The Poets and Poetry of America

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His daily task of political or literary discussion was far from giving him sufficient literary employment. His mind overflowed in all directions into

other journals, even some of different political opinions from those which he supported. He had a propensity for innocent and playful literary mischief. It was his sport to excite public curiosity by giving extracts, highly spiced with fashionable allusions and satire, "from the forthcoming novel;" which novel, in truth, was, and is yet to be written; or else to entice some unhappy wight into a literary or historical newspaper discussion, then to combat him anonymously, or, under the mask of a brother editor, to overwhelm him with history, facts, quotations, and authorities, all, if necessary, manufactured for the occasion; in short, like SHAKSPEARE'S "merry wanderer of the night," to lead his unsuspecting victim around "through bog, through bush, through brier." One instance of this sportive propensity occurred in relation to a controversy about the material of the Grecian crown of victory, which arose during the excitement in favour of Grecian liberty some years ago. Several ingenious young men, fresh from their college studies, had exhausted all the learning they could procure on this grave question, either from their own acquaintance with antiquity, or at second hand from the writers upon Grecian antiquities, LEMPRIERE, POTTER, BARTHELEMI, or the more erudite Paschalis de Corona; till SANDS grew tired of seeing so much scholarship wasted, and ended the controversy by an essay filled with excellent learning, chiefly fabricated by himself for the occasion, and resting mainly on a passage of PAUSANIUS, quoted in the original Greek, for which it is in vain to look in any edition of that author, ancient or modern. He had also other and graver employments. In 1828, some enterprising printers proposed to supply South America with Spanish books suited to that market, and printed in New York. Among the works selected for this purpose were the original letters of CORTES, the conqueror of Mexico. No good life of CORTES then existing in the English or Spanish language, SANDS was employed by the publishers to prepare one, which was to be translated into Spanish, and prefixed to the edition. He was fortunately relieved from any difficulty arising from the want of materials, by finding in the library of the New York Historical Society a choice collection of original Spanish authorities, which afforded him all that he desired. His manuscript was translated into Spanish, and prefixed to the letters of the Conquistador, of which a large edition was printed, while the original remained in manuscript until Sans's writings were collected, after his death, by Mr. VERPLANCK. Thus his work had the singular fortune of being read throughout Spanish America, in another language, while it was totally unknown in its own country and native tongue. Soon after completing this piece of literary labour, he became accidentally engaged in another undertaking which afforded him much amusement and gratification. The fashion of decorated literary annuals, which the English and French had bor

rowed some years before from the literary alma. nacs, so long the favourites of Germany, had reached the United States, and the booksellers in the principal cities were ambitiously vieing with each other in the " Souvenirs," "Tokens," and other annual volumes. Mr. BLISS, a bookseller of New York, desirous to try his fortune in the same way, pressed Mr. SANDS to undertake the editorship of a work of this sort. This he at first declined; but it happened that, in conversation with his two friends, Mr. VERPLANCK and Mr. BRYANT, a regret was expressed that the old fashion of Queen ANNE's time, of publishing volumes of miscellanies by two or three authors together, had gone out of date. They had the advantage, it was said, over our ordinary magazines, of being more select and distinctive in the characters and subjects, and yet did not impose upon the authors the toil or responsibility of a regular and separate work. In this way POPE and SWIFT had published their minor pieces, as had other writers of that day, of no small merit and fame. One of the party proposed to publish a little volume of their own miscellanies, in humble imitation of the English wits of the last century. It occurred to SANDS to combine this idea with the form and decorations of the annual. The materials of a volume were hastily prepared, amid other occupations of the several authors, without any view to profit, and more for amusement than reputation; the kindness of several artists, with whom SANDS was in habits of intimacy, furnished some respectable embellishments; and thus a miscellany which, with the exception of two short poetical contributions, was wholly written by Mr. SANDS and his two friends above named, was published with the title of "The Talisman," and under the name and character of an imaginary author, FRANCIS HERBERT, Esq. It was favourably received, and, on the solicitation of the publisher, a second volume was as hastily prepared in the following year, by the same persons. Of this publication about one-fourth was entirely from SANDS's pen, and about as much more was his joint work with one or another of his friends. This, as the reader must have remarked, was a favourite mode of authorship with him. He composed with ease and rapidity, and, delighting in the work of composition, it gave him additional pleasure to make it a social enjoyment. He had this peculiarity, that the presence of others, in which most authors find a restraint upon the free course of their thoughts and fancies, was to him a source of inspiration and excitement. This was peculiarly visible in gay or humorous writing. In social compositions of this nature, his talent for ludicrous description and character and incident rioted and revelled, so that it generally became more the business of his coadjutor to chasten and sober his thick-coming fancies, than to furnish any thing like an equal contingent of thought or invention. For the purpose of such joint-stock authorship it is necessary that one of the associates should possess SANDS'S unhesitating and rapid fluency of written style, and his singular power of seizing the ideas and

images of his friends, and assimilating them per-
fectly to his own.

