And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost reach me here. III. "Fair-fair-but fallen Spain! 'tis with a swelling heart, That I think on all thou might'st have been, and look at what thou art; But the strife is over now, and all the good and brave, That would have raised thee up, are gone, to exile or the grave, Thy fleeces are for monks, thy grapes for the convent feast, And the wealth of all thy harvest-fields for the pampered lord and priest. IV. "But I shall see the day-it will come before I die I shall see it in my silver hairs, and with an agedimmed eye; When the spirit of the land to liberty shall bound, As yonder fountain leaps away from the darkness of the ground: And to my mountain cell, the voices of the free Shall rise, as from the beaten shore the thunders of the sea." A MEDITATION ON RHODE-ISLAND COAL. Decolor, obscuris, vilis, non ille repexam CLAUDIAN. I SAT beside the glowing grate, fresh heaped With Newport coal, and as the flame grew bright -The many-coloured flame-and played and leaped, I thought of rainbows and the northern light, Moore's Lalla Rookh, the Treasury Report, And other brilliant matters of the sort. And last I thought of that fair isle which sent The mineral fuel; on a summer day I saw it once, with neat and travel spent, And scratched by dwarf-oaks in the hollow way; Now dragged through sand, now jolted over stone A rugged road through rugged Tiverton. And hotter grew the air, and hollower grew Where will this dreary passage lead me to? A MEDITATION ON COAL. 95 Sloped each way gently to the grassy edge, Lay on the stubble field-the tall maize stood Dark in its summer growth, and shook its leavesAnd bright the sunlight played on the young wood For fifty years ago, the old men say, The Briton hewed their ancient groves away, Went wandering all that fertile region o'erRogue's Island once-but when the rogues were dead, Rhode Island was the name it took instead. Beautiful island! then it only seemed A lovely stranger-it has grown a friend. The treasures of its womb across the sea, Dark anthracite ! that reddenest on my hearth, Thou shalt be coals of fire to those that hate thee, And warm the shins of all that underrate thee. Yea, they did wrong thee foully-they who mocked Thy honest face, and said thou wouldst not burn; Of hewing thee to chimney-pieces talked, And grew profane-and swore, in bitter scorn, And I have seen-not many months ago— Ride forth to visit the reviews, and ah! 'Twas a great Governor-thou too shalt be Great in thy turn-and wide shall spread thy fame, And swiftly; farthest Maine shall hear of thee, The moving soul of many a spinning-jenny, THE NEW MOON. And ply thy shuttles, till a bard can wear 97 The grim old churl about our dwellings rave: Thou, from that "ruler of the inverted year," Shalt pluck the knotty sceptre Cowper gave, And pull him from his sledge, and drag him in, And melt the icicles from off his chin. THE NEW MOON. WHEN, as the garish day is done, Few are the hearts too cold to feel The sight of that young crescent brings And childhood's purity and grace, The captive yields him to the dream And painfully the sick man tries |