THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.

    Here are old trees, tall oaks and gnarled pines,
That stream with gray-green mosses; here the ground
Was never trenched by spade, and flowers spring up
Unsown, and die ungathered. It is sweet
To linger here, among the flitting birds
And leaping squirrels, wandering brooks, and winds
That shake the leaves, and scatter, as they pass,
A fragrance from the cedars, thickly set
With pale blue berries. In these peaceful shades—
Peaceful, unpruned, immeasurably old—
My thoughts go up the long dim path of years,
Back to the earliest days of liberty.

    Oh FREEDOM! thou art not, as poets dream,
A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
And wavy tresses gushing from the cap
With which the Roman master crowned his slave
When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,
Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailed hand
Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,
Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred
With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs
Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched
His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;
They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven.
Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep,
And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,
Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound,
The links are shivered, and the prison walls
Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth,
As springs the flame above a burning pile,
And shoutest to the nations, who return
Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.

    Thy birthright was not given by human hands:
Thou wert twin-born with man. In pleasant fields,
While yet our race was few, thou sat'st with him,
To tend the quiet flock and watch the stars,
And teach the reed to utter simple airs.
Thou by his side, amid the tangled wood,
Didst war upon the panther and the wolf,
His only foes; and thou with him didst draw
The earliest furrows on the mountain side,
Soft with the deluge. Tyranny himself,
Thy enemy, although of reverend look,
Hoary with many years, and far obeyed,
Is later born than thou; and as he meets
The grave defiance of thine elder eye,
The usurper trembles in his fastnesses.

    Thou shalt wax stronger with the lapse of years,
But he shall fade into a feebler age;
Feebler, yet subtler. He shall weave his snares,
And spring them on thy careless steps, and clap
His withered hands, and from their ambush call
His hordes to fall upon thee. He shall send
Quaint maskers, wearing fair and gallant forms,
To catch thy gaze, and uttering graceful words
To charm thy ear; while his sly imps, by stealth,
Twine round thee threads of steel, light thread on thread
That grow to fetters; or bind down thy arms
With chains concealed in chaplets. Oh! not yet
Mayst thou unbrace thy corslet, nor lay by
Thy sword; nor yet, O Freedom! close thy lids
In slumber; for thine enemy never sleeps,
And thou must watch and combat till the day
Of the new earth and heaven. But wouldst thou rest
Awhile from tumult and the frauds of men,
These old and friendly solitudes invite
Thy visit. They, while yet the forest trees
Were young upon the unviolated earth,
And yet the moss-stains on the rock were new,
Beheld thy glorious childhood, and rejoiced.

THE MAIDEN'S SORROW.

Seven long years has the desert rain
    Dropped on the clods that hide thy face;
Seven long years of sorrow and pain
     have thought of thy burial-place.

Thought of thy fate in the distant west,
    Dying with none that loved thee near;
They who flung the earth on thy breast
    Turned from the spot williout a tear.

There, I think, on that lonely grave,
    Violets spring in the soft May shower;
There, in the summer breezes, wave
    Crimson phlox and moccasin flower.

There the turtles alight, and there
    Feeds with her fawn the timid doe;
There, when the winter woods are bare,
    Walks the wolf on the crackling snow.

Soon wilt thou wipe my tears away;
    All my task upon earth is done;
My poor father, old and gray,
    Slumbers beneath the churchyard stone.

In the dreams of my lonely bed,
    Ever thy form before me seems;
All night long I talk with the dead,
    All day long I think of my dreams.

This deep wound that bleeds and aches,
    This long pain, a sleepless pain—
When the Father my spirit takes,
    I shall feel it no more again.

THE RETURN OF YOUTH.

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,
    For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight;
Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time
    Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light,—
Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,
    And quick the thought that moved thy tongue to speak,
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong
    Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.

Thou lookest forward on the coming days,
    Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep;
A path, thick-set with changes and decays,
    Slopes downward to the place of common sleep;
And they who walked with thee in life's first stage,
    Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near,
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age—
    Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear.

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,
    Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die.
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,
    Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky;
Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides,
    Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour;
Waits, like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides
    Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand
    On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet
Than when at first he took thee by the hand,
    Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,
    Life's early glory to thine eyes again,
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill
    Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.

Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,
    Of mountains where immortal morn prevails?
Comes there not, through the silence, to thine ear
    A gentle rustling of the morning gales;
A murmur, wafted from that glorious shore,
    Of streams that water banks for ever fair,
And voices of the loved ones gone before,
    More musical in that celestial air?

A HYMN OF THE SEA.

