immediately made the subject of a rude song which they, in their
broken Spanish, sing to their companions; and thereby relieve a
little the monotony of their lives.

I have observed these poor creatures, under various circumstances,
and though, generally, extremely brutal, have, in some instances,
heard touches of sentiment from them, when under the influence of
grief, equal to any which have flowed from the pen of Rousseau.


Thy sovereign priest by earth's vile sons was driven
To make the cold unconscious earth his bed: [FN#3]
The damp cave mocked his sighs--
But from his sightless eyes,
Wrung forth by wrongs, the anguished drops he shed,
Fell each as an appeal to summon thee from heaven.

Thou sought'st him in his desolation; placed
On thy warm bosom his unpillowed head;
Bade him for visions live
More bright than worlds can give;
O'er his pale lips thy soul infusive shed
That left his dust adored where kings decay untraced.


[FN#3] "On the banks of the Meles was shown the spot where
Critheis, the mother of Homer, brought him into the world, and the
cavern to which he retired to compose his immortal verses. A monument
erected to his memory and inscribed with his name stood in the middle
of the city--it was adorned with spacious porticos under which the