But onward moved the melancholy train,
For their false creeds in fiery pangs to die.
This was the solemn sacrifice of Spain-
Heaven's offering from the land of chivalry!
Through thousands, thousands of their race they moved—
Oh! how unlike all others !-the beloved,
The free, the proud, the beautiful! whose eye
Grew fixed before them, while a people's breath
Was hushed, and its one soul bound in the thought of death!
It might be that, amidst the countless throng,
There swelled some heart with pity's weight oppressed:
For the wide stream of human love is strong;
And woman, on whose fond and faithful breast
Childhood is reared, and at whose knee the sigh
Of its first prayer is breathed-she, too, was nigh.
But life is dear, and the free footstep blessed,
And home a sunny place, where each may fill
Some eye with glistening smiles,—and therefore all were still.
All still,-youth, courage, strength !—a winter laid,
A chain of palsy cast, on might and mind!
Still, as at noon a southern forest's shade,
They stood, those breathless masses of mankind,
Still, as a frozen torrent! But the wave
Soon leaps to foaming freedom; they, the brave,
Endured-they saw the martyr's place assigned
In the red flames-whence is the withering spell
That numbs each human pulse? They saw, and thought it well.
And I, too, thought it well! That very morn
From a far land I came, yet round we clung
The spirit of my own.
No hand had torn
With a strong grasp away the veil which hung
Between mine eyes and truth. I gazed, I saw
Dimly, as through a glass. In silent awe
I watched the fearful rites; and if there sprung
One rebel feeling from its deep founts up,
Shuddering, I flung it back, as guilt's own poison-cup.
But I was wakened as the dreamers waken,
Whom the shrill trumpet and the shriek of dread
Rouse up at midnight, when their walls are taken,
And they must battle till their blood is shed
On their own threshold floor. A path for light
Through my torn breast was shattered by the might
It be wit merke: and freedom's tread ms are yet act in vain.
e hace al green with life again.
Te me ut is cures, wrought
= me ne-in ud i be? 17 Bris inimi i I gaze on thee!
In thee! with whom in bayhood I had played,
At be grape guherings, by my native streams;
Jura wise ge my youthful soul had laid
Sten as to heaven's is glowing world of dreams;
Sat by wise se mist wartors I had stood,
Stadse be usingit-on, earned with blood!-
raylins, when tropic beams
Ar veus had passed,
He ex-mi fus we met at last!
Thou knowest-whose eye through shade and depth can see, That this man's crime was but to worship thee, Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, The called of yore-wont by the Saviour's side On the dim Olive Mount to pray at eventide.
For the strong spirit will at times awake,
Piercing the mists that wrap her clay abode ;
And, born of thee, she may not always take
Earth's accents for the oracles of God;
And even for this-O dust, whose mask is power!
Reed, that wouldst be a scourge thy little hour!
Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod,
And therefore thou destroyest !--where were flown
Our hopes, if man were left to man's decree alone!
But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze
On him, my friend; while that swift moment threw
A sudden freshness back on vanished days,
Like water-drops on some dim picture's hue ;
Calling the proud time up, when first I stood
Where banners floated, and my heart's quick blood
Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew,
And he his sword was like a brother's worn,
That watches through the field his mother's youngest born.
But a lance met me in that day's career-
Senseless I lay amidst the o'ersweeping fight;
Wakening at last, how full, how strangely clear,
That scene on memory flashed!--the shivery light,
Moonlight, on broken shields-the plain of slaughter,
The fountain-side, the low sweet sound of water-
And Alvar bending o'er me-from the night
Covering me with his mantle. All the past
Flowed back; my soul's far chords all answered to the blast.
Till, in that rush of visions, I became
As one that, by the bands of slumber wound,
Lies with a powerless but all-thrilling frame,
Intense in consciousness of sight and sound,
Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings
Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things!
Troubled even thus I stood, but chained and bound
On that familiar form mine eye to keep :
Alas! I might not fall upon his neck and weep!
He passed me, and what next? I looked on two,
Following his footsteps to the same dread place,
Of the swift thunder-stroke; and freedom's tread Came in through ruins, late, yet not in vain, Making the blighted place all green with life again.
Still darkly, slowly, as a sullen mass
Of cloud o'ersweeping, without wind, the sky,
Dream-like I saw the sad procession pass,
And marked its victims with a tearless eye.
They moved before me but as pictures, wrought
Each to reveal some secret of man's thought,
On the sharp edge of sad mortality;
Till in his place came one-oh! could it be?
My friend, my heart's first friend !—and did I gaze on thee!
On thee! with whom in boyhood I had played,
At the grape-gatherings, by my native streams;
And to whose eye my youthful soul had laid
Bare, as to heaven's, its glowing world of dreams;
And by whose side midst warriors I had stood,
And in whose helm was brought-oh, earned with blood!—
The fresh wave to my lips, when tropic beams
Smote on my fevered brow! Ay, years had passed, Severing our paths, brave friend !—and thus we met at last!
I see it still-the lofty mien thou borest!
On my pale forehead sat a sense of power-
The very look that once thou brightly worest,
Cheering me onward through a fearful hour,
When we were girt by Indian bow and spear,
Midst the white Andes-even as mountain deer,
Hemmed in our camp; but through the javelin shower
We rent our way, a tempest of despair!
And thou hadst thou but died with thy true brethren there!
I call the fond wish back--for thou hast perished
More nobly far, my Alvar!-making known
The might of truth; and be thy memory cherished
With theirs, the thousands that around her throne
Have poured their lives out smiling, in that doom
Finding a triumph, if denied a tomb!
Ay, with their ashes hath the wind been sown,
And with the wind their spirit shall be spread,
Filling man's heart and home with records of the dead.
Thou Searcher of the soul! in whose dread sight
Not the bold guilt alone that mocks the skies,
But the scarce-owned unwhispered thought of night,
As a thing written with the sunbeam lies;
Thou knowest-whose eye through shade and depth can see, That this man's crime was but to worship thee, Like those that made their hearts thy sacrifice, The called of yore-wont by the Saviour's side On the dim Olive Mount to pray at eventide.
For the strong spirit will at times awake,
Piercing the mists that wrap her clay abode ;
And, born of thee, she may not always take
Earth's accents for the oracles of God;
And even for this-O dust, whose mask is power!
Reed, that wouldst be a scourge thy little hour!
Spark, whereon yet the mighty hath not trod,
And therefore thou destroyest !-where were flown
Our hopes, if man were left to man's decree alone!
But this I felt not yet. I could but gaze
On him, my friend; while that swift moment threw
A sudden freshness back on vanished days,
Like water-drops on some dim picture's hue;
Calling the proud time up, when first I stood
Where banners floated, and my heart's quick blood
Sprang to a torrent as the clarion blew,
And he-his sword was like a brother's worn,
That watches through the field his mother's youngest born.
But a lance met me in that day's career-
Senseless I lay amidst the o'ersweeping fight;
Wakening at last, how full, how strangely clear,
That scene on memory flashed !--the shivery light,
Moonlight, on broken shields-the plain of slaughter,
The fountain-side, the low sweet sound of water-
And Alvar bending o'er me-from the night
Covering me with his mantle. All the past
Flowed back; my soul's far chords all answered to the blast.
Till, in that rush of visions, I became
As one that, by the bands of slumber wound,
Lies with a powerless but all-thrilling frame,
Intense in consciousness of sight and sound,
Yet buried in a wildering dream which brings
Loved faces round him, girt with fearful things!
Troubled even thus I stood, but chained and bound
On that familiar form mine eye to keep :
Alas! I might not fall upon his neck and weep!
He passed me, and what next? I looked on two,
Following his footsteps to the same dread place,
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