While strong ambition stirs his heart, And burning thoughts of wonder part From lip and sparkling eye.

When sudden from the forest wide

A red-browed chieftain came,

With towering form, and haughty stride, And eye like kindling flame:

In whispered tones they speak,
And lines upon their tablets trace,
Which flush each ashen cheek;
The Inquisition's mystic doom

Sits on their brows severe,
And bursting forth in visioned gloom,
Sad heresy from burning tomb

Groans on the startled ear.

Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time
Thy splendid dream shall crown;
Yon Western Hemisphere sublime,
Where unshorn forests frown,
The awful Andes' cloud-wrapt brow,
The Indian hunter's bow,
Bold streams untamed by helm or prow,
And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou
To thankless Spain shalt show.

Courage, World-finder! Thou hast need!
In Fates' unfolding scroll,

Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read,

That rack the noble soul.
On! on! Creation's secrets probe,

Then drink thy cup of scorn,

And wrapped in fallen Cæsar's robe,
Sleep like that master of the globe,
All glorious, — yet forlorn.

THE INDIAN'S WELCOME TO

THE PILGRIM FATHERS

ABOVE them spread a stranger sky;

Around, the sterile plain;

The rock-bound coast rose frowning nigh;
Beyond, the wrathful main:
Chill remnants of the wintry snow
Still choked the encumbered soil,
Yet forth those Pilgrim Fathers go
To mark their future toil.

'Mid yonder vale their corn must rise
In summer's ripening pride,
And there the church-spire woo the skies
Its sister-school beside.

Perchance mid England's velvet green
Some tender thought reposed,
Though nought upon their stoic mien
Such soft regret disclosed.

To no dark ambush drew,

But simply to the Old World brought

The welcome of the New.

A king is standing there,

And with uncovered head

Receives him in the name of France: Receiveth whom? The dead! Was he not buried deep

In island-cavern drear,

Girt by the sounding ocean surge?
How came that sleeper here?

Was there no rest for him

Beneath a peaceful pall,

That thus he brake his stony tomb,
Ere the strong angel's call?
Hark! hark! the requiem swells,
A deep, soul-thrilling strain!
An echo, never to be heard
By mortal ear again.

A requiem for the chief,

Whose fiat millions slew, The soaring eagle of the Alps, The crushed at Waterloo: The banished who returned, The dead who rose again,

And rode in his shroud the billows proud
To the sunny banks of Seine.

They laid him there in state,
That warrior strong and bold, -

The imperial crown, with jewels bright,
Upon his ashes cold,
While round those columns proud

The blazoned banners wave,

That on a hundred fields he won

With the heart's-blood of the brave;

And sternly there kept guard
His veterans scarred and old,
Whose wounds of Lodi's cleaving bridge
Or purple Leipsic told.

Yes, there, with arms reversed,
Slow pacing, night and day,

Close watch beside the coffin kept
Those veterans grim and gray.

A cloud is on their brow,

Is it sorrow for the dead,

Or memory of the fearful strife Where their country's legions fled? Of Borodino's blood?

Of Beresina's wail?

The horrors of that dire retreat,
Which turned old History pale?

WE are but two- the others sleep
Through death's untroubled night;
We are but two - O, let us keep
The link that binds us bright.

Heart leaps to heart-the sacred flood
That warms us is the same;
That good old man — - his honest blood
Alike we fondly claim.

We in one mother's arms were locked -
Long be her love repaid;

In the same cradle we were rocked,
Round the same hearth we played.

Our boyish sports were all the same,
Each little joy and woe;
Let manhood keep alive the flame,
Lit up so long ago.

We are but two-be that the band
To hold us till we die;
Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,
Till side by side we lie

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