NIAGARA.

FROM THE SPANISH OF JOSE MARIA HEREDIA.

My lyre! give me my lyre! my bosom feels
The glow of inspiration. Oh how long
Have I been left in darkness since this light
Last visited my brow. Niagara!

Thou with thy rushing waters dost restore
The heavenly gift that sorrow took away.

Tremendous torrent! for an instant hush
The terrors of thy voice and cast aside
Those wide involving shadows, that my eyes
May see the fearful beauty of thy face!
I am not all unworthy of thy sight,
For from my very boyhood have I loved,
Shunning the meaner track of common minds,
To look on nature in her loftier moods.
At the fierce rushing of the hurricane,

At the near bursting of the thunderbolt

I have been touched with joy; and when the sea, Lashed by the wind, hath rocked my bark and showed

Its yawning caves beneath me, I have loved

Its dangers and the wrath of elements.

But never yet the madness of the sea

Hath moved me as thy grandeur moves me now.

Thou flowest on in quiet, till thy waves
Grow broken 'midst the rocks; thy current then
Shoots onward like the irresistible course

Of destiny. Ah, terribly they rage

The hoarse and rapid whirlpools there! My brain
Grows wild, my senses wander,

as I

gaze

Upon the hurrying waters, and my sight
Vainly would follow, as toward the verge

Sweeps the wide torrent-waves innumerable
Meet there and madden-waves innumerable
Urge on and overtake the waves before,
And disappear in thunder and in foam.

They reach they leap the barrier-the abyss
Swallows insatiable the sinking waves.

A thousand rainbows arch them, and woods
Are deafened with the roar. The violent shock
Shatters to vapor the descending sheets-
A cloudy whirlwind fills the gulf, and heaves
The mighty pyramid of circling mist
To heaven. The solitary hunter near
Pauses with terror in the forest shades.

What seeks my restless eye? Why are not here, About the jaws of this abyss, the palmsAh-the delicious palms, that on the plains Of my own native Cuba, spring and spread Their thickly foliaged summits to the sun, And, in the breathings of the ocean air, Wave soft beneath the heaven's unspotted blue.

But no, Niagara,-thy forest pines

Are fitter coronal for thee. The palm,
The effeminate myrtle, and frail rose may grow
In gardens, and give out their fragrance there,
Unmanning him who breathes it. Thine it is
To do a nobler office. Generous minds
Behold thee, and are moved, and learn to rise
Above earth's frivolous pleasures; they partake
Thy grandeur at the utterance of thy name.

God of all truth! In other lands I 've seen
Lying philosophers, blaspheming men,
Questioners of thy mysteries, that draw
Their fellows deep into impiety,

And therefore doth my spirit seek thy face
In earth's majestic solitudes. Even here
My heart doth open all itself to thee.
In this immensity of loneliness

I feel thy hand upon me. To my ear
The eternal thunder of the cataract brings
Thy voice, and I am humbled as I hear.

Dread torrent! that with wonder and with fear
Dost overwhelm the soul of him that looks
Upon thee, and dost bear it from itself.

Whence hast thou thy beginning? Who supplies,
Age after age, thy unexhausted springs?
What power hath ordered, that, when all thy weight
Descends into the deep, the swollen waves
Rise not, and roll to overwhelm the earth?

The Lord hath opened his omnipotent hand, Covered thy face with clouds, and given his voice To thy down-rushing waters; he hath girt Thy terrible forehead with his radiant bow. I see thy never-resting waters run,

And I bethink me how the tide of time

Sweeps to eternity. So pass of man

Pass, like a noon-day dream-the blossoming days,
And he awakes to sorrow. I, alas!

Feel that my youth is withered, and my brow
Ploughed early with the lines of grief and care.

Never have I so deeply felt as now
The hopeless solitude, the abandonment,
The anguish of a loveless life. Alas!
How can the impassioned, the unfrozen heart
Be happy without love. I would that one
Beautiful,-worthy to be loved and joined
In love with me,-now shared my lonely walk
On this tremendous brink. 'T were sweet to see
Her dear face touched with paleness, and become

More beautiful from fear, and overspread
With a faint smile while clinging to my side!
Dreams-dreams. I am an exile, and for me
There is no country and there is no love.

Hear, dread Niagara, my latest voice!
Yet a few years and the cold earth shall close
Over the bones of him who sings thee now
Thus feelingly. Would that this, my humble verse,
Might be like thee, immortal. I, meanwhile,
Cheerfully passing to the appointed rest,

Might raise my radiant forehead in the clouds
To listen to the echoes of my fame.

MY NATIVE VILLAGE.

THERE lies a village in a peaceful vale,

With sloping hills and waving woods around Fenced from the blasts. There never ruder gale

Bows the tall grass that covers all the ground; And planted shrubs are there, and cherished flowers, And a bright verdure born of gentle showers.

'T was there my young existence was begun,— My earliest sports were on its flowery green; And often, when my school-boy task was done,

I climbed its hills to view the pleasant scene, And stood and gazed, till the sun's setting ray Shone on the height, the sweetest of the day.

There, when that hour of mellow light was come,
And mountain shadows cooled the ripened grain,

I watched the weary yeoman, plodding home
In the lone path that winds across the plain,

To rest his limbs, and watch his child at play,
And tell him o'er the labors of the day.

And when the woods put on their autumn glow,
And the bright sun came in among the trees,
And leaves were gathering in the glen below,
Swept softly from the mountains by the breeze,-
I wandered, till the starlight on the stream
At length awoke me from my fairy dream.

Ah, happy days! too happy to return,

Fled on the wing of youth's departed years!
A bitter lesson has been mine to learn,

The truth of life, its labors, pains, and fears;
Yet does the memory of my boyhood stay,
A twilight of the brightness passed away.

My thoughts recur to that sweet village still,

Its flowers and peaceful shades before me rise,
The play-place and the prospect from the hill,
Its summer verdure and autumnal dies;

The present brings its storms, but while they last,
I shelter me in the delightful past.

J. H. B.

A CHANGEFUL PICTURE.

It was the morning of a day in Spring,

The sun looked gladness from the eastern sky;

Birds were upon the trees and on the wing,

And all the air was rich with melody;

The heaven, the calm, clear heaven, was bright on high;

Earth laughed beneath in all its freshening green;

The free, blue stream sung as it wandered by ;

And many a sunny glade and flowery scene

Gleamed out, like thoughts of youth, life's troubled years between.