PART II.

Far amidst the western ocean, Lies a small and pleasant isle; Fair with everlasting verdure, Bright with summer's endless smile.

There o'er one, all sadly musing Sweets distil from spicy trees; Yet, though all around is blooming, Nothing cheers him that he sees.

Lonely in sweet groves of myrtle, Sad amongst the orange bloom; Nothing cheers his drooping spirit, Nothing dissipates his gloom.

Twice ten years he there has wandered, Nor one human face has seen; Moving like a silent shadow, Rocks have his companions been.

Clad in skins of beasts; like serpents Wild, is his unheeded hair; Yet through lines of deep dejection, His once manly face is fair.

As from gathered flowers, the odour Never wholly dies away,-- Of the warrior, and the scholar, Intimations round him play.

Nurtured in the camp, the college, Never can his soul be void; In the busy past his spirit, Heart, and mind, must be employed.

Lists he yet the stirring battle, Lists he victory's rending shout? Tranquil is the isle, the ocean, Pain within him, peace without.

Yes! he oft-times hears the trumpet, Captains' shouting, horses' neigh! Till before the horrid stillness, All the tumult dies away.

And is this the courtly warrior, Gallant, gay Sir Francis Leke? He, the same!--who shunning discord, Found a peace he did not seek?

Bravely sailed he from Old England, Boldly with adventurous prow; From the horrors of that voyage He alone is living now.

To his bravery owes he being-- Last to quit the groaning deck-- In his fight his comrades perished-- Days he floated on the wreck.

Till this lone and lovely island, Cheered him with refreshing bloom; Saved him from the ravening ocean, To a sad and lingering doom.

In a cave has he his dwelling, High, o'erlooking wide the main, Where he feeds in painful being, Longings infinite and vain.

Nightly there he burns a beacon; Often there the day he spends; And towards his native country Wistful gaze o'er ocean sends.

There a cross has he erected-- Near to which an altar stands, Humble growth of feelings holy Reared by his unaided hands.

Truly needs he prove a Christian, Thus cut off from all his kind; Firmest faith he needs in Heaven; And boundless fortitude of mind.

Store he needs of endless knowledge, His unvaried hours to cheer; Furnished with sublime resources For this solitude austere.

Still the isle is very lovely-- Never yet in Poet's mind, Haunt of Peri, realm of faéry, Was more lavishly divined.

Lovely as the Primal Garden, In the light of Sabbath blest; Human love alone is wanting In this Eden of the West.

Leap from rocks the living waters: Hang delicious fruits around: And all birds of gorgeous plumage Fill the air with happy sound.

Painful is to him its beauty-- Sad the splendour of the sun; To the odorous air he utters Sorrow that is never done:--

"Blest was I beyond all blessing! "In my wife and children blest: "In my friends and in my fortune-- "Yet in peace I could not rest.

"Never in his prosperous greatness, "Can himself the wisest trust; "God has weighed and found me wanting-- "And the punishment is just."

Oft before the cross, the altar, Murmuring prayer he sinks to rest; To his God, and to his Saviour-- And the Virgin Mother blest.

And for love unto the Virgin Finds in Heaven his prayer chief grace! "Mary, Mother, me deliver, "From the horrors of this place!

"Others crave more worldly guerdon-- "Wealth, or fame, or station high; "Love I seek--to see my country-- "My own people--and to die!"

Praying thus, old legends tell us, Scarce his eyes in sleep were sealed; When, O, happy inward vision, To him was his home revealed.

There his patrimonial mansion, He beheld in moonlight sleep, Saw with joy though mystery veiled it-- Sadness and a silence deep.

And, O miracle of gladness! More, those ancient legends say, Was permitted him to witness, Waking, in the open day.

In his old church-porch awaking-- Trance, or voyage all unknown; O'er his own domains he wandered-- Saw, and knew them for his own.

Had chance Voyagers beheld him, In a trance, who slumbering bore, By some heavenly impulse, guided Him unto his native shore?

Not so--says the holy legend-- Force of penitential prayer-- And the love he bore the Virgin-- Won for him that transit fair.

Spare the legend for its beauty-- Carp not--what is it to you If the letter is a fable? In its spirit it is true.

Leave we unto old tradition That which its dim mist sublimes, Nor submit the ancient spirit To the light of later times!

See! before his welcome threshold! Once again, Sir Francis stand: Oh! the transport,--it is real!-- He is in his native land!