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 bum
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,[285]
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.
[285] 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.
I 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?