When forests rock the midnight on their shades,
When tones of wail are in the rising wind,
Across my spirit some faint doubt may sigh;
For the strong hours will sway this frail mortality!
LXVIII.
We have been wand’rers since those days of woe,
Thy boy and I! As wild birds tend their young,
So have I tended him—my bounding roe!
The high Peruvian solitudes among;
And o’er the Andes’ torrents borne his form,