A Wreath of Virginia Bay Leaves | Page 6

Panama, Carthagena, Maracaibo, and Chagres, were at
various times held by the buccaneers.]
A Story of the Caracas Valley.
Of gorgeous clouds around them roll'd--
Their lofty heads all crown'd

with gold;
And many a painted bird went by
Strange to my
unaccustom'd eye--
Their plumage mimicking the sky.
O'er many a
league, and many a mile--
Crag--pinnacle--and lone defile--
All
Nature woke!--woke with a smile--
As tho' the morning's golden
gleam
Had broken some enchanting dream,
But left its soft
impression still,
On lofty peak and dancing rill.
With many a halt
and many a call,
At last we saw the rugged wall,
And gaz'd upon
the ruin'd gate
Which even then look'd desolate,
For that Posada so
forlorn
Seem'd sad e'en on so gay a morn!
The heavy gate at length
unbarr'd,
We rode within the busy yard,
Well scatter'd o'er with
many a pack;
For on that wild, romantic track,
The long and
heavy-laden trains
Toil seaward from the valley's plains.
And often
on its silence swells
The distant tinkle of the bells,
While muleteers'
shrill, angry cries
From the dim road before you rise;
And such
were group'd in circles round
Playing at monté on the ground;
Each
swarthy face that met my eye
To thought of honesty gave lie.
In
each fierce orb there was a spark
That few would care to see by
dark--
And many a sash I saw gleam thro'
The keen cuchillo into
view.
Within; the place was rude enough--
The walls of clay--in
color buff--
A pictur'd saint--a cross or so--
A hammock swinging
to and fro--
A gittern by the window laid

Whereon the morning
breezes play'd,
And its low tones and broken parts
Seem'd like
some thoughtless minstrel's arts--
A rugged table in the floor--
Ran
thro' this homely comedor.
Here, weary as you well may think,
An
hour or so we made abode,
To give our mules both food and drink,

Before we took again the road;
And honestly, our own repast
Was
that of monks from lenten fast.
The meal once o'er; our stores
replaced;
We gather'd where the window fac'd
Upon the vale, and
gaz'd below
Where mists from a mad torrent's flow
Were dimly
waving to and fro.
Meanwhile, the old guitar replied
To the swift
fingers of our guide:
His voice was deep, and rich, and strong,
And
he himself a child of song.
At first the music's liquid flow
Was soft
and plaintive--rich and low;
The murmur of a fountain's stream


Where sleeping water-lilies dream;
Or, like the breathing of
love-vows
Beneath the shade of orange-boughs;
And then more
stirring grew his song--
A strain which swept the blood along!
And
as he sang, his eyes so sad--
Which lately wore the look of pain,

Danc'd with a gleam both proud and glad,
Awaken'd by his fervid
strain--
His face now flush'd and now grew pale--
The song he sang,
was this, my tale.
A fort above Laguayra stands,
Which all the town below commands.

The damp moss clings upon its walls--
The rotting drawbridge
slowly falls--
Its dreary silentness appalls!
The iron bars are thick
with rust
And slowly moulder into dust;
The roofless turrets show
the sky,
The moats below are bare and dry--
No captain issues
proud behest--
The guard-room echoes to no jest;
As I have said,
within those walls
The very silentness appalls!
In other days it was
not so--
The Spanish banner, long ago,
Above the turrets tall did
flow.
And many a gallant soldier there
With musket or with
gleaming spear,
Pac'd on the battlements that then
Were throng'd
with tall and proper men.
But this was many a year ago--
A long
shot back for mem'ry's bow!
The Governor here made his home

Beneath the great hall's gilded dome.
And here his lady-wife he
brought
From Spain, across the sea;
And sumptuous festival was
made,
Where now the tangled ivy's shade
Is hanging drearily.
The
lady was both fair and young--
Fair as a poet ever sung;

And well
they lov'd; so it is told;--
Had plighted troth in days gone by,
Ere he
had won his spurs of gold,
Or, gain'd his station high.
And often
from the martial keep
They'd sail together on the deep;
Or, wander
many a weary mile
In lonely valley, or defile.
Well; once upon this road, a pair,
A lady and a cavalier,
Were
riding side by side.
And she was young and "passing fair,"
With
crimson lips and ebon hair--
She was the gallant's bride!
And he
was cast in manly mould,
His port was high, and free, and bold--


Fitting a cavalier!
But now bent reverently low
His crest's unsullied
plume of snow
Play'd 'mid the lady's hair.
This knight with orders on his breast,
The Governor, as you have
guess'd--
The lady was his wife, and they,
Alone were on the road
that day;--
Their horses moving at a walk,
And they engaged in
earnest talk,
Low words and sweet they spoke;
The lady smil'd, and
blush'd, and then,
Smiling and blushing, spoke again;
When
sleeping echo woke--
Woke with the shouts of a wild band
Who
urg'd with spur and heavy hand
Their steeds along the way.
Gave but one look the cavalier--
Murmur'd a vow the lady fair--
His
right arm is around her thrown
Her form close-gather'd to his own;

While his brave steed, white as the snow,
Darts like an arrow from
the bow;
His hoofs fall fast as tempest rain
Spurning the road that
rings again.
Onward the race!--now fainter sounds
The yell and
whoop; but still like hounds
The pirate band behind him rush

Breaking