As the vision that rose to the Lord of the world,
When first his bright banner of faith was unfurl'd ;
Even such, to the heroes of Spain, when their prow
Made the billows the path of their glory, wert thou.

And to me, as I traversed the world of the west,
Through deserts of beauty in stillness that rest;
By forests and rivers untamed in their pride,
Thy hues have a language, thy course is a guide.

Shine on

my own land is a far-distant spot, And the stars of thy sphere can enlighten it not;

And the eyes that I love, though e'en now they may be O'er the firmament wandering, can gaze not on thee!

But thou to my thoughts art a pure-blazing shrine,
A fount of bright hopes, and of visions divine;
And my soul, as an eagle exulting and free,
Soars high o'er the Andes to mingle with thee.

THE SISTERS OF SCIO.

"SISTER, Sweet Sister! let me weep awhile!
Bear with me-give the sudden passion way!
Thoughts of our own lost home, our sunny isle,
Come, as a wind that o'er a reed hath sway;
Till my heart dies with yearnings and sick fears;
Oh! could my heard melt from me in these tears!

"Our father's voice, our mother's gentle eye,

Our brother's bounding step-where are they, where? Desolate, desolate our chambers lie!

How hast thou won thy spirit from despair? O'er mine swift shadows, gusts of terror, sweep; I sink away-bear with me- let me weep!"

"Yes! weep, my Sister! weep, till from thy heart The weight flow forth in tears; yet sink thou not! I bind my sorrow to a lofty part,

For thee, my gentle one! our orphan lot

To meet in quenchless trust; my soul is strong
Thou, too, wilt rise in holy might ere long.

"A breath of our free heavens and noble sires,

A memory of our old victorious dead,

These mantle me with power! and though their fires
In a frail censer briefly may be shed,

Yet shall they light us onward side by side;
Have the wild birds, and have not we, a guide ?

"Cheer, then, beloved! on whose meek brow is set
Our mother's image—in whose voice a tone,
A faint sweet sound of hers, is lingering yet,
An echo of our childhood's music gone;
Cheer thee thy Sister's heart and faith are high;
Our path is one - with thee I live and die !"

THE SONG OF NIGHT.

I COME to thee, O Earth!

With all my gifts! - for every flower sweet dew
In bell, and urn, and chalice, to renew
The glory of its birth.

Not one which glimmering lies

Far amidst folding hills, or forest leaves,
But, through its veins of beauty, so receives
A spirit of fresh dyes.

I come with every star;

Making thy streams, that on their noonday track, Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back,

Sleep through thy wood-walks, o'er the honey bee, The lark's triumphant voice, the fawn's young glee, The hyacinth's meek head.

On my own heart I lay

The weary babe; and sealing with a breath
Its eyes of love, send fairy dreams, beneath
The shadowing lids to play.

I come with mightier things!

Who calls me silent? I have many tones
The dark skies thrill with low mysterious moans,
Borne on my sweeping wings.

I waft them not alone

From the deep organ of the forest shades,
Or buried streams, unheard amidst their glades,

Till the bright day is done;

But in the human breast

A thousand still small voices I awake,
Strong, in their sweetness, from the soul to shake
The mantle of its rest.

I bring them from the past: From true hearts broken, gentle spirits torn, From crush'd affections, which, though long o'er-borne, Make their tones heard at last.

I bring them from the tomb:

O'er the sad couch of late repentant love

They pass

though low as murmurs of a dove —

Like trumpets through the gloom.

I come with all my train;

Who calls me lonely?-Hosts around me tread,
The intensely bright, the beautiful, the dead—
Phantoms of heart and brain!

Looks from departed eyes

These are my lightnings! -fill'd with anguish vain, Or tenderness too piercing to sustain,

They smite with agonies.

I, that with soft control,

Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song,

I am the avenging one! -the arm'd, the strong-
The searcher of the soul !

DAUGHTER of th' Italian heaven!
Thou, to whom its fires are given,
Joyously thy car hath roll'd
Where the conqueror's pass'd of old;
And the festal sun that shone,
O'er three hundred triumphs gone,
Makes thy day of glory bright,
With a shower of golden light.

Now thou tread'st th' ascending road,
Freedom's foot so proudly trode ;
While, from tombs of heroes borne,
From the dust of empire shorn,
Flowers upon thy graceful head,
Chaplets of all hues, are shed,
In a soft and rosy rain,

Touch'd with many a gem-like stain.
Thou hast gain'd the summit now!

Music hails thee from below;

Music, whose rich notes might stir

Ashes of the sepulchre ;