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The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems

Simms, William Gilmore (1806-1870)

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[section]
  
[dedication]
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THE VISION OF CORTES.
  
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 1. 
I.
 2. 
II.
 3. 
III.
 4. 
IV.
 5. 
V.
 6. 
VI.
 7. 
VII.
 8. 
VIII.
 9. 
IX.
 10. 
X.
 12. 
XII.
 13. 
XIII.
 14. 
XIV.
 15. 
XV.
 16. 
XVI.
 17. 
XVII.
 18. 
XVIII.
 19. 
XIX.
 20. 
XX.
 21. 
XXI.
 22. 
XXII.
 23. 
XXIII.
 24. 
XXIV.
 25. 
XXV.
 26. 
XXVI.
 27. 
XXVII.
 28. 
XXVIII.
 29. 
XXIX.
 30. 
XXX.
 31. 
XXXI.
 32. 
XXXII.
 33. 
XXXIII.
  
CAIN.
  
ASHLEY RIVER.
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MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
  
THE STARS.
  
STANZAS TO IDA.
  
DIRGE OF THE LEAVES.
  
THE LAST LEAF.
  
STANZAS TO IDA.
  
TO THE SAME.
  
TO THE SAME.
  
STANZAS.
  
TO THYRZA.
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SONNETS.
  
[Come down, ye dark brow'd ministers of thought]
  
[Can I not lay me down, at once, and die?]
  
[Thou wilt remark my fate, when I am dead]
  
[Ambition owns no friend—yet be thou mine]
  
[To-morrow, I shall have no charge in life]
  
[The barque is ready, for your carriage hence]
  
[Ay, I have heard enough]
  
[Last night, the moon shone suddenly in streams]
  
[It was a picture of much loveliness]
  
[My child, my beautiful child, when I am gone]
  
[I saw it in my dream. O! could I task]
  
[Thou hast enamor'd me of woodland scenes]
  
[Ah! me, that sleeping, like Endymion]
  
[Moonlight is down among the pleasant hills]
  
[Sweetness, and gamesome images, surround]
  
[Come, sit thee down beside me—I would rest]
  
[The spirits that do dress the flow'rs with dew]
  
[I think, good shepherd, you did dream of this]
  
FAREWELL TO IDA.

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XVI.

Will this appease the kindled souls,
Of those, who, mad with conquest, deem,
No land that blooms, no sea that rolls,
The proudest in enthusiast's dream,
Tho' bearing native demi-gods,
And born upon a lucky hour,
Can venture with the fearful odds,
Of their own wild, advent'rous pow'r!
The cry is forth—the sleuth-hound wakes,
An appetite, that nothing slakes,
And what shall feed his fury's rage,
What, shall that appetite assuage?
What, cool that fever in the brain?
Which reason seeks to calm, in vain—
What, still that tempest in the breast,
That will not fly, and cannot rest?—
Away—for other victims—bring
To sacrifice, a foe—a King!
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