The Tower at Montevideo

Full many a year hath past away,Thou rude, old Tower, so stern and grey,Since first I came, enthusiast lone,To worship at thy hermit throne.—Tho' wintry blast, and sweeping rainHave mark'd thee with their iron stain,Yet freely springing at thy feet,New beauties wreathe their garland sweetYoung flowers the ancient wilds perfume,In tangled dells, fresh roses bloom,And foliage wraps with mantle deep,The trap-rock ledges, harsh and steep.—Still spreads the lake its mirror clear,The forest-warblers charm the ear,The glorious prospect opens wideIts varied page in summer's pride,And tasteful hands have deftly woveEnchantment's spell o'er vale and grove.Farewell old Tower! thou still shalt beRemember'd as a friend by me,Who bring'st from time's recorded trackThe buds of joy profusely back,And sweetly from thy turrets hoarThe song of gratitude dost pour,Nor spare around my path to fling,Young Memory's brighest blossoming.

—When next we meet, perchance, the traceOf age shall tint thy tottering base,And I, with added plainness showThe wrinkled lines that cares bestow,But Nature, still serene and fair,No thread of silver in her hair,No furrow'd mark on brow or cheek,The same rich dialect shall speak,With silent finger upward pointing,And forehead pure with Heaven's anointing,And smile more eloquent than speech,The lessons of her Sire shall teach.