| |
| 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 | 5 |
| With mingled jest and repartee, | |
| And jingling spurs, and swords, and bits, | |
| Made trial of our youthful wits. | |
| Ah! we were gay, for we were young, | |
| And care had never on us flung— | 10 |
| But to my tale: the tranquil sky | |
| Was thick o’erlaid with burning stars, | |
| And oft the breeze that murmured by | |
| Brought dreamy tones of soft guitars, | |
| Until we sank in silence deep. | 15 |
| It was a night for thought, not sleep, | |
| It was a night for song and love; | |
| The blazing planets shone above, | |
| The Southern Cross was all ablaze,— | |
| ’T is long since it then met my gaze!— | 20 |
| Above us, whispering in the breeze; | |
| Were many strange, gigantic trees, | |
| And in their shadow, deep and dark, | |
| Slept many a pile of mouldering bones; | |
| For tales of murder fell and stark | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| Beneath we saw in purple shade | |
| The mighty sea; above displayed | |
| A thousand gorgeous hues which met | |
| In tints that I remember yet, | |
| But which I may not paint, my skill, | 35 |
| Alas! would but depict them ill!— | |
| E’en Claude has never given hints | |
| On canvas of such splendid tints! | |
| The mountains which ere dawn of day | |
| I ’d likened unto friars gray, | 40 |
| Gigantic friars clad in gray, | |
| Now stood like kings wrapped in the fold | |
| Of gorgeous clouds around them rolled, | |
| Their lofty heads all crowned with gold. | |
| And many a painted bird went by, | 45 |
| Strange to my unaccustomed eye, | |
| Its 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, | 50 |
| As though the morning’s golden gleam | |
| Had broken some enchanting dream, | |
| Yet left its soft impression still | |
| On lofty peak and dancing rill. | |
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