
The pleasure house is rear'd,
As story says, in antique days,

A stern-brow'd house appear'd;
Foil to a jewel rich in light,

There set, and guarded well;
Cage for a bird of plumage bright,
Sweet-voiced, nor wishing for a flight
Beyond her native dell.

To win this bright bird from her cage,
To make this gem their own,
Came barons bold, witt. store of gold,
And knights of high renown;
But one she prized, and only one;

Sir Eglamore was he;

Full happy season, when was known,
Ye dales and hills! to you alone
Their mutual loyalty-

Known chiefly, Aira! to thy glen,

Thy brook, and bowers of holly; Where passion caught what nature taught, That all but love is folly;

Where fact with fancy stoop'd to play,

Doubt came not, nor regret;

To trouble hours that wing'd their way,
As if through an immortal day

Whose sun could never set.

But in old times love dwelt not long
Sequester'd with repose;

Best throve the fire of chaste desire,
Faun'd by the breath of foes.
"A conquering lance is beauty's test,

And proves the lover true;"
So spake Sir Eglamore, and press'd
The drooping Emma to his breast,
And look'd a blind adieu.

A pleasure house built by the late Duke of Norfolk upon the banks of Ullswater. Force is the word used in the Lake District for waterfall.

They parted. Well with him it fared
Through wide-spread regions errant;
A knight of proof in love's behoof,

The thirst of fame his warrant:
And she her happiness can build

On woman's quiet hours;

Though faint, compared with spear and shield, The solace beads and masses yield,

And needle-work and flowers.

Yet blest was Emma when she heard

Her champion's praise recounted;

Though brain would swim, and eyes grows dim,

And high her blushes mounted;
Or when a bold heroic lay

She warbled from full heart;
Delightful blossoms for the May
Of absence! but they will not stay,

Born only to depart.

Hope wanes with her, while lustre fills
Whatever path he chooses;
As if his orb, that owns no curb,

Received the light hers loses.

He comes not back; an ampler space
Requires for nobler deeds;

He ranges on from place to place,
Till of his doings is no trace

But what her fancy breeds.

His fame may spread, but in the past
Her spirit finds its centre;
Clear sight she has of what he was,

And that would now content her. "Still is he my devoted knight?"

The tear in answer flows;

Month falls on month with heavier weight;
Day sickens round her, and the night
Is empty of repose.

In sleep she sometimes walk'd abroad,

Deep sighs with quick words blending,
Like that pale queen whose hands are seen
With fancied spots contending;
But she is innocent of blood,-

The moon is not more pure

That shines aloft, while through the wood
She thrids her way, the sounding flood

Her melancholy lure!

While 'mid the fern-brake sleeps the doe,
And owls alone are waking,

In white array'd, glides on the maid,
The downward pathway taking,
That leads her to the torrent's side
And to a holly bower;

By whom on this still night descried?
By whom in that lone place espied?
By thee, Sir Eglamore!

A wandering ghost, so thinks the knight,
His coming step has thwarted,
Beneath the boughs that heard their vows,
Within whose shade they parted.

Hush, hush, the busy sleeper see!

Perplex'd her fingers seem,

As if they from the holly tree
Green twigs would pluck, as rapidly
Flung from her to the stream.

What means the spectre? Why intent
To violate the tree,

Thought Eglamore, by which I swore
Unfading constancy?

Here am I, and to-morrow's sun,
To her I left, shall prove
That bliss is ne'er so surely won
As when a circuit has been run
Of valour, truth, and love.

So from the spot whereon he stood,
He moved with stealthy pace;
And, drawing nigh, with his living eye,

He recognised the face;

And whispers caught, and speeches small,
Some to the green-leaved tree,
Some mutter'd to the torrent-fall,-
"Roar on, and bring him with thy call;
I heard, and so may he!"

Soul-shatter'd was the knight, nor knew
If Emma's ghost it were,

Or boding shade, or if the maid
Her very self stood there.

He touch'd, what follow'd who shall tell?
The soft touch snapp'd the thread

Of slumber-shrieking, back she fell,
And the stream whirl'd her down the dell
Along its foaming bed.

In plunged the knight! when on firm ground
The rescued maiden lay,

Her eyes grew bright with blissful light,

Confusion pass'd away;

She heard, ere to the throne of grace

Her faithful spirit flew,

His voice; beheld his speaking face,
And, dying, from his own embrace,
She felt that he was true.

So was he reconciled to life;

Brief words may speak the rest;
Within the dell he built a cell,

And there was sorrow's guest;
In hermit's weeds repose he found.
From vain temptations free;
Beside the torrent dwelling-bound
By one deep heart-controlling sound,
And awed to piety.

Wild stream of Aira, hold thy course,
Nor fear memorial lays,

Where clouds that spread in solemn shade
Are edged with golden rays!
Dear art thou to the light of heaven,

Though minister of sorrow;
Sweet is thy voice at pensive even ;
And thou, in lover's hearts forgiven,

Shall take thy place with Yarrow!

THE MISSIONARY.

SCENE.-South America.

Characters.-VALDIVIA, Commander of the Spanish armies-LAUTARO, his page, a native of Chili-ANSELMO, the missionary-INDIANA, his adopted daughter, wife of

Lautaro-ZARINEL, the wandering minstrel.

