'Tis a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue, For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side, A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north; Thou lookest in vain, sweet maiden; the sharpest sight would fail To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale; For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, And the silent hills, and forest tops, seem reeling in the heat. That white hand is withdrawn, that fair, sad face is gone; A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago, Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, And her who died of sorrow upon his early grave. But see, along that rugged path, a fiery horseman ride, mane; He speeds toward that olive bower, along the shaded hill: God shield the hapless maiden there, if he should mean her ill. And suddenly the song has ceased, and suddenly I hear MARCH. THE stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies: I hear the rushing of the blast, That through the snowy valley flies. Ah! passing few are they who speak, Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak, For thou to northern lands again, The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train, And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. And, in thy reign of blast and storm, Then sing aloud the gushing rills And the full springs, from frost set free, That, brightly leaping down the hills, Are just set out to meet the sea. The year's departing beauty hides But in thy sternest frown abides A look of kindly promise yet. Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours. TO THE EVENING WIND. SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! Nor I alone-a thousand bosoms round Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse Summoning from the innumerable boughs The faint old man shall lean his silver head To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And softly part his curtains to allow Go-but the circle of eternal change, That is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY. I STAND upon my native hills again, Broad, round, and green, that in the southern sky, With garniture of waving grass and grain, Orchards and beechen forests, basking lie; While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, C |