582 The Forest Sanctuary. [June, 



XII. 

 Yet art thou lovely ! — Song is on thy hills— 

 Oh sweet and mournful melodies of Spain, 

 That hdl'd my boyhood, how your memory thrills 

 The exile's heart with sudden-wakening pain ! — 

 Your sounds are on the rocks — that I might hear 

 Once more the music of the mountaineer ! — 

 And from the sunny vales the shepherd's strain 

 Floats out, and fills the solitary place 

 With the old tuneful names of Spain's heroic race. 



XIII. 

 But there was silence one bright, golden day, 

 Through my OAvn pine-hung mountains. Clear, yet lone 

 In the rich autumn light the vineyards lay. 

 And from the fields the peasant's voice was gone ; 

 And the red grapes untrodden strew'd the ground, 

 And the free flocks untended roam'd aiound : 

 Where was the pastor ? — where the pipe's wild tone ? 

 Music and mirth were hush'd the hills among. 

 While to the city's gates each hamlet pour'd its tlurong. 



XIV. 



Silence upon the mountains ! — But within 

 The city's gates a rush — a press — v- sw-ell 

 Of multitudes their torrent way to win ; 

 And heavy boomings of a dull deep bell, 

 A dead pause following each — like that which parts 

 The dash of billows, holding breathless hearts 

 Fast in the hush of fear — knell after knell ; 

 And sounds of thickening steps, like thundev-rain, 

 That plashes on the roof of some vast echoing fane ! 



XV. 



What pageant's hour approach'd ? — The sul'en gate 

 Of a strong ancient prison-house Avas thrown 

 Back to the day. And who, in mournful state. 

 Came forth, led slowly o'er its threshold-stone? 

 They that had learn'd, in cells of secret gloom, 

 How sunshine is forgotten ! — They, to whom 

 The very features of maiikijid were grown 

 Tilings that bewilder'd ! — O'er their dazzled sight 

 They lifted their wan hands, and cower'd before the light ! 



With the martyr Alvar, come his two sisters — Inez the younger, a creature of 

 tenderness and fragile beauty ; and Theresa, of a loftier and graver mould. 



XXXV. 



But the dark hours wring forth the hidden might 

 Which hath lain bedded in the silent soul, 

 A treasure all undreamt of; — as the night 

 Calls out the harmonies of streams that roll 

 Unheard by day. It seem'd as if her breast 

 Had hoarded energies, till then supprcss'd 

 Almost with pain, and bursting from control. 

 And finding first that hour their pathway free : 

 — Could a rose brave the storm, such might her emblem be ' 



XXXVI. 



For the soft gloom whose shadow still had hung 

 On her fair brow, beneath its garlands worn. 

 Was fled ; and fire, like prophecy's, had sprung 

 Clear to her kindled eye. It might be scorn — 

 Pride — sense of wrong — ay, the frail heart is bound 

 By these at times, ev'n as with adamant round. 

 Kept so'from breaking ! — yet not thus upborne 

 She mov'd, though some sustaining passion's wave 

 Lifted her fervent soul— a sister for the brave ! 



