So ist des geistes ruf an mich ergangen,
Mich treibt nicht eitles, irdisches verlangen.
Die Jungfrau von Orleans.

Long time against oppression have I fought,
And for the native liberty of faith
Have bled and suffer'd bonds.

Remorse, a Tragedy.

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 sixteenth 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.

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!

VOL. IV.

I hear them still, unchanged:-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;

Even 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 sayOh! 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, And sighing through the feathery canes1-hath power

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 chestnut groves, which fill mine

ear;

But the faint echoes in my breast that dwell, And for their birthplace moan, as moans the oceanshell.2

V.

Peace!I will dash these fond regrets to earth, Even as an eagle shakes the cumbering rain From his strong pinion. Thou that gavest 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!

VI.

A blighted name!-I hear the winds of mornTheir sounds are not of this I-I hear the shiver

Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne
From the high forest, when the light leaves quiver:
Their sounds are not of this!—the cedars, waving,
Lend it no tone: His wide savannahs laving,
It is not murmur'd by the joyous river!

What part hath mortal name, where God alone Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is known?

VII.

Is it not much that I may worship Him, With nought my spirit's breathings to control, And feel His presence in the vast, and dim, And whispery woods, where dying thunders roll From the far cat'racts ?-Shall I not rejoice That I have learn'd at last to know His voice From man's?—I will rejoice!-my soaring soul Now hath redeem'd her birthright of the day, And won, through clouds, to Him, her own unfetter'd way!

VIII.

And thou, my boy! that silent at my knee
Dost lift to mine thy soft, dark, earnest eyes,
Fill'd with the love of childhood, which I see
Pure through its depths, a thing without disguise;
Thou that hast breathed in slumber on my breast,
When I have check'd its throbs to give thee rest,
Mine own! whose young thoughts fresh before me
rise!

Is it not much that I may guide thy prayer,
And circle thy glad soul with free and healthful air?

IX.

Why should I weep on thy bright head, my boy? Within thy fathers' halls thou wilt not dwell, Nor lift their banner, with a warrior's joy, Amidst the sons of mountain chiefs, who fell For Spain of old.-Yet what if rolling waves Have borne us far from our ancestral graves? Thou shalt not feel thy bursting heart rebel, As mine hath done; nor bear what I have borne, Casting in falsehood's mould th' indignant brow of

scorn.

.

X.

This shall not be thy lot, my blessed child!

I have not sorrow'd, struggled, lived in vain—
Hear me ! magnificent and ancient wild;
And mighty rivers, ye that meet the main,
As deep meets deep; and forests, whose dim shade
The flood's voice, and the wind's, by swells pervade;
Hear me ! 'tis well to die, and not complain,
Yet there are hours when the charged heart must
speak,

E'en in the desert's ear to pour itself, or break!

XI.

I see an oak before me:3 it hath been

The crown'd one of the woods; and might have flung

Its hundred arms to heaven, still freshly green, But a wild vine around the stem hath clung, From branch to branch close wreaths of bondage throwing,