    The sea is mighty, but a mightier sways
His restless billows. Thou, whose hands have scooped
His boundless gulfs and built his shore, thy breath,
That moved in the beginning o'er his face,
Moves o'er it evermore. The obedient waves
To its strong motion roll, and rise and fall.
Still from that realm of rain thy cloud goes up,
As at the first, to water the great earth,
And keep her valleys green. A hundred realms
Watch its broad shadow warping on the wind,
And in the dropping shower, with gladness hear
Thy promise of the harvest. I look forth
Over the boundless blue, where joyously
The bright crests of innumerable waves
Glance to the sun at once, as when the hands
Of a great multitude are upward flung
In acclamation. I behold the ships
Gliding from cape to cape, from isle to isle,
Or stemming toward far lands, or hastening home
From the old world. It is thy friendly breeze
That bears them, with the riches of the land,
And treasure of dear lives, till, in the port,
The shouting seaman climbs and furls the sail.

    But who shall bide thy tempest, who shall face
The blast that wakes the fury of the sea?
Oh God! thy justice makes the world turn pale,
When on the armed fleet, that royally
Bears down the surges, carrying war, to smite
Some city, or invade some thoughtless realm,
Descends the fierce tornado. The vast hulks
Are whirled like chaff upon the waves; the sails
Fly, rent like webs of gossamer; the masts
Are snapped asunder; downward from the decks,
Downward are slung, into the fathomless gulf,
Their cruel engines; and their hosts, arrayed
In trappings of the battle-field, are whelmed
By whirlpools, or dashed dead upon the rocks.
Then stand the nations still with awe, and pause,
A moment, from the bloody work of war.

    These restless surges eat away the shores
Of earth's old continents; the fertile plain
Welters in shallows, headlands crumble down,
And the tide drifts the sea-sand in the streets
Of the drowned city. Thou, meanwhile, afar
In the green chambers of the middle sea,
Where broadest spread the waters and the line
Sinks deepest, while no eye beholds thy work,
Creator! thou dost teach the coral worm
To lay his mighty reefs. From age to age,
He builds beneath the waters, till, at last,
His bulwarks overtop the brine, and check
The long wave rolling from the southern pole
To break upon Japan. Thou bid'st the fires,
That smoulder under ocean, heave on high
The new-made mountains, and uplift their peaks,
A place of refuge for the storm-driven bird.
The birds and wafting billows plant the rifts
With herb and tree; sweet fountains gush; sweet airs
Ripple the living lakes that, fringed with flowers,
Are gathered in the hollows. Thou dost look
On thy creation and pronounce it good.
Its valleys, glorious with their summer green,
Praise thee in silent beauty, and its woods,
Swept by the murmuring winds of ocean, join
The murmuring shores in a perpetual hymn.

NOON.°

FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM.

    'Tis noon. At noon the Hebrew bowed the knee
And worshipped, while the husbandmen withdrew
From the scorched field, and the wayfaring man
Grew faint, and turned aside by bubbling fount,
Or rested in the shadow of the palm.

    I, too, amid the overflow of day,
Behold the power which wields and cherishes
The frame of Nature. From this brow of rock
That overlooks the Hudson's western marge,
I gaze upon the long array of groves,
The piles and gulfs of verdure drinking in
The grateful heats. They love the fiery sun;
Their broadening leaves grow glossier, and their sprays
Climb as he looks upon them. In the midst,
The swelling river, into his green gulfs,
Unshadowed save by passing sails above,
Takes the redundant glory, and enjoys
The summer in his chilly bed. Coy flowers,
That would not open in the early light,
Push back their plaited sheaths. The rivulet's pool,
That darkly quivered all the morning long
In the cool shade, now glimmers in the sun;
And o'er its surface shoots, and shoots again,
The glittering dragon-fly, and deep within
Run the brown water-beetles to and fro.

    A silence, the brief sabbath of an hour,
Reigns o'er the fields; the laborer sits within
His dwelling; he has left his steers awhile,
Unyoked, to bite the herbage, and his dog
Sleeps stretched beside the door-stone in the shade.
Now the grey marmot, with uplifted paws,
No more sits listening by his den, but steals
Abroad, in safety, to the clover field,
And crops its juicy blossoms. All the while
A ceaseless murmur from the populous town
Swells o'er these solitudes: a mingled sound
Of jarring wheels, and iron hoofs that clash
Upon the stony ways, and hammer-clang,
And creak of engines lifting ponderous bulks,
And calls and cries, and tread of eager feet,
Innumerable, hurrying to and fro.
Noon, in that mighty mart of nations, brings
No pause to toil and care. With early day
Began the tumult, and shall only cease
When midnight, hushing one by one the sounds
Of bustle, gathers the tired brood to rest.

