V.

Nor guess I, was that Pennsylvanian home,
With all its picturesque and balmy grace,

And fields that were a luxury to roam,

Lost on the soul that look'd from such a face!
Enthusiast of the woods! when years apace

Had bound thy lovely waist with woman's zone,
The sunrise path, at morn, I see thee trace,
To hills with high magnolia overgrown,

And joy to breathe the groves, romantic and alone.

VI.

The sunrise drew her thoughts to Europe forth,

That thus apostrophiz'd its viewless scene:
'Land of my father's love, my mother's birth!
'The home of kindred I have never seen!

"We know not other-oceans are between:

'Yet

say ! far friendly hearts from whence we came, 'Of us does oft remembrance intervene !

'My mother sure-my sire a thought may claim ;—

'But Gertrude is to you an unregarded name.

VII.

' And

yet, lov'd England! when thy name I trace

In many a pilgrim's tale and poet's song,

< How can I choose but wish for one embrace

"Of them, the dear unknown, to whom belong 'My mother's looks,—perhaps her likeness strong? 'Oh parent! with what reverential awe,

< From features of thine own related throng,

'An image of thy face my soul could draw !

And see thee once again whom I too shortly saw !'.

VIII.

Yet deem not Gertrude sigh'd for foreign joy;
To sooth a father's couch her only care,

And keep his rev'rend head from all annoy :
For this, methinks, her homeward steps repair,
Soon as the morning wreath had bound her hair;
While yet the wild deer trod in spangling dew,
While boatman carrol'd to the fresh-blown air,
And woods a horizontal shadow threw,

And early fox appear'd in momentary view.

IX.

Apart there was a deep untrodden grot,

Where oft the reading hours sweet Gertrude wore; Tradition had not nam'd its lonely spot;

But here (methinks) might India's sons explore

Their father's dust, 10 or lift, perchance of yore,
Their voice to the great Spirit :-rocks sublime

To human art a sportive semblance bore,

And yellow lichens colour'd all the clime,

[time.

Like moonlight battlements, and towers decay'd by

X.

But high in amphitheatre above,

His arms the everlasting aloes threw :

Breath'd but an air of heav'n, and all the grove
As if with instinct living spirit grew,

Rolling its verdant gulphs of every hue;

And now suspended was the pleasing din,

Now from a murmur faint it swell'd anew,
Like the first note of organ heard within

Cathedral aisles,-ere yet its symphony begin.

10 It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated parts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century.

XI.

It was in this lone valley she would charm

The ling'ring noon, where flow'rs a couch had strewn; Her cheek reclining, and her snowy arm

On hillock by the palm-tree half o'ergrown:

And aye that volume on her lap is thrown,
Which every heart of human mould endears;
With Shakespeare's self she speaks and smiles alone,
And no intruding visitation fears,

To shame th' unconscious laugh, or stop her sweetest

tears.

XII.

And nought within the grove was heard or seen

But stock-doves plaining through its gloom profound,

Or winglet of the fairy humming bird,

Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round;