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 :

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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 ;

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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.'

A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL

Decolor, obscuris, vilis, non ille repexam
Cesariem regum, non candida virginis ornat
Colla, nec insigni splendet per cingula morsu.
Sed nova si nigri videas miracula saxi,

Tunc superat pulchros cultus et quicquid Eois

Indus litoribus rubra scrutatur in alga.-CLAUDIAN.

I SAT beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped
With Newport coal, and as the flame grew bright-
The many-coloured flame-and played and leaped
I thought of rainbows and the northern light,
Moore's Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Report,
And other brilliant matters of the sort.

And last I thought of that fair isle which sent
The mineral fuel; on a summer day

I saw it once, with heat and travel spent,

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And scratched by dwarf oaks in the hollow way; Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stoneA rugged road through rugged Tiverton.

And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew

The deep-worn path, and horror-struck, I thought, Where will this dreary passage lead me to?

This long dull road, so narrow, deep, and hot? I looked to see it dive in earth outright; I looked-but saw a far more welcome sight.

A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL 85

Like a soft mist upon the evening shore,

At once a lovely isle before me lay,
Smooth and with tender verdure covered o'er,
As if just risen from its calm inland bay;
Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge,
And the small waves that dallied with the sedge.
The barley was just reaped-its heavy sheaves

Lay on the stubble field-the tall maize stood Dark in its summer growth, and shook its leaves— And bright the sunlight played on the young woodFor fifty years ago, the old men say,

The Briton hewed their ancient groves away.

I saw where fountains freshened the green land, And where the pleasant road, from door to door,

With rows of cherry-trees on either hand,

Went wandering all that fertile region o'er

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Rogue's Island once-but when the rogues were dead, Rhode Island was the name it took instead.

Beautiful island! then it only seemed

A lovely stranger-it has grown a friend.

I gazed on its smooth slopes, but never dreamed
How soon that green and quiet isle would send
The treasures of its womb across the sea,
To warm a poet's room, and boil his tea.

Dark anthracite ! that reddenest on my hearth,
Thou in those island mines didst slumber long;
But now thou art come forth to move the earth,
And put to shame the men that mean thee wrong.
Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee,
And warm the shins of all that underrate thee.

Yea, they did wrong thee foully-they who mocked
Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn;
Of hewing thee to chimney pieces talked.

And grew profane and swore in bitter scorn,
That men might to thy inner caves retire,
And there, unsinged, abide the day of fire.

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86 A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL

Yet is thy greatness nigh. I pause to state,
That I too have seen greatness-even I-
Shook hands with Adams-stared at La Fayette,
When, barehead, in the hot noon of July,
He would not let the umbrella be held o'er him,
For which three cheers burst from the mob before him.

And I have seen-not many months ago

An eastern Governor in chapeau bras

And military coat, a glorious show!

Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah!

How oft he smiled and bowed to Jonathan ! How many hands were shook and votes were won! 'Twas a great Governor-thou too shalt be

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Great in thy turn-and wide shall spread thy fame, And swiftly; furthest Maine shall hear of thee,

And cold New Brunswick gladden at thy name, And, faintly through its sleets, the weeping isle That sends the Boston folks their cod shall smile.

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For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat
The hissing rivers into steam, and drive
Huge masses from thy mines, on iron feet,
Walking their steady way, as if alive,
Northward, till everlasting ice besets thee,
And south as far as the grim Spaniard lets thee.
Thou shalt make mighty engines swim the sea,
Like its own monsters-boats that for a guinea 80
Will take a man to Havre-and shalt be

The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny,
And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear
As good a suit of broadcloth as the mayor.
Then we will laugh at winter when we hear
The grim old churl about our dwellings rave;
Thou, from that ruler of the inverted year',
Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave,
And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in,
And melt the icicles from off his chin.

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THE NEW MOON

WHEN, as the garish day is done,
Heaven burns with the descended sun,
'Tis passing sweet to mark,
Amid that flush of crimson light,
The new moon's modest bow grow bright,
As earth and sky grow dark.

Few are the hearts too cold to feel
A thrill of gladness o'er them steal,
When first the wandering eye
Sees faintly in the evening blaze,
That glimmering curve of tender rays
Just planted in the sky.

The sight of that young crescent brings
Thoughts of all fair and youthful things—
The hopes of early years;

And childhood's purity and grace,
And joys that like a rainbow chase
The passing shower of tears.

The captive yields him to the dream
Of freedom, when that virgin beam
Comes out upon the air,
And painfully the sick man tries
To fix his dim and burning eyes
On the soft promise there.

Most welcome to the lover's sight
Glitters that pure, emerging light;
For prattling poets say

That sweetest is the lovers' walk,
And tenderest is their murmured talk,
Beneath its gentle ray.

ΤΟ

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