His "Dream of PAPANTZIN," a poem, one of the fruits of his researches into Mexican history,

* "PAPANTZIN, a Mexican princess, sister of MOTEUCZOMA, and widow of the governor of Tlatelolco, died, as was supposed, in the palace of the latter, in 1509. Her funeral rites were celebrated with the usual pomp; her brother and all the nobility attending. She was buried in a cave, or subterranean grotto, in the gardens of the same palace, near a reservoir in which she usually bathed. The entrance of the cave was closed with a stone of no great size. On the day after the funeral, a little girl, five or six years old, who lived in the palace, was going from her mother's house to the residence of the princess's major-domo, in a farther part of the garden; and passing by, she heard the princess calling to her eoeoton, a phrase used to call and coax children, &c. &c. The princess sent the little girl to call her mother, and much alarm was of course excited. At length the King of Tezcuco was notified of her resurrection; and, on his representation, MoTEUCZOMA himself, full of terror, visited her with his chief nobility. He asked her if she was his sister. 'I am,' said she, 'the same whom you buried yesterday. I am alive, and desire to tell you what I have seen, as it imports to know it.' Then the kings sat down, and the others remained standing, marvelling at what they heard.

"Then the princess, resuming her discourse, said:'After my life, or, if that is possible, after sense and the power of motion departed, incontinently I found myself in a vast plain, to which there was no bound in any direction. In the midst I discerned a road, which divided into various paths, and on one side was a great river, whose waters made a frightful rushing noise. Being minded to leap into it to cross to the opposite side, a fair youth stood before my eyes, of noble presence, clad in long robes, white as snow, and resplendent as the sun. He had two wings of beautiful plumage, and bore this sign on his forehead, (so saying, the princess made with her fingers the sign of the cross;) and taking me by the hand, said, 'Stay, it is not yet time to pass this river. God loves thee, although thou dost not know it.' Thence he led me along the shores of the river, where I saw many skulls and human bones, and heard such doleful groans, that they moved me to compassion. Then, turning my eyes to the river, I saw in it divers great barks, and in them many men, different from those of these regions in dress and complexion. They were white and bearded, having standards in their hands, and helmets on their heads. Then the young man said to me, 'GoD wills that you should live, that you may bear testimony of the revolutions which are to occur in these countries. The clamours thou hast heard on these banks are those of the souls of thine ancestors, which are and ever will be tormented in punishment of their sins. The men whom thou seest passing in the barks, are those who with arms will make themselves masters of this country; and with them will come also an annunciation of the true God, Creator of heaven and earth. When the war is finished, and the ablution promulgated which washes away sin, thou shalt be first to receive it, and guide by thine example all the inhabitants of this land.' Thus having said, the young man disappeared; and I found myself restored to life-rose from the place on which I lay-lifted the stone from the sepulchre, and issued forth from the garden, where the servants found me.'

"MOTEUCZOMA went to his house of mourning, full of heavy thoughts, saying nothing to his sister, (whom he would never see again,) nor to the King of Tezcuco, nor to his courtiers, who tried to persuade him that it was a feverish fantasy of the princess. She lived many years afterward, and in 1524 was baptized."

This incident, says CLAVIGERO, was universally known, and made a great noise at the time. It is described in several Mexican pictures, and affidavits of its truth were sent to the court of Spain.-The Talisman.

is remarkable for the religious solemnity of the thoughts, the magnificence of the imagery, and the flow of the versification. It was first published in "The Talisman," for the year 1839.

His next literary employment was the publi cation of a new "Life of PAUL JONES," from original letters and printed and manuscript materials furnished him by a niece of the commodore. He at first meditated an entirely original work, as attractive and discursive as he could make it; but various circumstances limited him in great part to compilation and correction of the materials furnished him, or, as he termed it in one of his letters, in his accustomed quaintness of phrase, “upsetting some English duodecimos, together with all the manuscripts, into an American octavo, without worrying his brains much about the matter." This biography was printed in 1831, in a closely-printed octavo, and is doubtless the best and most authen tic narrative of the life of this gallant, chivalrous, and erratic father of the American navy.

