A Wreath of Virginia Bay Leaves | Page 5

tawny sands--
While all the evening air
of roses whisper'd.
Over her face a rich, warm blush spread slowly,

And she laughed, a low, sweet, mellow laugh
To see the branches

still evade her hands--
Her small white hands which seem'd indeed as
if
Made only thus to gather roses.
Then with face
All flushed and smiling she did nod to me
Asking
my help to gather them for her:
And so, I bent the heavy clusters
down,
Show'ring the rose-leaves o'er her neck and face;
Then
carefully she plucked the very fairest one,
And court'seying playfully
gave it to me--
Show'd me her finger-tip, pricked by a thorn,
And
when I would have kiss'd it, shook her head,
Kiss'd it herself, and
mock'd me with a smile!
The rose she gave me sleeps between the
leaves
Of an old poet where its sight oft brings
That summer
evening back again to me.
A REPLY TO A YOUNG LADY.
"I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done
Than to be one
of the twenty to follow my own teaching," --Merchant of Venice.
"Do as I tell you, and not as I do."
--Old Saying.
You say, a "moral sign-post" I
Point out the road towards the sky;

And then with glance so very shy
You archly ask me, lady, why
I
hesitate myself to go
In the direction which I show?
To answer is an easy task,
If you allow me but to ask
One little
question, sweet, of you:--
'Tis this: should sign-posts travel too

What would bewildered pilgrims do--
Celestial pilgrims, such as
you?
A STORY OF THE CARACAS VALLEY.
High-perch'd upon the rocky way,
Stands a Posada stern and grey;

Which from the valley, seems as if,
A condor there had paus'd to
'light
And rest upon that lonely cliff,
From some stupendous flight;

But when the road you gain at length,
It seems a ruin'd hold of

strength,
With archway dark, and bridge of stone,
By waving
shrubs all overgrown,
Which clings 'round that ruin'd gate,
Making
it look less desolate;
For here and there, a wild flower's bloom
With
brilliant hue relieves the gloom,
Which clings 'round that Posada's
wall--
A sort of misty funeral pall.
The gulf spann'd by that olden arch
Might stop an army's onward
march,
For dark and dim--far down below--
'Tis lost amid a
torrent's flow;
And blending with the eagle's scream
Sounds
dismally that mountain-stream,
That rushes foaming down a fall

Which Chamois hunter might appal,
Nor shame his manhood, did he
shrink
In treading on its dizzy brink.
In years long past, ere bridge
or wall
Had spann'd that gulf and water-fall,
'Tis said--perhaps, an
idle tale--
That on the road above the vale
Occurred as strange and
wild a scene,
As ever ballad told, I ween.--
Yes, on this road which
seems to be
Suspended o'er eternity;
So dim--so shadow-like--the
vale
O'er which it hangs: but to my tale:
Once, 'tis well-known, this
sunny land
Was ravag'd by full many a band
Of reckless buccaneers.

Cities were captur'd [2]--old men slain;
Trampled the fields of
waving cane;
Or scatter'd wide the garner'd grain;
An hour wrought
wreck of years!
Where'er these stern freebooters trod,
In hacienda--church of God--

Or, on the green-enamell'd sod--
They left foot-prints so deep,
That
but their simple names would start
The blood back to each Spanish
heart,
And make the children weep.
E'en to this day, their many crimes
The peasants sing in drowsy
rhymes--
On mountain, or on plain;
And as they sing, the plaintive
song
Tells many a deed of guilt and wrong--
Each has a doleful
strain!

One glorious morn, it so befell,
I heard the tale which I shall tell,
At

that Posada dark and grey
Which stands upon the mountain way,

Between Caracas and the sea;
So grim--so dark--it seem'd to me
Fit
place for deed of guilt or sin--
Tho' peaceful peasants dwelt therein.
At midnight we, (my friends and I,)
Beneath a tranquil tropic sky,

Bestrode our mules and onward rode,
Behind the guide who swiftly
strode
Up the dark mountain side; while we
With many a jest and
repartee--
With jingling swords, and spurs, and bits--
Made trial of
our youthful wits.
Ah! we were gay, for we were young
And care
had never on us flung--
But, to my tale: the purple sky
Was thick
overlaid with burning stars,
And oft the breeze that murmur'd by,

Brought dreamy tones from soft guitars,
Until we sank in silence
deep.
It was a night for thought not sleep--
It was a night for song
and love--
The burning planets shone above--
The Southern Cross
was all ablaze--
'Tis long since it then met my gaze!--
Above us,
whisp'ring in the breeze,
Were many strange, gigantic trees,
And in
their shadow, deep and dark,
Slept many a pile of mould'ring bones;

For tales of murder fell and stark,
Are told by monumental stones

Flung by the passer's hand, until
The place grows to a little hill.

Up through the shade we rode, nor spoke,
Till suddenly the morning
broke.
Beneath we saw in purple shade
The mighty sea; above
display'd,
A thousand gorgeous hues which met
In tints that I
remember yet;
But which I may not paint, my skill,
Alas! would but
depict it ill--
E'en Claude has never given hints
On canvas of such
splendid tints!
The mountains, which ere dawn of day
I'd liken'd
unto friars grey--
Gigantic friars clad in grey--
Stood now like kings,
wrapp'd in the fold
[Footnote 2: