The silver horn of the advancing tide
Had ploughed its highest furrow in the sand,
And was retiring. Noon, with hasty stride,
Had passed by forest, beach, and rocky strand,
And golden City, and was on the sea,
Journeying westward. Every leafy tree
Began to east long shadows to the east,
And from old Ocean's quiet, deep blue breast,
The evening breeze was lifting more and more,
And slowly drifting toward the longing shore.
The sea-fowls lay, like orbs of silver foam,
On the still surface of their hollow home;
And from the deep transparent element,
Like spiritual echoes faintly went
A slow, sad, plaintive psalm, as if it moaned
To the absent stars, and the great sun enthroned
In the empyrean, and its waves had tongues.
In the blue distance lay some misty throngs
Of green isles sleeping on the emerald sea,
Loveliest of Nature's delicate jewelry.
And one great solitary monument
Of the old fires that shook the Continent,
A thunder-shattered peak, shot up afar,
With snowy head that glittered like a star,
Towering above the ocean. Toward the shore
White sails now glided, running free before
The freshening breeze; and, anchored finn and fast,
Great ships their lengthening shadows landward cast.
The nautilus came up, and spread his sail
Proudly awhile before the gentle gale,
And then sank down like a dissolving dream,
Or bubble breaking on a dimpled stream.
Just at the edge of these voluptuous seas,
Ran a green pathway, canopied by trees,
Winding in labyrinthine intricacies,
With nooks amid gray trunks, and open spaces
Where lovers could retire, beneath thick vines
And drooping branches, from the common sight,
And breathe their vows. The rich fruits now were bright
With the sun's spirit, and the grass was green,
Abundant, level, and luxuriant,
And slightly now swept wavingly aslant
By the voluptuous sea-breeze, that began,
Breathing from ocean's cooler bosom, to fan
The forehead of old Tellus, and shake down
The pulpy fruit from the encumbered crown
Of ancient trees, upon the flowery sward.
The sun was slowly verging oceanward,
And, braving now his eye, the dusky shades
Began to gather shyly underneath
Continuous trees. Here amorous, star-eyed maids,
Like lillies floating on blue lakes, enwreath
Their shapely arms, clustering in merry bands,
And interlocking their small, delicate hands,
With tempting looks from the mantilla glancing,
And little feet that never cease their dancing.
And many a one clings to her lover's side
Alone and trustingly, and some even hide
Themselves in natural grots of twisted vines,
Or of great trees that join their ponderous spines,
There listening to and whispering vows of love;
While ever and anon their bright eyes rove,
To see if any watch the stolen kiss,
And the succeeding blush.

In the abyss
Of apathy and care which men call life,
Who hath not passed such hours? Who looks not back
Through long, dull days, and sleepless nights, and strife,
To such sweet hours? Who doth not sometimes track
The pathway of the past, and once more stand
Between life's gates, with Memory hand-in-hand,
And feel that one such dear, delicious hour
Outweighs the rest of life? The heart will cower
With shame, regret, sadness, remorse, and pain,
When Memory calls back other hours again;
That one alone is like a pleasant dream
Long vanished, yet more exquisite. We seem
To catch a faint glimpse of a former life,
Among the stars, before our exile here.

Many of these fair maids had tried in vain
To see the face of one who mutely leaned
Against a gnarled old tree, and partly screened
With his full Spanish cloak, his countenance;
And one that somewhat nearer did advance,
A laughing girl, and merrier than wise,
Was so rebuked by his deep mournful eyes,
She shrunk away abashed.

There came a gentle, almost noiseless step,
Pressing the green grass softly as the lip
Of virgin love. A fair young girl it was,
With slow and painful gait, and frequent pause,
As if from sickness feeble.
From his face
The dark cloak dropped; a moment more he stood
Irresolute; then with quick footsteps strode
After the maiden. Wearied, she had stopped,
Leaning against an orange tree, that dropped
Its blossoms on her hair. She rose to fly,
With a faint cry of terror; but her eye
Timidly looked in his, her forehead flushed,
Her sweet lips parted, and at once she rushed
Into his arms; her single cry, 'Ramon!'
The big tears rained from his full eyes upon
Her wan white cheek and forehead, as he pressed
Her slender form to his broad manly breast.
Her soft eyes closed, and fainting quite away,
Like a fair child upon that breast she lay.
But soon with kisses he brought back her life,
Calling her his angel, his delight, his wife;
And, sitting on a rustic chair, long gazed
On her dear face, till she her sweet eyes raised,
And murmured once again his treasured name,
And kissed his forehead, and his eyes, and laid
Her head again upon his breast, and said,—
'They told me thou wast dead, and I
Believed the cunning, cruel lie.
They said the priests had borne thee, bound
To where the gloomy mountains frowned,
And left thee there, alone, to die;
To watch the dial of the sky
Measure thy fleeting hours of life;
To feel the keen and glittering knife
Of cold hail piercing to thy bones,
And fear to utter dying moans,
Lest to the fierce wolves thou shouldst call.
They told me this; they told me all
That cunning taught them would avail
To render plausible the tale,
I longed to seek thy poor remains,
But like a prisoner in chains,
Within my room was I confined,
Until for want of air I pined,
And wasted to a shadow there.
Like the pale flowers that, growing where
Light never ventures, in deep caves,
Above which thunder the hoarse waves,
Have neither color, scent or hue,
Thus pale, and weak, and faint I grew;
And then they brought thy mouldering bones,
The liars said so, from the thrones
Of storm and snow; and with a din
Of joy and triumph flung them in
The depths of the eternal sea.
And then they once more set me free.

But thou art greatly changed too. Yet
Thy pale cheeks with fresh tears are wet.'

''Tis true, Antonia, I have wept;
The fountains that so long were dry,
Have overflowed once more, and I
Am young again. Thine eyes still shine
Upon my own, thy lips kiss mine,
And our past agonies now seem
Only a half-remembered dream.
The heart has many mysteries,
For thou hast lived to taste new bliss
If it be life, indeed, to crave
A sanctuary in the grave;
To loathe the dawn and hate the sun,
As I did, as thou must have done.
With grief, despair, and woe unspoken.
For me, I had a thirst to slake,
Within that deep and burning lake,
Revenge, which would not let me die.'
'Ah, dear Ramon!' she said, 'shall I
Love thee again? We will not part,
Will we, Ramon? 'Twould break my heart.
Promise; and I no more shall feel
The sickness that so long doth steal
My life-blood and my life away.
Let us not part! Thou canst not stay
Here, in a city where thy head,
For ancient wrong, hatred half-fed,
And villainy's continual fear,
If thou didst openly appear,
Would make a traitor's fortune. No!
Better the mountains and cold snow,
Better a frail canoe at sea,
Than danger, doubt, and treachery.
My stern, cold father entertains
All his old hatred; and the rains
Will sooner melt the dark-basalt,
Than thou convince him of his fault,
From care and pain and sorrow part,
Grow strong as giants at the heart,
With happy days and nights of love;
Build up our house in some thick grove;
And press thee, love; will watch thine eye,
And when thou sighest, I will sigh,
Will kiss thine eyes to placid sleep,
And danger from thy slumbers keep;
In life will I be always near,
Nor will I murmur, love, or fear
Cold Death himself. We'll die together,
Like clouds that melt in summer weather:
The gentle wind and summer sea
Shall sing our dirge.'