I have not loved the world, nor the world me,-- But let us part fair foes. I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things,--hopes which will not deceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing: I would also deem O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve; That two, or one, are almost what they seem, That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream. ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR Missolonghi, January 22d, 1824. 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone: The worm, the canker, and the grief Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze-- A funeral pile. The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. But 'tis not _thus_, and 'tis not _here_, Such thoughts should shake my soul--nor _now_, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. Awake! (not Greece--she _is_ awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through _whom_ Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home! Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood!--unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regrett'st thy youth, _why live_? The land of honorable death Is here:--up to the field, and give Away thy breath! Seek out--less often sought than found-- A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest. FERNAN CABALLERO (CECILIA BÖHL DE FABER) (1796-1877) England, France, and Spain have each produced within this century a woman of genius, taking rank among the very first writers of their respective countries. Fernan Caballero, without possessing the breadth of intellect or the scholarship of George Eliot, or the artistic sense of George Sand, is yet worthy to be named with these two great novelists for the place she holds in Spanish literature. Interesting parallels might be drawn between them, aside from the curious coincidence that each chose a masculine pen-name to conceal her sex, and to gain the ear of a generation suspicious of feminine achievements. Each portrayed both the life of the gentleman and that of the rustic, and each is at her best in her homelier portraitures.