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:

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 sh.o.r.e the thunders of the sea."

A MEDITATION ON RHODE ISLAND COAL.

"Decolor, obscurus, vilis, non ille repexam Cesariem regum, non candida virginis ornat Colla, nec insigni splendet per cingula morsu Sed nova si nigri videas miracula saxi, Tune superat pulchroa 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-colored 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, And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow way.

Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stone-- A 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 pa.s.sage 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.

Like a soft mist upon the evening sh.o.r.e, 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 gra.s.sy edge, And the small waves that dallied with the sedge.

The barley was just reaped; the 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 wood-- For 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-- 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.

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 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.

For thou shalt forge vast railways, and shalt heat The hissing rivers into steam, and drive Huge ma.s.ses 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 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.

THE NEW MOON.

When, as the garish day is done, Heaven burns with the descended sun, 'Tis pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sing 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 sweet 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.

And there do graver men behold A type of errors, loved of old, Forsaken and forgiven; And thoughts and wishes not of earth Just opening in their early birth, Like that new light in heaven.

OCTOBER.

Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath!

When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death.