Those trials it seemed were appointed to attend him further, even if it had pleased the Almighty to prolong his existence. Shortly before his death, the Mexican legislature passed a law declaring that no one should hold any office under the republic who was not a natural born citizen; and thus he was, among others, deprived of the offices he had held with credit to himself and advantage to the state. If the measure were directed against him personally, it was of short operation, and political intrigues could not avail to deprive him of the consciousness of having fulfilled his duties honourably, or of the claim he had to leave on the remembrance of future ages. JOSÈ MARIA HEREDIA. SONNET. DEDICATION OF THE SECOND EDITION OF HIS POEMS, TO HIS WIFE. When yet was burning in my fervid veins The fieriness of youth, with many a tear Of grief, ’twas mine of all my feelings drear, To pour in song the passion and the pains; And now to Thee I dedicate the strains, My Wife! when Love, from youth’s illusions freer, In our pure hearts is glowing deep and clear, And calm serene for me the daylight gains. Thus lost on raging seas, for aid implores Of Heaven the unhappy mariner, the mark Of tempests bearing on him wild and dark; And on the altars, when are gain’d the shores, Faithful to the Deity he adores, He consecrates the relics of his bark. TO HIS HORSE. Friend of my hours of melancholy gloom, To soothe me now, come, scouring o’er the plain; Bear me that I forgetfulness may gain, Lost in thy speed from my unhappy doom. The fond illusions of my love are gone, Fled never to return! and with them borne Peace, happiness and hope: the veil is drawn, And the bared cheat shows frenzy’s end alone. O! how the memory of pleasures past Now wearies me! horrible that soul’s state, Of flowers of hope, or freshness desolate! What then remains it? Bitterness o’ercast. This south wind kills me: O! that I could rest In sweet oblivion, temporary death! Kind sleep might moderate my feverish breath, And my worn soul again with strength be blest. My Horse, my friend, I do implore thee, fly! Though with the effort break my frame so weak: Grant for thy master’s brows he thus may seek Sleep’s balmy wings spread forth benignantly. Let him from thee gain such refreshment kind; Though much another day it caused me shame, In my mad cruelty and frenzy’s blame, My crimson’d heels, and thy torn flanks to find. Pardon my fury! beats upon my eye The sorrowing tear. Friend, when my shouts declare Impatience, then the biting spur to spare Wait not, but toss thy mane, thy head, and fly. THE SEASON OF THE NORTHERS.