In the close of the year 1832, a work, entitled "Tales of the Glauber Spa," was published in New York. This was a series of original tales by dif ferent authors-BRYANT, PAULDING, LEGGETT, and Miss SEDGWICK. To this collection SANDS contributed the introduction, which is tinged with his peculiar humour, and two of the tales, both of which are written in his happiest vein.

The last finished composition of SANDS was 3 little poem entitled "The Dead of 1832," which appeared anonymously in "The Commercial Advertiser," about a week before his own death. He was destined to join those whom he mourned within the few remaining days of the same year. CHARLES F. HOFFMAN had then just established

The Knickerbocker Magazine," and SANDS, on the seventeenth of December, about four o'clock in the afternoon, sat down to finish an article on Esquimaux Literature," which he had engaged to furnish for that periodical. After writing with a pencil the following line, suggested, probably, by some topic in the Greenland mythology,

"O, think not my spirit among you abides," he was suddenly struck with the disease which removed his own spirit from its material dwelling. Below this line, on the original manuscript, were observed, after his death, several irregular pencilmarks, extending nearly across the page, as if traced by a hand that moved in darkness, or no longer obeyed the impulse of the will. He rose, opened the door, and attempted to pass out of the room, but fell on the threshold. On being assisted to his chamber, and placed on the bed, he was observed to raise his powerless right arm with the other, and looking at it, to shed tears. He shortly after relapsed into a lethargy, from which he nevet awoke, and in less than four hours from the attack, expired without a struggle. He died in his thirtyfourth year, when his talents, enriched by study and the experience of life, and invigorated by constant exercise, were fully matured for greater and bolder literary enterprise than any he had yet essayed. His death was deeply mourned by many friends, and most deeply by those who knew him best.

Go forth, sad fragments of a broken strain,
The last that either bard shall e'er essay !
The hand can ne'er attempt the chords again,
That first awoke them, in a happier day:
Where sweeps the ocean breeze its desert way,
His requiem murmurs o'er the moaning wave;
And he who feebly now prolongs the lay,

Shall ne'er the minstrel's hallow'd honours crave;
His harp lies buried deep, in that untimely grave!
Friend of my youth, with thee began the love
Of sacred song; the wont, in golden dreams,
Mid classic realms of splendours past to rove,
O'er haunted steep, and by immortal streams;
Where the blue wave, with sparkling bosom, gleams
Round shores, the mind's eternal heritage,
Forever lit by memory's twilight beams;
Where the proud dead, that live in storied page,
Beckon, with awful port, to glory's earlier age.

There would we linger oft, entranced, to hear, O'er battle fields, the epic thunders roll; Or list, where tragic wail upon the ear, Through Argive palaces shrill echoing, stole; There would we mark, uncurb'd by all control, In central heaven, the Theban eagle's flight; Or hold communion with the musing soul Of sage or bard, who sought, mid pagan night, In loved Athenian groves, for truth's eternal light. Homeward we turn'd, to that fair land, but late Redeem'd from the strong spell that bound it fast, Where mystery, brooding o'er the waters, sate And kept the key, till three millenniums pass'd; When, as creation's noblest work was last; Latest, to man it was vouchsafed, to see Nature's great wonder, long by clouds o'ercast, And veiled in sacred awe, that it might be An empire and a home, most worthy for the free.

And here, forerunners strange and meet were found,

Of that bless'd freedom, only dream'd before ;Dark were the morning mists, that linger'd round Their birth and story, as the hue they bore. "Earth was their mother;"-or they knew no

more, Or would not that their secret should be told; For they were grave and silent; and such lore, To stranger ears, they loved not to unfold, The long-transmitted tales their sires were taught

of old.

Kind nature's commoners, from her they drew
Their needful wants, and learn'd not how to hoard;
And him whom strength and wisdom crown'd
they knew,

But with no servile reverence, as their lord.
And on their mountain summits they adored
One great, good Spirit, in his high abode,
And thence their incense and orisons pour'd
To his pervading presence, that abroad
They felt through all his works,-their Father,
King, and God.

