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 16th 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.

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, unchang'd :-though some from earth

Are music parted, and the tones of mirth

Wild, 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
In the grey stillness of the summer morn,

They wander by when heavy flowers are closing,

And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born; Ev'n as a fount's remember'd gushings burst

On the parch'd traveller in his hour of thirst,

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

A yearning heart within me to the grave.

I am of those o'er whom a breath of air

Just darkening in its course the lake's bright wave,

power

And sighing through the feathery canes1—hath 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,
Your graves all smiling in the sunshine clear,
Save one!—a blue, lone, distant main is sweeping
High o'er one gentle head-ye rest not here!—
"Tis not the olive, with a whisper swaying,

Not thy low ripplings, glassy water, playing

Through my own chesnut groves, which fill mine ear; But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell,

And for their birth-place moan, as moans the ocean-shell.a

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,
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.