THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH. [The beautiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in the southern hemisphere. The following lines are supposed to be addressed to it by a Spanish traveller in South America.] In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, Where savannahs, in boundless magnificence, spread, And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high, The far Cordilleras unite with the sky. The fir-tree waves o'er me, the fire-flies' red light With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the night; And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth, How distant my steps from the land of my birth. But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main How oft in their course o'er the oceans unknown, Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone, Hath their spirit been cheer'd by thy light, when the deep Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep! As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,' When first his bright banner of faith was unfurl'd; Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou. And to me, as I traversed the world of the west, Shine on-my own land is a far-distant spot, But thou to my thoughts art a pure-blazing shrine, 1 Constantine. THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON. I LAY upon the solemn plain, And by the funeral mound, Where those who died not there in vain Their place of sleep had found. 'Twas silent where the free blood gush'd When Persia came array'd So many a voice had there been hush'd, I slumber'd on the lonely spot I slumber'd-but my rest was not For on my dreams, that shadowy hour, They rose the chainless dead - All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power, Up from their grassy bed. 1 saw their spears, on that red field, Chased to the seas without his shield, I woke the sudden trumpet's blast From visions of our glorious past, Who doth not wake in might? TO MISS F. A. L. ON HER BIRTHDAY. WHAT wish can Friendship form for thee, Life hath no purer joy in store, Time hath no sorrow to efface; Some hearts a boding fear might own, And there are virtues oft conceal'd, But fear not thou the lesson fraught With Sorrow's chast'ning power to know; Thou need'st not thus be sternly taught, "To melt at others' woe." Then still, with heart as blest, as warm, WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF THE ALBUM OF THE SAME. WHAT first should consecrate as thine, It should be, what a loftier strain Perchance less meetly would impart; For kindness, which hath soothed the hour Long shall that fervent blessing rest On thee and thine, and, heavenwards borne, Call down such peace to soothe thy breast, As thou would'st bear to all that mourn. TO THE SAME-ON THE DEATH OF SAY not 'tis fruitless, nature's holy tear, Shed by affection o'er a parent's bier! More blest than dew on Hermon's brow that falls, Each drop to life some latent virtue calls; |