And in the mountain mist, the torrent's spray, The quivering forest, or the glassy flood, Soft-falling showers, or hues of orient day, They imaged spirits beautiful and good; But when the tempest roar'd, with voices rude, Or fierce red lightning fired the forest pine, Or withering heats untimely sear'd the wood, The angry forms they saw of powers malign; These they besought to spare, those bless'd for aid divine.

As the fresh sense of life, through every vein, With the pure air they drank, inspiring came, Comely they grew, patient of toil and pain, And as the fleet deer's, agile was their frame; Of meaner vices scarce they knew the name; These simple truths went down from sire to son,— To reverence age,-the sluggish hunter's shame And craven warrior's infamy to shun,- [done. And still avenge each wrong, to friends or kindred From forest shades they peer'd, with awful dread, When, uttering flame and thunder from its side, The ocean-monster, with broad wings outspread, Came ploughing gallantly the virgin tide. Few years have pass'd, and all their forests' pride From shores and hills has vanish'd, with the race, Their tenants erst, from memory who have died, Like airy shapes, which eld was wont to trace, In each green thicket's depths, and lone, sequester'd place.

And many a gloomy tale, tradition yet Saves from oblivion, of their struggles vain, Their prowess and their wrongs, for rhymer meet, To people scenes where still their names remain; And so began our young, delighted strain, That would evoke the plumed chieftains brave, And bid their martial hosts arise again, Where Narraganset's tides roll by their grave, And Haup's romantic steeps are piled above the

wave.

Friend of my youth! with thee began my song, And o'er thy bier its latest accents die; Misled in phantom-peopled realms too long,Though not to me the muse adverse deny, Sometimes, perhaps, her visions to descry, Such thriftless pastime should with youth be o'er; And he who loved with thee his notes to try, But for thy sake, such idlesse would deplore, And swears to meditate the thankless muse no more.

But, no! the freshness of the past shall still Sacred to memory's holiest musings be; When through the ideal fields of song, at will, He roved and gather'd chaplets wild with thee; When, reckless of the world, alone and free, Like two proud barks, we kept our careless way, That sail by moonlight o'er the tranquil sea; Their white apparel and their streamers gay Bright gleaming o'er the main, beneath the ghostly

ray;

And downward, far, reflected in the clear
Blue depths, the eye their fairy tackling sees;
So buoyant, they do seem to float in air,
And silently obey the noiseless brecze;

254

Till, all too soon, as the rude winds may please,
They part for distant ports: the gales benign
Swift wafting, bore, by Heaven's all-wise decrees,
To its own harbour sure, where each divine
And joyous vision, seen before in dreams, is thine.
Muses of Helicon! melodious race

Of Jove and golden-hair'd MNEMOSYNE;
Whose art from memory blots each sadder trace,
And drives each scowling form of grief away!
Who, round the violet fount, your measures gay
Once trod, and round the altar of great JOVE;
Whence, wrapt in silvery clouds, your nightly way
Ye held, and ravishing strains of music wove,
That soothed the Thunderer's soul, and fill'd his
courts above.

Bright choir! with lips untempted, and with zone
Sparkling, and unapproach'd by touch profane;
Ye, to whose gladsome bosoms ne'er was known
The blight of sorrow, or the throb of pain;
Rightly invoked,—if right the elected swain,
On your own mountain's side ye taught of yore,
Whose honour'd hand took not your gift in vain,
Worthy the budding laurel-bough it bore,-
Farewell! a long farewell! I worship you no more.

DREAM OF THE PRINCESS PAPANTZIN.

MEXITLIS' power was at its topmost pride;
The name was terrible from sea to sea;
From mountains, where the tameless Ottomite
Maintain'd his savage freedom, to the shores
Of wild Higueras. Through the nations pass'd,
As stalks the angel of the pestilence, [young,
The great king's messengers. They marked the
The brave and beautiful, and bore them on
For their foul sacrifices. Terror went
Grief and wrath
Before the tyrant's heralds.

