"UPON THE MOUNTAIN'S DISTANT

HEAD."

PON the mountain's distant head,

UPO

With trackless snows forever white,
Where all is still, and cold, and dead,
Late shines the day's departing light.

But far below those icy rocks,

The vales, in summer bloom arrayed,
Woods full of birds, and fields of flocks,
Are dim with mist and dark with shade.

'Tis thus, from warm and kindly hearts,
And eyes where generous meanings burn,
Earliest the light of life departs,

But lingers with the cold and stern.

THE LAMENT OF ROMERO.

HEN freedom, from the land of Spain,

WHE

By Spain's degenerate sons was driven, Who gave their willing limbs again

To wear the chain so lately riven; Romero broke the sword he wore

"Go, faithful brand," the warrior said, "Go, undishonored, never more

The blood of man shall make thee red.

I grieve for that already shed;
And I am sick at heart to know,
That faithful friend and noble foe
Have only bled to make more strong
The yoke that Spain has worn so long.
Wear it who will, in abject fear-

I wear it not who have been free;
The perjured Ferdinand shall hear
No oath of loyalty from me."
Then, hunted by the hounds of power,
Romero chose a safe retreat,

Where bleak Nevada's summits tower

Above the beauty at their feet.
There once, when on his cabin lay
The crimson light of setting day,
When, even on the mountain's breast,
The chainless winds were all at rest,
And he could hear the river's flow
From the calm paradise below;
Warmed with his former fires again

He framed this rude but solemn strain :

“Talisman,” 1829.

I.

"Here will I make my home-for here at least I see, Upon this wild Sierra's side, the steps of Liberty; Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the unpruned

lime,

And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil of the mountain-thyme;

Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild-vine strays at will,

An outcast from the haunts of men, she dwells with Nature still.

II.

"I see the valleys, Spain! where thy mighty rivers

run,

And the hills that lift thy harvests and vineyards to

the sun,

And the flocks that drink thy brooks and sprinkle all

the green,

Where lie thy plains, with sheep-walks seamed, and olive-shades between :

I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pomegranate

near,

And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost reach me here.

III.

"Fair-fair-but fallen Spain! 'tis with a swelling heart,

That I think on all thou mightst have been, and look at what thou art;

But the strife is over now, and all the good and

brave,

That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile or

the grave.

Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the convent

feast,

And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the pampered lord and priest.

IV.

"But I shall see the day-it will come before I

die

I shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an age

dimmed eye;

When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound,
As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness of

the ground:

And to my mountain-cell, the voices of the free

Shall rise as from the beaten shore the thunders of

the sea."

"New York Review," February, 1826.