THE FOREST SANCTUARY. Ihr Plätze aller meiner stillen freuden, * So ist des geistes ruf an mich ergangen, Long time against oppression have I fought, Have bled and suffer'd bonds. Remorse, a Tragedy. (9) The following Poem is intended to describe the mental conflicts, as well as outward sufferings, of a Spaniard, who, flying from the religious persecutions of his own country, in the sixteenth century, takes refuge, with his child, in a North American forest. The story is supposed to be related by himself, amidst the wilderness which has afforded him an asylum. (10) THE FOREST SANCTUARY. I. THE Voices of my home!-I hear them still! They have been with me through the dreamy night The blessed household voices, wont to fill My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight! I hear them still, unchanged:-though some from earth Are music parted, and the tones of mirthWild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright! Have died in others,-yet to me they come, Singing of boyhood back-the voices of my home! II. They call me through this hush of woods reposing, Even as a fount's remember'd gushings burst E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till worn By quenchless longings, to my soul I say— Oh! for the dove's swift wings, that I might flee away, III. And find mine ark!-yet whither?-I must bear I am of those o'er whom a breath of air- To call up shadows, in the silent hour, From the dim past, as from a wizard's cave!— So must it be!-These skies above me spread, Are they my own soft skies?-Ye rest not here, my dead! IV. Ye far amidst the southern flowers lie sleeping, ear; But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, And for their birthplace moan, as moans the oceanshell. (2) V. Peace!-I will dash these fond regrets to earth, Even as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain From his strong pinion. Thou that gavest me birth, And lineage, and once home,-my native Spain ! My own bright land-my father's land-my child's! What hath thy son brought from thee to the wilds? He hath brought marks of torture and the chain, Traces of things which pass not as a breeze; A blighted name, dark thoughts, wrath, woe,-thy gifts are these! VI. A blighted name!—I hear the winds of morn— 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, |