Remain'd behind their steps; but they were dumb.
He was as God. Yet in his capital
Sat MOTEUCZOMA, second of that name,
Trembling with fear of dangers long foretold
In ancient prophecies, and now announced
By signs in heaven and portents upon earth;
By the reluctant voices of pale priests;
By the grave looks of solemn counsellors;
But chief, by sickening heaviness of heart
That told of evil, dimly understood,
But evil which must come. With face obscured,
And robed in night, the giant phantom rose,
Of his great empire's ruin, and his own.
Happier, though guiltier, he, before whose glance
Of reckless triumph, moved the spectral hand
That traced the unearthly characters of fate.
'Twas then, one eve, when o'er the imperial lake
And all its cities, glittering in their pomp,
The lord of glory threw his parting smiles,
In TLATELOLCo's palace, in her bower,
PAPANTZIN lay reclined; sister of him

At whose name monarchs trembled. Yielding there
To musings various, o'er her senses crept

Or sleep, or kindred death. It seem'd she stood
In an illimitable plain, that stretch'd

Its desert continuity around,
Upon the o'erwearied sight; in contrast strange
With that rich vale, where only she had dwelt,
Whose everlasting mountains, girdling it,
As in a chalice held a kingdom's wealth;
Their summits freezing, where the eagle tired,
But found no resting-place. PAPANTZIN look'd
On endless barrenness, and walk'd perplex'd
Through the dull haze, along the boundless heath.
Like some lone ghost in Mictlan's cheerless gloom
Debarred from light and glory. Wandering thus
She came where a great sullen river pour'd
Its turbid waters with a rushing sound
Of painful moans; as if the inky waves
Were hastening still on their complaining course
To escape the horrid solitudes. Beyond
What seem'd a highway ran, with branching paths
Innumerous. This to gain, she sought to plunge
Straight in the troubled stream. For well she knew
To shun with agile limbs the current's force,
Nor fear'd the noise of waters. She had play'd
From infancy in her fair native lake,
Amid the gay plumed creatures floating round,
Wheeling or diving, with their changeful hues
As fearless and as innocent as they.

A vision stay'd her purpose. By her side
Stood a bright youth; and startling, as she gazed
On his effulgence, every sense was bound
In pleasing awe and in fond reverence.
For not TEZCATLIPOCA, as he shone
Upon her priest-led fancy, when from heaven
By filmy thread sustain'd he came to earth,
In his resplendent mail reflecting all
Its images, with dazzling portraiture,
Was, in his radiance and immortal youth,
A peer to this new god.-His stature was
Like that of men; but match'd with his, the port
Of kings all dreaded was the crouching mien
Of suppliants at their feet. Serene the light
That floated round him, as the lineaments
It cased with its mild glory. Gravely sweet
The impression of his features, which to scan
Their lofty loveliness forbade: His eyes
She felt, but saw not: only, on his brow-
From over which, encircled by what seem'd
A ring of liquid diamond, in pure light
Revolving ever, backward flow'd his locks
In buoyant, waving clusters-on his brow
She mark'd a cross described; and lowly bent,
She knew not wherefore, to the sacred sign.
From either shoulder mantled o'er his front
Wings dropping feathery silver; and his robe,
Snow-white, in the still air was motionless,
As that of chisell'd god, or the pale shroud
Of some fear-conjured ghost. Her hand he took
And led her passive o'er the naked banks
Of that black stream, still murmuring angrily.
But, as he spoke, she heard its moans no more;
His voice seem'd sweeter than the hymnings raised
By brave and gentle souls in Paradise,
To celebrate the outgoing of the sun,
On his majestic progress over heaven.
Stay, princess," thus he spoke, "thou mayst not
O'erpass these waters. Though thou know'st it not,
Nor him, God loves thee." So he led her on,

[yet

Unfainting, amid hideous sights and sounds: For now, o'er scatter'd skulls and grisly bones They walk'd; while underneath, before, behind, Rise dolorous wails and groans protracted long, Sobs of deep anguish, screams of agony, And melancholy sighs, and the fierce yell Pia Of hopeless and intolerable pain.

Shuddering, as, in the gloomy whirlwind's pause, Through the malign, distemper'd atmosphere, The second circle's purple blackness, pass'd The pitying Florentine, who saw the shades Of poor FRANCESCA and her paramour, The princess o'er the ghastly relics stepp'd, Listening the frightful clamour; till a gleam, (Whose sickly and phosphoric lustre seem'd Kindled from these decaying bones, lit up The sable river. Then a pageant came Over its obscure tides, of stately barks, Fr Gigantic, with their prows of quaint device, Tall masts, and ghostly canvass, huge and high, Hung in the unnatural light and lifeless air. Grim, bearded men, with stern and angry looks, Strange robes, and uncouth armour, stood behind Their galleries and bulwarks. One ship bore A broad sheet-pendant, where, inwrought with gold, She mark'd the symbol that adorned the brow Of her mysterious guide. Down the dark stream Swept on the spectral fleet, in the false light Flickering and fading. Louder then uprose The roar of voices from the accursed strand, Until in tones, solemn and sweet, again Her angel-leader spoke. "Princess, Gon wills That thou shouldst live, to testify on earth What changes are to come: and in the world Where change comes never, live, when earth and all Its changes shall have pass'd like earth away. The cries that pierced thy soul and chill'd thy veins Are those of thy tormented ancestors.

