But see, along that rugged path, a fiery horseman ride,
See the torn plume, the tarnished belt, the sabre at his side;
His spurs are in his horse's sides, his hand casts loose the rein;
There's sweat upon the streaming flank, and foam upon the

mane;

He speeds toward that olive bower, along the shaded hill:
God shield the hapless maiden there, if he should mean her ill.

And suddenly the song has ceased, and suddenly I hear
A shriek sent up amid the shade—a shriek-but not of fear;
For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak
The overflow of gladness when words are all too weak:
"I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free,
And I am come to dwell beside the olive grove with thee."

MARCH.

THE stormy March is come at last,

With wind, and cloud, and changing skies:

I hear the rushing of the blast,

That through the snowy valley flies.

Ah! passing few are they who speak,
Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee;
Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak,
Thou art a welcome month to me.

For thou to northern lands again,

The glad and glorious sun dost bring, And thou hast joined the gentle train,

And wear'st the gentle name of Spring.

And, in thy reign of blast and storm,
Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day,
When the changed winds are soft and warm,
And heaven puts on the blue of May.

Then sing aloud the gushing rills

And the full springs, from frost set free, That, brightly leaping down the hills, Are just set out to meet the sea.

The year's departing beauty hides

Of wintry storms the sullen threat;

But in thy sternest frown abides
A look of kindly promise yet.

Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, And that soft time of sunny showers, When the wide bloom, on earth that lies,

Seems of a brighter world than ours.

TO THE EVENING WIND.

SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;

Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till now,

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,
And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse
The wild old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning from the innumerable boughs
The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast;
Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep, And dry the moistened curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And they who stand about the sick man's bed,

Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go-but the circle of eternal change,

That is the life of nature, shall restore,

With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range, Thee to thy birth-place of the deep once more; Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,

Shall tell the home-sick mariner of the shore; And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem He hears the rustling leaf, and running stream.

LINES ON REVISITING THE COUNTRY.

I STAND upon my native hills again,

Broad, round, and green, that in the southern sky, With garniture of waving grass and grain,

Orchards and beechen forests, basking lie; While deep the sunless glens are scooped between, Where brawl o'er shallow beds the streams unseen

C

A lisping voice and glancing eyes are near,

And ever-restless steps of one, who now Gathers the blossoms of her fourth bright year:

There plays a gladness o'er her fair young brow, As breaks the varied scene upon her sight, Upheaved, and spread in verdure and in light;

For I have taught her, with delighted eye,

To gaze upon the mountains; to behold With deep affection, the pure, ample sky,

And clouds along the blue abysses rolled; To love the song of waters, and to hear The melody of winds with charmed ear.

Here I have 'scaped the city's stifling heat,
Its horrid sounds, and its polluted air;
And, where the season's milder fervors beat,

And gales, that sweep the forest borders, bear The song of bird and sound of running stream, Have come awhile to wander and to dream.

Ay, flame thy fiercest, sun: thou canst not wake, In this pure air, the plague that walks unseen; The maize leaf and the maple bough but take

From thy fierce heats a deeper, glossier green; The mountain wind, that faints not in thy ray, Sweeps the blue steams of pestilence away.