And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side: 
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: 
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

ROMERO.

When freedom, from the land of Spain,
  By Spain’s degenerate sons was driven,
Who gave their willing limbs again
  To wear the chain so lately riven;
Romero broke the sword he wore—­
  “Go, faithful brand,” the warrior said,
“Go, undishonoured, never more
  The blood of man shall make thee red: 
  I grieve for that already shed;
And I am sick at heart to know,
That faithful friend and noble foe
Have only bled to make more strong
The yoke that Spain has worn so long. 
Wear it who will, in abject fear—­
  I wear it not who have been free;
The perjured Ferdinand shall hear
  No oath of loyalty from me.” 
Then, hunted by the hounds of power,
  Romero chose a safe retreat,
Where bleak Nevada’s summits tower
  Above the beauty at their feet. 
There once, when on his cabin lay
The crimson light of setting day,
When even on the mountain’s breast
The chainless winds were all at rest,
And he could hear the river’s flow
From the calm paradise below;
Warmed with his former fires again,
He framed this rude but solemn strain: 

I.

“Here will I make my home—­for here at least I see,
Upon this wild Sierra’s side, the steps of Liberty;
Where the locust chirps unscared beneath the unpruned lime,
And the merry bee doth hide from man the spoil of the mountain thyme;
Where the pure winds come and go, and the wild vine gads at will,
An outcast from the haunts of men, she dwells with Nature still.

II.

“I see the valleys, Spain! where thy mighty rivers run,
And the hills that lift thy harvests and vineyards to the sun,
And the flocks that drink thy brooks and sprinkle all the green,
Where lie thy plains, with sheep-walks seamed, and olive-shades between: 
I see thy fig-trees bask, with the fair pomegranate near,
And the fragrance of thy lemon-groves can almost reach me here.

III.