Indians. — ATTACAPAC, father of Lautaro-OLOLA, his daughter, sister of Lautaro-CAUPOLICAN, chief of the

Indians-INDIAN WARRIORS.

The chief event of the poem turns upon the conduct of Lautaro; but as the Missionary acts so distinguished a part, and as the whole of the moral depends upon him, it was thought better to retain the title which was originally given to the poem.

INTRODUCTION.

WHEN o'er th' Atlantic wild, rock'd by the blast,
Sad Lusitania's exiled sovereign pass'd,
Reft of her pomp, from her paternal throne
Cast forth, and wandering to a clime unknown,
To seek a refuge on that distant shore,
That once her country's legions dyed with gore;
Sudden, methought, high-towering o'er the flood,
Hesperian world! thy mighty Genius stood;
Where spread, from cape to cape, from bay to bay,
Serenely blue, the vast Pacific lay;
And the huge Cordilleras, to the skies,
With all their burning summits* seem'd to rise.
Then the stern spirit spoke, and to his voice
The waves and woods replied "Mountains, re-
joice!

Thou solitary sea, whose billows sweep
The margin of my forests, dark and deep,
Rejoice! the hour is come: the mortal blow,
That smote the golden shrines of Mexico,
In Europe is avenged! and thou, proud Spain,
Now hostile hosts insult thy own domain;
Now fate, vindictive, rolls, with refluent flood,
Back on thy shores the tide of human blood.
Think of my murder'd millions of the cries
That once I heard from all my kingdoms rise;
Of famine's feeble plaint, of slavery's tear;
Think, too, if valour, freedom, fame, be dear,—
How my Antarctic sons,† undaunted, stood,
Exacting groan for groan, and blood for blood;
And shouted, (may the sounds be hail'd by thee!)

TYRANTS, THE VIRTUOUS AND THE BRAVE ARE
FREE!"

CANTO I.

ARGUMENT.

One day and part of night.

Valley in the Andes-Old Indian warrior-Loss of his son and daughter.

BENEATH aërial cliffs and glittering snows,
The rush-roof of an aged warrior rose,
Chief of the mountain tribes: high overhead
The Andes, wild and desolate, were spread,
Where cold Sierras shot their icy spires,

A glen beneath-a lonely spot of restHung, starce discover'd, like an eagle's nest.

Summer was in its prime: the parrot-flocks
Darken'd the passing sunshine on the rocks;
The chrysomel and purple butterfly,†
Amid the clear blue light, are wandering by;
The humming-bird, along the myrtle bowers,
With twinkling wing, is spinning o'er the flowers,
The woodpecker is heard with busy bill,
The mock-bird sings-and all beside is still.
And look! the cataract that bursts so high,
As not to mar the deep tranquillity,
The tumult of its dashing fall suspends,
And, stealing drop by drop, in mist descends;
Through whose illumined spray and sprinkling
dews,

Shine to the adverse sun the broken rainbow hues.
Checkering with partial shade the beams of noon,
And arching the gray rock with wild festoon,
Here, its gay net-work and fantastic twine,
The purple cogult threads from pine to pine,
Dips its long tendrils in the stream beneath.
And oft, as the fresh airs of morning breathe,

There, through the trunks, with moss and lichens white,

The sunshine darts its interrupted light,
And, mid the cedar's darksome boughs, illumes,
With instant touch, the Lori's scarlet plumes.

So smiles the scene;-but can its smiles impart
Aught to console yon mourning warrior's heart?
He heeds not now, when beautifully bright,
The humming-bird is circling in his sight;
Nor e'en, above his head, when air is still,
Hears the green woodpecker's resounding bill
But gazing on the rocks and mountain wild,
Rock after rock, in glittering masses piled
To the volcano's cone, that shoots so high
Gray smoke whose column stains the cloudless sky,
He cries, "O! if thy spirit yet be fled
To the pale kingdoms of the shadowy dead,—
In yonder tract of purest light above,
Dear long-lost object of a father's love,
Dost thou abide? or like a shadow come,
Circling the scenes of thy remember'd home,
And passing with the breeze? or, in the beam
Of evening, light the desert mountain stream?

Or at deep midnight are thine accents heard,
In the sad notes of that melodious bird,§
Which, as we listen with mysterious dread,
Brings tidings from our friends and fathers dead?

* The crysomela is a beautiful insect, of which the young women of Chili make necklaces.

†The parrot butterfly, peculiar to this part of America, the largest and most brilliant of its kind-Papilio peit

lacus.

A most beautiful climbing plant. The vine is of the size of packthread: it climbs on the trees without attaching itself to them: when it reaches the top, it descends perpendicularly; and as it continues to grow, it extends itself from tree to tree, until it offers to the eye a confused tissue, exhibiting some resemblance to the rigging of a

Range of volcanoes on the summits of the Andes. + The natives of Chili, who were never subdued. A volcano in Chili.

"But because I cannot describe all the American birds, which differ not a little from ours, not only in kind, but also in variety of colour, as rose-colour, red, violet, white, ash-colour, purple, &c.; I will at length describe one, which the barbarians so observe and esteem, that