IX.

And early liking from acquaintance sprung;
Full fluently conversed their guest in England's
tongue.
XV.

And well could he his pilgrimage of taste
Unfold, and much they loved his fervid strain,
While he each fair variety retraced

Of climes, and manners, o'er the eastern main.
Now happy Switzer's hills-romantic Spain,-

time.

And nought within the grove was heard or seen
But stock-doves plaining through its gloom profound,
Or winglet of the fairy humming-bird,
Like atoms of the rainbow fluttering round;
When, lo! there enter'd to its inmost ground
A youth, the stranger of a distant land;
He was, to weet, for eastern mountains bound;
But late th' equator suns his cheek had tann'd,
And California's gales his roving bosom fann'd.

XIII.

A steed, whose rein hung loosely o'er his arm,
He led dismounted; ere his leisure pace,
Amid the brown leaves, could her ear alarm,
Close he had come, and worshipp'd for a space
Those downcast features:-she her lovely face
Uplift on one, whose lineaments and frame
Were youth and manhood's intermingled grace:
Iberian seem'd his boot-his robe the same,
And well the Spanish plume his lofty looks became.

XIV.

For Albert's home he sought-her finger fair
Has pointed where the father's mansion stood.
Returning from the copse he soon was there;
And soon has Gertrude hied from dark greenwood;
Nor joyless, by the converse, understood
Between the man of age and pilgrim young,
That gay congeniality of mood,

1 It is a custom of the Indian tribes to visit the tombs of their ancestors in the cultivated parts of America, who have been buried for upwards of a century.

The soft Ausonia's monumental reign;
Nor less each rural image he design'd

Than all the city's pomp and home of human-kind.
XVI.

Anon some wilder portraiture he draws;
Of Nature's savage glories he would speak,-
The loneliness of earth that overawes,-
Where, resting by some tomb of old Cacique,
The lama-driver on Peruvia's peak,

Nor living voice nor motion marks around;
But storks that to the boundless forest shriek,
Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf profound,'
That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound
XVII.

Pleased with his guest, the good man still would ply
Each earnest question, and his converse court;
But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why
A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short.
"In England thou hast been,-and, by report,
An orphan's name (quoth Albert) mayst have known.
Sad tale!—when latest fell our frontier fort,-

One innocent-one soldier's child-alone
Was spared, and brought to me, who loved him as
my own.

XVIII.

Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful years These very walls his infant sports did see; But most I loved him when his parting tears Alternately bedew'd my child and me: His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee; Nor half its grief his little heart could hold: By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea, They tore him from us when but twelve years old, And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consoled!" XIX.

His face the wanderer hid-but could not hide

A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell;

And speak! mysterious stranger!" (Gertrude cried)

"It is!-it is!-I knew-I knew him well!

"Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to tell!"
A burst of joy the father's lips declare;
At once his open arms embraced the pair,
But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell:

Was never groupe more blest, in this wide world of

Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire
Impart, and I my weakness all betray;
For had I lost my Gertrude and my sire,
I meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day—
Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass away.

XXI.

"But here ye live,-ye bloom,—in each dear face
The changing hand of time I may not blame;
For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace,
And here of beauty perfected the frame;
And well I know your hearts are still the same-
They could not change-ye look the very way,
As when an orphan first to you I came.
And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray?
Nay, wherefore weep ye, friends, on such a joyous
day?"

XXIV.

Short time is now for gratulating speech:
And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began
Thy country's flight, yon distant tow'rs to reach,
Look'd not on thee the rudest partisan

With brow relax'd to love? And murmurs ran,
As round and round their willing ranks they drew,
From beauty's sight to shield the hostile van.
Grateful, on them a placid look she threw,
Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu!

XXV.

Past was the flight, and welcome seem'd the tower,
That like a giant standard-bearer frown'd
Defiance on the roving Indian power.
Beneath, each bold and promontory mound
With embrasure emboss'd, and armor crown'd,
And arrowy frieze, and wedged ravelin,
Wove like a diadem its tracery round
The lofty summit of that mountain green :
Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene.

XXVI.

A scene of death! where fires beneath the sun,
And blended arms, and white pavilions glow;
And for the business of destruction done
Its requiem the war-horn seem'd to blow:
There, sad spectatress of her country's woe!
The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm,
On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm
Had laid her cheek, and clasp'd her hands of snow
Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hush'd its wild alarm!

XXVII.

But short that contemplation-sad and short
The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu!
Beneath the very shadow of the fort,
Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flew;
Ah! who could deem that foot of Indian crew
Was near?-yet there, with lust of murd'rous deeds,
Gleam'd like a basilisk, from woods in view,
The ambush'd foeman's eye-his volley speeds,

shines.

XXII.

And in, the buskin'd hunters of the deer,
To Albert's home, with shout and cymbal throng
Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer,
Old Outalissi woke his battle-song,
And, beating with his war-club cadence strong,
Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts,
Of them that wrapt his house in flames, ere long,
To whet a dagger on their stony hearts,
And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts.

XXIII.

Calm, opposite the Christian father rose,
Pale on his venerable brow its rays
Of martyr light the conflagration throws;
One hand upon his lovely child he lays,
And one th' uncover'd crowd to silence sways;
While, though the battle flash is faster driv'n,-
Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze,
He for his bleeding country prays to Heav'n,-
Prays that the men of blood themselves may be for-
giv'n.

XXVIII.

And tranced in giddy horror Gertrude swoon'd;
Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone,
Say, burst they, borrow'd from her father's wound,
These drops?-Oh, God! the life-blood is her own!
And falt'ring, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown-
"Weep not, O love!"-she cries, "to see me bleed-
Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone
Heaven's peace commiserate; for scarce I heed
These wounds;-yet thee to leave is death, is death
indeed!

XXIX.

"Clasp me a little longer on the brink
Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress;

And when this heart hath ceased to beat-oh! think,
And let it mitigate thy woe's excess,
That thou hast been to me all tenderness,
And friend to more than human friendship just.
Oh! by that retrospect of happiness,
And by the hopes of an immortal trust,

God shall assuage thy pangs-when I am laid in dust!

XXX.

"Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart,
The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move,
Where my dear father took thee to his heart,
And Gertrude thought it ecstacy to rove
With thee, as with an angel, through the grove
Of peace, imagining her lot was cast

In heav'n; for ours was not like earthly love.
And must this parting be our very last?

And we shall share, my Christian boy! The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

XXXVI.

But thee, my flow'r, whose breath was giv'n By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heav'n
Forbid not thee to weep:-

Nor will the Christian host,

XXXI.

"Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth,-
And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun,
If I had lived to smile but on the birth
Of one dear pledge;—but shall there then be none,
In future times-no gentle little one,
To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me?
Yet seems it, ev'n while life's last pulses run,
A sweetness in the cup of death to be,

Lord of my bosom's love! to die beholding thee!"

XXXII.

To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heav'n-of lost delight!
XXXVII.

"To-morrow let us do or die!

But when the bolt of death is hurl'd,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once-loved home?
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers:
Unheard their clock repeats its hours!

And beautiful expression seem'd to melt

With love that could not die! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt.

Ah, heart! where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt,

Of them that stood encircling his despair,

And should we thither roam,

Its echoes, and its empty tread,
Would sound like voices from the dead!

XXXVIII.

they were.