When the white man journeys there,
Young and old refresh him so ;
Bed, and food, and hut they share,
Free to come, and stay, and go.
Sweetest memories turn to thee,
Dearest spot, my native land;
There I dwelt, the loved, the free;
Here, an abject Slave I stand.
Only for our colour still
Must they hold us Slaves. Ah, why,
Without reason, at their will
Do we suffer, toil, and sigh?
Dulce Patria de mi vida,
Cuánto me acuerdo de ti,
Donde libre espiraba,
Esclavo me ves aqui.
Ever when they give commands,
'Tis with threatening look and word;
Frequent through the shrinking band,
Strokes of punishment are heard.
Sweetest memories turn to thee,
Dearest spot, my native land;
There I dwelt, the loved, the free;
Here, an abject Slave I stand.
Brethren, to your lots conform;
God and Patience you shall see
Things impossible perform,
They will work our liberty.
Dulce Patria de mi vida
Cuánto me acuerdo de ti,
Donde libre espiraba,
Esclavo me ves aqui.
Sweetest memories turn to thee,
Dearest spot, my native land;
There I lived, the glad, the free ;
Here, a heart-struck Slave I stand.
DANTE TO ALBANO.
(Printed in the "British Friend," 1850.)
Letter from a new Christian, secretly a Jew, in Spain, to Antonio Henriques Gomez, a literary Spanish Jew who had fled the country, and resided as refugee, sometimes in France, sometimes in Amsterdam. A. de Castro's "Historia de los Judios en España." Cadiz, 1847. FRIEND of my heart, once more I pen
The lines of hope, and breathe again!
Trust me, my dread, now undeceived,
Can speak of all that is believed;
For every hour, 'twixt hope and fear,
Since thy departure seemed a year,
Imagining thy flight would bring
My instant ruin on the wing.
My memory became a void,
Without thy presence unenjoyed;
My former friends I shunned or crost,
Thinking by thee that all was lost.
How terrible to me that day,
Which drew thee from thy home away!
To quit this sea of stormy waves,
Where thought is tombed in living graves.
Yet prudently thy flight thou bent
From torture, and I praise the' intent,
Since faithfully hast thou redeemed
The fate that wasted me, or seemed.
At thy departure such a shock,
As ocean hurls against the rock,
Was given, and still the breakers fret,
And the proud sea is heaving yet.
This is no land that freedom loves,
But like the main unstable moves,
Moves without gale to stir the ocean,
And feels, in apathy, commotion.
The glassy calm conceals the shoals
Where love is wrecked, and perish souls,
Where momently engulphed descend
Worth, fortune, family, and friend.
For every word, however plain,
A covert enemy you gain,
His neighbour every neighbour fears,
Unless a witness overhears.
Here lust of lordly power obtains
A blessing, and securely reigns,
While greediness of lucre buys
The soul, and sells as merchandise.
Proud tongues of glory boast, and they
Accomplish not the good they say,
Who speaks the truth for honour dies,
He noble is who smiles and lies.
The sharper, who the falsest plays,
And wins, is honoured with the praise,
Who gilds his garments at the' expense
Of honesty and common sense.
There is a company of grave
And reverend jugglers that we have,
Who in their lust of power and pelf
Hoodwink Hypocrisy herself.
Gayer than Spring they turn the hours,
Engarlanding their games with flowers;
But not the evil ones can wait
More watchful at the snares of fate.
Two lines of their most secret pen
To ashes burn the hearts of men,
Not locust swarms on flowers of May
Have hydra heads so fierce as they.
Like Deities they sit on high,
And deal the verdicts of the sky,
The calm which follows their appeal
Makes venerated reason reel.
Their footsteps thread the crowded street,
All seeming slow, yet softly fleet;
Clouds of mysterious incense hide
The recognition of their pride.
These enemies that wrought thy pain
Divide thy half of life from Spain,
Yet let not thy rejoicing be
"If others suffer, I am free."
Unsatisfied with half thy store,
They turn to peel the many more.
Guard well our secrets, nor reveal ;
Thy friends may be the first to feel.
Thrice happy thou who couldst retire
From mulct, from prison, pains, and fire,
Now eastward passing with a name,
Wreathed by the grateful hands of fame.
So cruel is the age, and strong,
Truth is reversed, and right is wrong,
That, envying the serene repose
Thy venturous resolution knows,
In liberty and peace to rest,
Enshrouded in the distant West,
The example thou hast left I see,
And gird my feet to follow thee.
Surely a miracle Divine
To happy pilgrimage drew thine,
To find, in foreign lands, a birth
To new relations, friends, and earth.
Now, I shall be the next to roam
From kindred, country, hearth, and home;
For when Religion wrongs His laws,
The Deity Himself withdraws.
IMPROMPTU ON READING A RELATION OF AN
AUTO DA FÉ OF BOOKS.
BURN Books! burn Thought? unthinking men,
Not your control
Can kill the Spirit of the Pen
Is still the Soul.
What through the pile and flame be brought,
And more, and higher!
The lightnings of electric thought
Return in fire.
Thou Pen! the quick'ner of the worth
Of man to be!
Thou, multiplying Mind, on earth!
Avouching its Celestial birth,
Shalt make it free.
For every tome of price destroyed,
A double volume fills the void
Burn on! ye wise ones of a day,
For so ye beacon Freedom's way,
And speed the ages.
STANZAS FROM THE ITALIAN OF SIGNORA DONNA COSTANZA D'AVALO, DUCHESSA DI AMALFI.
O HEAVENLY Love, O Light divine!
From this dark world of noise and strife,
My spirits flee direct to Thee,
And languish for immortal life.
My heart e'en now enjoys the day
When Love his bounteous banquet brings,
And spurns away this weight of clay
To mount upon seraphic wings.
No whirlwinds there, no tempests dare
To trouble that Celestial scene;
For my true Sun becalms the air,
And makes my every hour serene.
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