Gay lilied fields of France, or, more refin'd,
The soft Ausonia's monumental reign;

Nor less each rural image he design'd,

Than all the city's pomp and home of human kind.

XVI.

Anon some wilder portraiture he draws ;
Of Nature's savage glories he would speak,—
The loneliness of earth that overawes,-
Where, resting by some tomb of old Cacique,
The lama-driver on Peruvia's peak,

Nor voice nor living motion marks around;
But storks that to the boundless forest shriek;
Or wild-cane arch high flung o'er gulf pro-
found,*

That fluctuates when the storms of El Dorado sound.

XVII.

Pleas'd with his guest, the good man still would ply

Each earnest question, and his converse court; But Gertrude, as she eyed him, knew not why A strange and troubling wonder stopt her short. "In England thou hast been, and, by report, An orphan's name (quoth Albert) mayst have known:

Sad tale!-when latest fell our frontier fort,-
One innocent-one soldier's child-- alone
Was spar'd, and brought to me, who loved him
as my own.—

* The bridges over narrow streams in many parts of Spanish America are said to be built of cane, which, however strong to support the passenger, are yet waved in the agitation of the storm, and frequently add to the effect of a mountainous and picturesque scenery.

XVIII.

Young Henry Waldegrave! three delightful

years

These very walls his infant sports did see;
But most I lov'd him when his parting tears
Alternately bedew'd my child and me:

His sorest parting, Gertrude, was from thee;
Nor half its grief his little heart could hold:
By kindred he was sent for o'er the sea,
They tore him from us when but twelve years
old,

And scarcely for his loss have I been yet consol'd."

XIX.

His face the wand'rer hid;-but could not hide A tear, a smile, upon his cheek that dwell;"And speak, mysterious stranger!" (Gertrude cried)

"It is!-it is!--I knew-I knew him well!
'Tis Waldegrave's self, of Waldegrave come to
tell!"

A burst of joy the father's lips declare;
But Gertrude speechless on his bosom fell!
At once his open arms embrac'd the pair,
Was never group more blest, in this wide world
of care,-

XX.

"And will ye pardon, then (replied the youth), Your Waldegrave's feigned name, and false attire ?

I durst not in the neighbourhood, in truth,
The very fortunes of your house inquire:
Lest one that knew me might some tidings dire
Impart, and I my weakness all betray,

For had I lost my Gertrude, and my sire,
I meant but o'er your tombs to weep a day;
Unknown I meant to weep, unknown to pass
away.

XXI.

"But here ye live,-ye bloom,-in each dear face
The changing hand of time I may not blame;
For there, it hath but shed more reverend grace,
And here, of beauty perfected the frame;
And well I know your hearts are still the same,
They could not change-ye look the very way,
As when an orphan first to you I came.

And have ye heard of my poor guide, I pray? Nay wherefore weep we, friends, on such a joyous day ?"—

XXII.

"And art thou here? or is it but a dream?
And wilt thou, Waldegrave, wilt thou leave us
more ?"

"No, never! thou that yet dost lovelier seem
Than aught on earth-than e'en thyself of yore-
I will not part thee from thy father's shore;
But we shall cherish him with mutual arms;
And hand in hand again the path explore,
Which every ray of young remembrance warms;
While thou shalt be my own with all thy truth
and charms."

XXIII.

At morn, as if beneath a galaxy

Of over-arching groves in blossoms white,
Where all was od'rous scent and harmony,
And gladness to the heart, nerve, ear, and sight:
There if, oh, gentle love! I read aright,
The utterance that seal'd thy sacred bond,
'Twas list'ning to these accents of delight,
She hid upon his breast those eyes, beyond
Expression's pow'r to paint, all languishingly
fond.

XXIV.

"Flow'r of my life, so lovely and so lone! Whom I would rather in this desert meet,

Scorning and scorn'd by fortune's pow'r, than

own

Her pomp and splendours lavish'd at my feet! Turn not from me thy breath, more exquisite Than odours cast on heaven's own shrine-to please

Give me thy love, than luxury more sweet, And more than all the wealth that loads the breeze,

When Coromandel's ships return from Indian

seas.

XXV.

Then would that home admit them-happier far
Than grandeur's most magnificent saloon-
While, here and there, a solitary star
Flush'd in the dark'ning firmament of June;
And silence brought the soul-felt hour full soon,
Ineffable, which I may not portray;

For never did the Hymenean moon

A paradise of hearts more sacred sway,
In all that slept beneath her soft voluptuous ray.

GERTRUDE OF WYOMING.

PART III.

I.

O LOVE! in such a wilderness as this, Where transport and security entwine, Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, And here thou art a god indeed divine. Here shall no forms abridge, no hours confine The views, the walks, that boundless joy inspire! Roll on, ye days of raptur'd influence, shine! Nor, blind with ecstasy's celestial fire,

Shall love behold the spark of earth-born time expire.

Three little moons, how short, amidst the grove
And pastoral savannahs, they consume!
While she, beside her buskin'd youth to rove,
Delights, in fancifully wild costume,

Her lovely brow to shade with Indian plume;
And forth in hunter-seeming vest they fare;
But not to chase the deer in forest gloom;
'Tis but the breath of heav'n-the blessed air-
And interchange of hearts unknown, unseen to
share.

III.

What though the sportive dog oft round them

note,

Or fawn, or wild bird bursting on the wing;
Yet who, in love's own presence, would devote
To death those gentle throats that wake the
spring;