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Translated by W. H. Hurlbut
THE WEARY summer’s all-consuming heat | |
| Is tempered now; for from the frozen pole | |
| The freed north-winds come fiercely rushing forth, | |
| Wrapt in their mantles, misty, dim, and frore, | |
| While the foul fever flies from Cuba’s shore. | 5 |
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| Deep roars the ocean, heaving high his breast, | |
| And smites the beach with long resounding blows; | |
| Zephyr his wings in dewy freshness bathes, | |
| And floating vapors veil transparently | |
| The glowing sun and the resplendent sky. | 10 |
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| Hail, happy days! whose healing might o’erthrows | |
| The bloody shrine which May, amid her flowers, | |
| Built up to Death, while close beside her stood | |
| Attendant Fever, ghastly pale and fierce, | |
| A gleaming form, clothed on with Nature’s curse. | 15 |
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| With threatening eyes the kindred spirits saw | |
| The white-browed sons of milder regions move | |
| Beneath the terrors of this tropic sky; | |
| They saw, they touched them with the fatal rod,— | |
| Their frames are dust, their souls are with their God. | 20 |
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| But their fell reign is o’er; the northern wind, | |
| Driving the noxious poisons from the air, | |
| Spreads its broad wings above us, moist and cool, | |
| And echoing, sweeps upon its blessed way, | |
| Bringing us rest from August’s sultry day. | 25 |
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| O’er the far fields of Europe’s gloomy land | |
| Rushes in wrath untamed the selfsame blast, | |
| Spoiling the earth of verdure and of life, | |
| Whelming the wreck beneath a snowy tomb, | |
| While man lies shivering in his frozen home. | 30 |
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| There all is death and grief; but Cuba now | |
| Smiles with new life and joy: the beaming sun, | |
| His glories softened by translucent clouds, | |
| Lends a new lustre to the grove and plain, | |
| And wakes them all to joyous spring again. | 35 |
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| My happy land! thou favored land of God, | |
| Where rest his mildest looks, his kindliest smiles, | |
| Oh, nevermore from thy beloved soil | |
| May cruel fortune tear me; but be thine | |
| The latest light that on these eyes shall shine! | 40 |
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| How sweet, dear love, to listen to the rain | |
| That patters softly on our humble home; | |
| To hear the wild winds whistling o’er the plain, | |
| And the deep booming of the ocean’s roar, | |
| Where shattering surges lash the distant shore! | 45 |
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| Here, by thy side, on softest couch reclined, | |
| My throbbing lyre shall rest upon thy knees, | |
| And my glad heart shall sing the boundless peace | |
| Of thy fair soul, the light of thy dear face, | |
| My happy lot, and God’s surpassing grace. | 50 |
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