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Hath not by his good Angel been cast off
For whom thy supplications rise. The Power
Whose justice doth in its unerring course
Visit the children for the sire's offence,
Shall He not in his boundless mercy hear
The daughter's prayer, and for her sake restore
The guilty parent? My soul shall with thine
In earnest and continual duty join...
How deeply, how devoutly, He will know

To whom the cry is raised!

Thus having said,

Deliberately, in self-possession still,

Himself from that most painful interview
Dispeeding, he withdrew. The watchful dog
Followed his footsteps close. But he retired
Into the thickest grove; there yielding way
To his o'erburthened nature, from all eyes
Apart, he cast himself upon the ground,

And threw his arms around the dog, and cried,

While tears streamed down, Thou, Theron, then hast

known

Thy poor lost master,.. Theron, none but thou!

XVI.

MEANTIME Pelayo up the vale pursued
Eastward his way, before the sun had climbed
Auseva's brow, or shed his silvering beams
Upon Europa's summit, where the snows
Through all revolving seasons hold their seat.
A happy man he went, his heart at rest,

Of hope and virtue and affection full,

To all exhilarating influences

Of earth and heaven alive.

With kindred joy

He heard the lark, who from her airy height,

On twinkling pinions poised, poured forth profuse, In thrilling sequence of exuberant song,

As one whose joyous nature overflowed

With life and power, her rich and rapturous strain. The early bee, buzzing along the way,

From flower to flower, bore gladness on her wing

To his rejoicing sense; and he pursued,

With quickened eye alert, the frolic hare,
Where from the green herb in her wanton path
She brushed away the dews. For he long time,
Far from his home and from his native hills,
Had dwelt in bondage; and the mountain breeze,
Which he had with the breath of infancy
Inhaled, such impulse to his heart restored,
As if the seasons had rolled back, and life

Enjoyed a second spring.

Through fertile fields

He went, by cots with pear-trees overbowered,
Or spreading to the sun their trelliced vines;

Through orchards now, and now by thymy banks,
Where wooden hives in some warm nook were hid
From wind and shower; and now thro' shadowy paths,
Where hazels fringed Pionia's vocal stream;
Till where the loftier hills to narrower bound
Confine the vale, he reached those huts remote
Which should hereafter to the noble line
Of Soto origin and name impart :
A gallant lineage, long in fields of war
And faithful chronicler's enduring page

Blazoned; but most by him illustratëd,
Avid of gold, yet greedier of renown,
Whom not the spoils of Atabalipa
Could satisfy insatiate, nor the fame
Of that wide empire overthrown appease;
But he to Florida's disastrous shores

In evil hour his gallant comrades led,

Through savage woods and swamps, and hostile tribes,
The Apalachian arrows, and the snares

Of wilier foes, hunger, and thirst, and toil;
Till from ambition's feverish dream the touch
Of Death awoke him; and when he had seen
The fruit of all his treasures, all his toil,
Foresight, and long endurance, fade away,
Earth to the restless one refusing rest,
In the great river's midland bed he left
His honoured bones.

A mountain rivulet,

Now calm and lovely in its summer course,
Held by those huts its everlasting way

Toward Pionia. They whose flocks and herds
Drink of its water call it Deva. Here

Pelayo southward up the ruder vale

Traced it, his guide unerring. Amid heaps
Of mountain wreck, on either side thrown high,
The wide-spread traces of its wintry might,
The tortuous channel wound; o'er beds of sand
Here silently it flows; here, from the rock
Rebutted, curls and eddies; plunges here
Precipitate; here, roaring among crags,
It leaps and foams and whirls and hurries on.
Grey alders here and bushy hazels hid

The mossy side; their wreathed and knotted feet
Bared by the current, now against its force
Repaying the support they found, upheld

The bank secure. Here, bending to the stream,
The birch fantastic stretched its rugged trunk,
Tall and erect, from whence, as from their base,
Each like a tree, its silver branches grew.
The cherry here hung for the birds of heaven
Its rosy fruit on high. The elder there
Its purple berries o'er the water bent,
Heavily hanging. Here, amid the brook,
Grey as the stone to which it clung, half root,
Half trunk, the young ash rises from the rock;
And there its parent lifts a lofty head,

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