[ments,

Nor shall their torment cease; for God is just.
Foredoom'd, since first from Aztlan led to rove,
Following, in quest of change, their kindred tribes-
Where'er they rested, with foul sacrifice
They stain'd the shuddering earth. Their monu-
By blood cemented, after ages pass'd,
With idle wonder of fantastic guess
The traveller shall behold. For, broken, then,
Like their own ugly idols, buried, burn'd,
Their fragments spurn'd for every servile use,
Trampled and scatter'd to the reckless winds,
The records of their origin shall be.
Still in their cruelty and untamed pride,
They lived and died condemn'd; whether they
Outcasts, upon a soil that was not theirs,
All sterile as it was, and won by stealth
Food from the slimy margent of the lake,
And digg'd the earth for roots and unclean worms;
Or served in bondage to another race,
Who loved them not. Driven forth, they wander'd
In miserable want, until they came
Where from the thriftless rock the nopal grew,
On which the hungry eagle perch'd and scream'd,
And founded Tenochtitlan; rearing first,
With impious care, a cabin for their god
HUITZILOPOCHTLI, and with murderous rites
Devoting to his guardianship themselves

[dwelt

[then

And all their issue. Quick the nopal climb'd,
Its harsh and bristly growth towering o'er all
The vale of Anahuac. Far for his prey,
And farther still the ravenous eagle flew;
And still with dripping beak, but thirst unslaked,
With savage cries wheel'd home. Nine kings have
reign'd,

Their records blotted and besmear'd with blood
So thick that none may read them. Down the stairs
And o'er the courts and winding corridors
Of their abominable piles, uprear'd

In the face of heaven, and naked to the sun,
More blood has flow'd than would have fill'd the lakes
O'er which, enthroned midst carnage, they have sat,
Heaping their treasures for the stranger's spoil.
Prodigious cruelty and waste of life,
Unnatural riot and blaspheming pride,-

All that God hates, and all that tumbles down
Great kingdoms and luxurious commonwealths,
After long centuries waxing all corrupt,-
In their brief annals aggregated, forced,
And monstrous, are compress'd. And now the cup
Of wrath is full; and now the hour has come.
Nor yet unwarn'd shall judgment overtake
The tribes of Aztlan, and in chief their lords,
MEXITLIS' blind adorers. As to one
Who feels his inward malady remain,
Howe'er health's seeming mocks his destiny,
In gay or serious mood the thought of death
Still comes obtrusive; so old prophecy,
From age to age preserved, has told thy race
How strangers, from beyond the rising sun,
Should come with thunder arm'd, to overturn
Their idols, to possess their lands, and hold
Them and their children in long servitude.

"Thou shalt bear record that the hour is nigh.
The white and bearded men whose grim array
Swept o'er thy sight, are those who are to come,
And with strong arms, and wisdom stronger far,
Strange beasts, obedient to their masters' touch,
And engines hurling death, with Fate to aid,
Shall wrest the sceptre from the Azteques' line,
And lay their temples flat. Horrible war,
Rapine, and murder, and destruction wild
Shall hurry like the whirlwind o'er the land.
Yet with the avengers come the word of peace;
With the destroyers comes the bread of life;
And, as the wind-god, in thine idle creed,
Opens a passage with his boisterous breath
Through which the genial waters over earth
Shed their reviving showers; so, when the storm
Of war has pass'd, rich dews of heavenly grace
Shall fall on flinty hearts. And thou, the flower,--
Which, when huge cedars and most ancient pines,
Coeval with the mountains, are uptorn,

The hurricane shall leave unharm'd,-thou, then, Shalt be the first to lift thy drooping head Renew'd, and cleansed from every former stain.

"The fables of thy people teach, that when The deluge drown'd mankind, and one sole pair In fragile bark preserved, escaped and climb'd The steeps of Colhuacan, daughters and sons Were born to them, who knew not how to frame Their simplest thoughts in speech; till from the A dove pour'd forth, in regulated sounds, [grove

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