"Where yonder rock the aged cedars shade, There shall my father's bones in peace be laid."

Beneath the cedars' shade they dug the ground: The small and sad communion gather'd round. Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel,

And broke the spear, and cried, "Farewell!-farewell!"
Lautaro hid his face, and sigh'd "Adieu!"

As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw.
The little child, that to its mother clung,
With sidelong looks, that on her garment hung,
Listen'd, half-shrinking, as with awe profound,
And dropt its flow'rs, unconscious, on the ground.
The Alpaca, grown old, and almost wild,
Which poor Olola cherish'd when a child,
Came from the mountains, and, with earnest gaze,
Seem'd as rememb'ring those departed days,
When his tall neck he bent, with aspect bland,
And lick'd, in silence, the caressing hand!

And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclin'd,

The Warrior's relics, dust to dust, consign'd
With Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee,
"ETERNAM PACEM DONA, DOMINE."

Then, rising up, he clos'd the holy book,

And lifting in the beam his lighted look,

(The cross, with meekness, folded on his breast,)— "Here, too," he cried, "my bones in peace shall rest! Few years remain to me, and never more

Shall I behold, O Spain, thy distant shore!

Here lay my bones, that the same tree may wave
O'er the poor CHRISTIAN'S and the INDIAN'S grave.
Then may it (when the sons of future days
Shall hear our tale, and on the hillock gaze)—

Then may it teach, that charity should bind,
Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankind

The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hear
Thy voice, O CHRIST! and drop the slaught'ring spear."

SUNRISE.

'Tis dawn-the distant Andes' rocky spires,
One after one, have caught the orient fires.
Where the dun condor shoots his upward flight,
His wings are touch'd with momentary light.
Meantime, beneath the mountains' glittering heads,
A boundless ocean of grey vapour spreads,
That o'er the champaign, stretching far below,
Moves on, in cluster'd masses, rising slow,
Till all the living landscape is display'd
In various pomp of colour, light, and shade ·
Hills, forests, rivers, lakes, and level plain,
Less'ning in sunshine to the southern main.
The Llama's fleece fumes with ascending dew;

The gem-like humming-birds their toils renew;
And see, where yonder stalks, in crimson pride,

The tall flamingo, by the river's side,
Stalks, in his richest plumage bright array'd,

With snowy neck superb, and legs of length'ning shade.

ROGERS.

THE OLD HOUSE.

MARK yon old Mansion frowning thro' the trees,
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze.
That casement, arch'd with ivy's brownest shade,
First to these eyes the light of heaven convey'd.
The mould'ring gateway shows the grass-grown court,
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleas'd, for life itself was new,
And the heart promis'd what the fancy drew.

See, through the fractur'd pediment reveal'd,
Where moss inlays the rudely sculptur'd shield,
The martin's old, hereditary nest-

Long may the ruin spare its hallow'd guest!

As jars the hinge, what sullen echoes call! Oh haste, unfold the hospitable hall! That hall, where once, in antiquated state, The chair of justice held the grave debate. Now stain'd with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung, Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung; When round yon ample board, in due degree, We sweeten'd every meal with social glee. The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest, And all was sunshine in each little breast.

'T was here we chas'd the slipper by the sound; And turn'd the blind-fold hero round and round.