    Thus, in this feverish time, when love of gain
And luxury possess the hearts of men,
Thus is it with the noon of human life.
We, in our fervid manhood, in our strength
Of reason, we, with hurry, noise, and care,
Plan, toil, and strife, and pause not to refresh
Our spirits with the calm and beautiful
Of God's harmonious universe, that won
Our youthful wonder; pause not to inquire
Why we are here; and what the reverence
Man owes to man, and what the mystery
That links us to the greater world, beside
Whose borders we but hover for a space.

THE CROWDED STREET.

Let me move slowly through the street,
    Filled with an ever-shifting train,
Amid the sound of steps that beat
    The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

How fast the flitting figures come!
    The mild, the fierce, the stony face;
Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some
    Where secret tears have left their trace.

They pass—to toil, to strife, to rest;
    To halls in which the feast is spread;
To chambers where the funeral guest
    In silence sits beside the dead.

And some to happy homes repair,
    Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,
With mute caresses shall declare
    The tenderness they cannot speak.
And some, who walk in calmness here,
    Shall shudder as they reach the door
Where one who made their dwelling dear,
    Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
    And dreams of greatness in thine eye!
Goest thou to build an early name,
    Or early in the task to die?

Keen son of trade, with eager brow!
    Who is now fluttering in thy snare?
Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,
    Or melt the glittering spires in air?

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
    The dance till daylight gleam again?
Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead?
    Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long
    The cold dark hours, how slow the light,
And some, who flaunt amid the throng,
    Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

Each, where his tasks or pleasures call,
    They pass, and heed each other not.
There is who heeds, who holds them all,
    In his large love and boundless thought.

These struggling tides of life that seem
    In wayward, aimless course to tend,
Are eddies of the mighty stream
    That rolls to its appointed end.

THE WHITE-FOOTED DEER.°

It was a hundred years ago,
    When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
    Or crop the birchen sprays.

Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
    O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
    A deer was wont to feed.

She only came when on the cliffs
    The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
    In which she walked by day.

White were her feet, her forehead showed
    A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
    In autumn's hazy night.

And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
    She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
    On still October eves.

But when the broad midsummer moon
    Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
    There grazed a spotted fawn.

The cottage dame forbade her son
    To aim the rifle here;
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
    Or fright that friendly deer.

"This spot has been my pleasant home
    Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
    She feeds before our door.

"The red men say that here she walked
    A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
    And never twang the bow.

"I love to watch her as she feeds,
    And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
    The place in which we dwell."

The youth obeyed, and sought for game
    In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
    The ancient woodland lay.

But once, in autumn's golden time,
    He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
    And wandered home again.

The crescent moon and crimson eve
    Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
    Was feeding full in sight.

He raised the rifle to his eye,
    And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
    Gave back its deadly sound.

Away into the neighbouring wood
    The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
    Amid the glimmering dew.

Next evening shone the waxing moon
    As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
    Was seen again no more.

But ere that crescent moon was old,
    By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
    And slew the youth and dame.

Now woods have overgrown the mead,
    And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
    And prowls the fox at night.

THE WANING MOON.

I've watched too late; the morn is near;
    One look at God's broad silent sky!
Oh, hopes and wishes vainly dear,
    How in your very strength ye die!

Even while your glow is on the cheek,
    And scarce the high pursuit begun,
The heart grows faint, the hand grows weak,
    The task of life is left undone.

See where upon the horizon's brim,
    Lies the still cloud in gloomy bars;
The waning moon, all pale and dim,
    Goes up amid the eternal stars.

Late, in a flood of tender light,
    She floated through the ethereal blue,
A softer sun, that shone all night
    Upon the gathering beads of dew.

And still thou wanest, pallid moon!
    The encroaching shadow grows apace;
Heaven's everlasting watchers soon
    Shall see thee blotted from thy place.

Oh, Night's dethroned and crownless queen!
    Well may thy sad, expiring ray
Be shed on those whose eyes have seen
    Hope's glorious visions fade away.

Shine thou for forms that once were bright,
    For sages in the mind's eclipse,
For those whose words were spells of might,
    But falter now on stammering lips!

In thy decaying beam there lies
    Full many a grave on hill and plain,
Of those who closed their dying eyes
    In grief that they had lived in vain.

Another night, and thou among
    The spheres of heaven shalt cease to shine,
All rayless in the glittering throng
    Whose lustre late was quenched in thine.

Yet soon a new and tender light
    From out thy darkened orb shall beam,
And broaden till it shines all night
    On glistening dew and glimmering stream.

