Oft starting as some light guitar
Its breath of sweetness shed,
Yet lord and lover linger'd far
Till life's brief vision fled.
Their vaunted tournament is o'er,
Their knightly lance in rest,
Ambition's fever burns no more
Within their conquering breast,
For high between the earth and skies,
Check'd in their venturous path,
A fearful monument they rise,
Of Andes vengeful wrath.
THE NEW-ZEALAND MISSIONARY.
"We cannot let him go. He says he is going to return to England,—the ship is here to take him away. But no,—we will keep him, and make him our slave; not our slave to fetch wood and draw water but our talking slave. Yes,—he shall be our slave, to talk to and to teach us. Keep him we will."—Speech of Rev. Mr. Yates, at the Anniversary of the Church Missionary Society, London, May, 1835.
'Twas night, and in his tent he lay,
Upon a heathen shore,
While wildly on his wakeful ear
The ocean's billows roar;
'Twas midnight, and the war-club rang
Upon his threshold stone,
And heavy feet of savage men
Came fiercely tramping on.
Loud were their tones in fierce debate,
The chieftain and his clan,
