LXVIII. We have been wanderers since those days of woe, And o'er the Andes-torrents borne his form, Where our frail bridge hath quiver'd 'midst the storm.20 -But there the war-notes of my country rung, And, smitten deep of Heaven and man, I fled To hide in shades unpierced a mark'd and weary head. LXIX. But he went on in gladness-that fair child! Of Memory, fleeting fast; and then his play On whose lone margin we have heard at morn, From the mysterious rocks, the sunrise-music borne.22 LXX. So like a spirit's voice! a harping tone, Such as might reach us from a world unknown, Once more earth's breezy sounds, her foliage fann'd, And turn'd to seek the wilds of the red hunter's land. LXXI. And we have won a bower of refuge now, Earth's haunted dreams from their free solitude; Gone where affection's cup hath lost the taste of tears. LXXII. I see a star-eve's first-born!-in whose train Past scenes, words, looks, come back The arrowy spire Rests dark and still amidst a heaven of fire; Is touch'd to answer; its most secret tone Drawn from each tree, for each hath whispers all its own. LXXIII. And hark! another murmur on the air, Not of the hidden rills, or quivering shades! Their stems, till each is made a marvel to behold. LXXIV. Gorgeous, yet full of gloom!-In such an hour, Wanders through Spain, from each grey convent's tower O'er shining rivers pour'd, and olive-dells, And hamlet, round my home and I am here, : Living again through all my life's farewells, In these vast woods, where farewell ne'er was spoken, And sole I lift to Heaven a sad heart-yet unbroken! LXXV. In such an hour are told the hermit's beads; -We, too, will pray; nor yet unheard, my child! LXXVI. At eve?-oh! through all hours!-From dark dreams oft Awakening, I look forth and learn the might A lonely world!-ev'n fearful to man's thought, But for His presence felt, whom here my soul hath sought. |