THE STREAM OF LIFE.

Oh silvery streamlet of the fields,
    That flowest full and free!
For thee the rains of spring return,
    The summer dews for thee;
And when thy latest blossoms die
    In autumn's chilly showers,
The winter fountains gush for thee,
    Till May brings back the flowers.

Oh Stream of Life! the violet springs
    But once beside thy bed;
But one brief summer, on thy path,
    The dews of heaven are shed.
Thy parent fountains shrink away,
    And close their crystal veins,
And where thy glittering current flowed
    The dust alone remains.

NOTES

NOTES.

(Click the poem's Name to return to the Poem)

Page 1.

POEM OF THE AGES.

In this poem, written and first printed in the year 1821, the author has endeavoured, from a survey of the past ages of the world, and of the successive advances of mankind in knowledge, virtue, and happiness, to justify and confirm the hopes of the philanthropist for the future destinies of the human race.

Page 29.

THE BURIAL-PLACE.

The first half of this fragment may seem to the reader borrowed from the essay on Rural Funerals in the fourth number of the Sketch-Book. The lines were, however, written more than a year before that number appeared. The poem, unfinished as it is, would not have been admitted into this collection, had not the author been unwilling to lose what had the honour of resembling so beautiful a composition.

Page 40..

THE MASSACRE AT SCIO.

This poem, written about the time of the horrible butchery of the Sciotes by the Turks, in 1824, has been more fortunate than most poetical predictions. The independence of the Greek nation, which it foretold, has come to pass, and the massacre, by inspiring a deeper detestation of their oppressors, did much to promote that event.

Page 41.

THE INDIAN GIRL'S LAMENT.

Her maiden veil, her own black hair, &c.

"The unmarried females have a modest falling down of the hair over the eyes."—ELIOT.

Page 65.

MONUMENT MOUNTAIN.

The mountain, called by this name, is a remarkable precipice in Great Barrington, overlooking the rich and picturesque valley of the Housatonic, in the western part of Massachusetts. At the southern extremity is, or was a few years since, a conical pile of small stones, erected, according to the tradition of the surrounding country, by the Indians, in memory of a woman of the Stockbridge tribe, who killed herself by leaping from the edge of the precipice. Until within a few years past, small parties of that tribe used to arrive from their settlement in the western part of the state of New York, on visits to Stockbridge, the place of their nativity and former residence. A young woman belonging to one of these parties related, to a friend of the author, the story on which the poem of Monument Mountain is founded. An Indian girl had formed an attachment for her cousin, which, according to the customs of the tribe, was unlawful. She was, in consequence, seized with a deep melancholy, and resolved to destroy herself. In company with a female friend, she repaired to the mountain, decked out for the occasion in all her ornaments, and, after passing the day on the summit in singing with her companion the traditional songs of her nation, she threw herself headlong from the rock, and was killed.

Page 79.

THE MURDERED TRAVELLER.

Some years since, in the month of May, the remains of a human body, partly devoured by wild animals, were found in a woody ravine, near a solitary road passing between the mountains west of the village of Stockbridge. It was supposed that the person came to his death by violence, but no traces could be discovered of his murderers. It was only recollected that one evening, in the course of the previous winter, a traveller had stopped at an inn in the village of West Stockbridge; that he had inquired the way to Stockbridge; and that, in paying the innkeeper for something he had ordered, it appeared that he had a considerable sum of money in his possession. Two ill-looking men were present, and went out about the same time that the traveller proceeded on his journey. During the winter, also, two men of shabby appearance, but plentifully supplied with money, had lingered for awhile about the village of Stockbridge. Several years afterward, a criminal, about to be executed for a capital offence in Canada, confessed that he had been concerned in murdering a traveller in Stockbridge for the sake of his money. Nothing was ever discovered respecting the name or residence of the person murdered.

Page 118.

THE AFRICAN CHIEF.

Chained in the market place he stood, &c.

The story of the African Chief, related in this ballad, may be found in the African Repository for April, 1825. The subject of it was a warrior of majestic stature, the brother of Yarradee, king of the Solima nation. He had been taken in battle, and was brought in chains for sale to the Rio Pongas, where he was exhibited in the market-place, his ankles still adorned with the massy rings of gold which he wore when captured. The refusal of his captor to listen to his offers of ransom drove him mad, and he died a maniac.

Page 131.

THE CONJUNCTION OF JUPITER AND VENUS.

This conjunction was said in the common calendars to have taken place on the 2d of August, 1826. This, I believe, was an error, but the apparent approach of the planets was sufficiently near for poetical purposes.

