There is, at times, an evening sky-- The twilight's gift--of sombre hue, All checkered wild and gorgeously With streaks of crimson, gold and blue;-- A sky that strikes the soul with awe, And, though not brilliant as the sheen, Which in the east at morn we saw, Is far more glorious, I ween;-- So glorious that, when night hath come And shrouded it in deepest gloom, We turn aside with inward pain And pray to see that sky again. Such sight is like the struggle made When freedom bids unbare the blade, And calls from every mountain glen-- From every hill--from every plain, Her chosen ones to stand like men, And cleanse their souls from every stain Which wretches, steeped in crime and blood, Have cast upon the form of God. Though peace like morning's golden hue, With blooming groves and waving fields, Is mildly pleasing to the view, And all the blessings that it yields Are fondly welcomed by the breast Which finds delight in passion's rest, That breast with joy foregoes them all, While listening to Freedom's call. Though red the carnage,--though the strife Be filled with groans of parting life,-- Though battle's dark, ensanguined skies Give echo but to agonies-- To shrieks of wild despairing,-- We willingly repress a sigh-- Nay, gaze with rapture in our eye, Whilst "FREEDOM!" is the rally-cry That calls to deeds of daring. * * * * * The waves dash brightly on thy shore, Fair island of the southern seas! As bright in joy as when of yore They gladly hailed the Genoese,-- That daring soul who gave to Spain A world--last trophy of her reign! Basking in beauty, thou dost seem A vision in a poet's dream! Thou look'st as though thou claim'st not birth With sea and sky and other earth, That smile around thee but to show Thy beauty in a brighter glow,-- That are unto thee as the foil Artistic hands have featly set Around Golconda's radiant spoil, To grace some lofty coronet,-- A foil which serves to make the gem The glory of that diadem! * * * * *