THE CROSS OF THE SOUTH.

[The beautiful constellation of the Cross is seen only in the southern hemisphere. The following lines are supposed to be addressed to it by a Spanish traveller in South America.]

In the silence and grandeur of midnight I tread, Where savannahs, in boundless magnificence, spread, And bearing sublimely their snow-wreaths on high, The far Cordilleras unite with the sky.

The fir-tree waves o'er me, the fire-flies' red light With its quick-glancing splendour illumines the night; And I read in each tint of the skies and the earth, How distant my steps from the land of my birth.

But to thee, as thy lode-stars resplendently burn
In their clear depths of blue, with devotion I turn,
Bright Cross of the South! and beholding thee shine,
Scarce regret the loved land of the olive and vine.

Thou recallest the ages when first o'er the main
My fathers unfolded the ensign of Spain,
And planted their faith in the regions that see
Its unperishing symbol emblazon'd in thee.

How oft in their course o'er the oceans unknown, Where all was mysterious, and awful, and lone, Hath their spirit been cheer'd by thy light, when the deep

Reflected its brilliance in tremulous sleep!

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.

1 Constantine.

THE SLEEPER OF MARATHON.

I LAY upon the solemn plain,

And by the funeral mound,

Where those who died not there in vain Their place of sleep had found.

'Twas silent where the free blood gush'd When Persia came array'd

So many a voice had there been hush'd,
So many a footstep stay'd.

I slumber'd on the lonely spot
So sanctified by death:

I slumber'd-but my rest was not
As theirs who lay beneath.

For on my dreams, that shadowy hour,

They rose the chainless dead

-

All arm'd they sprang, in joy, in power, Up from their grassy bed.

1 saw their spears, on that red field,
Flash as in time gone by—

Chased to the seas without his shield,
I saw the Persian fly.

I woke the sudden trumpet's blast
Call'd to another fight-

From visions of our glorious past,

Who doth not wake in might?

TO MISS F. A. L. ON HER BIRTHDAY.

WHAT wish can Friendship form for thee,
What brighter star invoke to shine?-
Thy path from every thorn is free,
And every rose is thine!

Life hath no purer joy in store,

Time hath no sorrow to efface;
Hope cannot paint one blessing more
Than memory can retrace!

Some hearts a boding fear might own,
Had Fate to them thy portion given,
Since many an eye by tears alone,
Is taught to gaze on Heaven!

And there are virtues oft conceal'd,
Till roused by anguish from repose,
As odorous trees no balm will yield,
Till from their wounds it flows.

But fear not thou the lesson fraught

With Sorrow's chast'ning power to know; Thou need'st not thus be sternly taught, "To melt at others' woe."

Then still, with heart as blest, as warm,
Rejoice thou in thy lot on earth:
Ah! why should Virtue dread the storm,
If sunbeams prove her worth?

WRITTEN IN THE FIRST LEAF OF THE ALBUM OF THE SAME.

WHAT first should consecrate as thine,
The volume, destined to be fraught
With many a sweet and playful line,
With many a pure and pious thought?

It should be, what a loftier strain

Perchance less meetly would impart;
What never yet was pour'd in vain,—
The blessing of a grateful heart—

For kindness, which hath soothed the hour
Of anxious grief, of weary pain,
And oft, with its beguiling power,
Taught languid Hope to smile again;

Long shall that fervent blessing rest

On thee and thine, and, heavenwards borne, Call down such peace to soothe thy breast, As thou would'st bear to all that mourn.

TO THE SAME-ON THE DEATH OF
HER MOTHER.

SAY not 'tis fruitless, nature's holy tear,

Shed by affection o'er a parent's bier!

More blest than dew on Hermon's brow that falls, Each drop to life some latent virtue calls;