Page 137.

THE HURRICANE.

This poem is nearly a translation from one by José Maria de Heredia, a native of the Island of Cuba, who published at New York, six or seven years since, a volume of poems in the Spanish language.

Page 139.

SONNET—WILLIAM TELL.

Neither this, nor any of the other sonnets in the collection, with the exception of the one from the Portuguese, is framed according to the legitimate Italian model, which, in the author's opinion, possesses no peculiar beauty for an ear accustomed only to the metrical forms of our own language. The sonnets in this collection are rather poems in fourteen lines than sonnets.

Page 140.

THE HUNTER'S SERENADE

The slim papaya ripens, &c.

Papaya—papaw, custard-apple. Flint, in his excellent work on the Geography and History of the Western States, thus describes this tree and its fruit:—

"A papaw shrub, hanging full of fruits, of a size and weight so disproportioned to the stem, and from under long and rich-looking leaves, of the same yellow with the ripened fruit, and of an African luxuriance of growth, is to us one of the richest spectacles that we have ever contemplated in the array of the woods. The fruit contains from two to six seeds, like those of the tamarind, except that they are double the size. The pulp of the fruit resembles egg-custard in consistence and appearance. It has the same creamy feeling in the mouth, and unites the taste of eggs, cream, sugar, and spice. It is a natural custard, too luscious for the relish of most people."

Chateaubriand, in his Travels, speaks disparagingly of the fruit of the papaw; but on the authority of Mr. Flint, who must know more of the matter, I have ventured to make my western lover enumerate it among the delicacies of the wilderness.

Page 156.

THE PRAIRIES

The surface rolls and fluctuates to the eye.

The prairies of the West, with an undulating surface, rolling prairies, as they are called, present to the unaccustomed eye a singular spectacle when the shadows of the clouds are passing rapidly over them. The face of the ground seems to fluctuate and toss like the billows of the sea.

Page 156.

The prairie-hawk that, poised on high,
Flaps his broad wings, yet moves not.

I have seen the prairie-hawk balancing himself in the air for hours together, apparently over the same spot; probably watching his prey.

Page 157.

These ample fields
Nourished their harvests.

The size and extent of the mounds in the valley of the Mississippi, indicate the existence, at a remote period, of a nation at once populous and laborious, and therefore probably subsisting by agriculture.

Page 158.

The rude conquerors
Seated the captive with their chiefs.

Instances are not wanting of generosity like this among the North American Indians towards a captive or survivor of a hostile tribe on which the greatest cruelties had been exercised.

Page 160.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

The exploits of General Francis Marion, the famous partisan warrior of South Carolina, form an interesting chapter in the annals of the American revolution. The British troops were so harassed by the irregular and successful warfare which he kept up at the head of a few daring followers, that they sent an officer to remonstrate with him for not coming into the open field and fighting "like a gentleman and a Christian."

Page 170.

MARY MAGDALEN.

Several learned divines, with much appearance of reason, in particular Dr. Lardner, have maintained that the common notion respecting the dissolute life of Mary Magdalen is erroneous, and that she was always a person of excellent character. Charles Taylor, the editor of Calmet's Dictionary of the Bible, takes the same view of the subject.

The verses of the Spanish poet here translated refer to the "woman who had been a sinner," mentioned in the seventh chapter of St. Luke's Gospel, and who is commonly confounded with Mary Magdalen.

Page 173.

FATIMA AND RADUAN.

This and the following poems belong to that class of ancient Spanish ballads, by unknown authors, called Romances Moriscos—Moriscan romances or ballads. They were composed in the 14th century, some of them, probably, by the Moors, who then lived intermingled with the Christians; and they relate the loves and achievements of the knights of Grenada.

Page 175.

LOVE AND FOLLY.—(FROM LA FONTAINE.)

This is rather an imitation than a translation of the poem of the graceful French fabulist.

Page 178.

(THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA—(FROM THE SPANISH))

These eyes shall not recall thee, &c.

This is the very expression of the original—No te llamarán mis ojos, &c. The Spanish poets early adopted the practice of calling a lady by the name of the most expressive feature of her countenance, her eyes. The lover styled his mistress "ojos bellos," beautiful eyes; "ojos serenos," serene eyes. Green eyes seem to have been anciently thought a great beauty in Spain, and there is a very pretty ballad by an absent lover, in which he addressed his lady by the title of "green eyes;" supplicating that he may remain in her remembrance.

¡Ay ojuelos verdes!
    Ay los mis ojuelos!
    Ay, hagan los cielos
Que de mi te acuerdes!