IV. Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping, Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing Through my own chesnut groves, which fill mine ear; And for their birth-place moan, as moans the ocean-shell 2. V. Peace! I will dash these fond regrets to earth, Ev'n as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain From his strong pinion. Thou that gav'st me birth, A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe-thy gifts are these. VI. A blighted name!I hear the winds of morn- Lend it no tone: His wide savannahs laving, It is not murmur'd by the joyous river! What part hath mortal name, where God alone Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is known? VII. Is it not much that I may worship Him, With nought my spirit's breathings to control, And feel His presence in the vast, and dim, And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll From the far cataracts?-Shall I not rejoice That I have learn'd at last to know His voice From man's?--I will rejoice!-my soaring soul Now hath redeem'd her birth-right of the day, And won, through clouds, to Him, her own unfetter'd way! VIII. And thou, my boy! that silent at my knee Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise ; And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air? IX. Why should I weep on thy bright head, my boy? As mine hath done; nor bear what I have borne, Casting in falsehood's mould th' indignant brow of scorn. This shall not be thy lot, my X. blessed child! I have not sorrow'd, struggled, liv'd in vain- 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 charg'd heart must speak, Ev'n in the desert's ear to pour itself, or break! XI. I see an oak before me3, 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- 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, And from the fields the peasant's voice was gone; Where was the pastor?-where the pipe's wild tone? While to the city's gates each hamlet pour'd its throng. |