First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea,
I might hail thee with prouder, with happier brow,
But, oh! could I love thee more deeply than now?
No! thy chains as they torture, thy blood as it runs,
But make thee more painfully dear to thy sons—
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert-bird’s nest,
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from thy breast.
There was something peculiarly thrilling in her voice—its low tones breathed the sigh of a broken heart—the higher notes, wild and energetic enthusiasm. She appeared to have sung the first two stanzas unconsciously; for as she finished them, observing us listening, she blushed and stopped short. Through our persuasion she was induced to continue; but the glow of feeling which had before animated her was gone, the spell was broken, and although she still sung in a superior manner, her voice had lost much of its former heart-searching effect.
With feelings of sorrow that I cannot express, I took leave of this happy family, whose existence, as it were by enchantment, in the midst of misery and crime, put me in mind of those green and fertile spots which we sometimes found embosomed among the wild and rugged Pyrenees.