he world would I
bathe my soul in the waters of Lethe. Blessed be memory for thy sake!

Bright land of Anahuac! my spirit mounts upon the aerial wings of Fancy,
and once more I stand upon thy shores! Over thy broad savannahs I spur
my noble steed, whose joyous neigh tells that he too is inspired by the
scene. I rest under the shade of the _corozo_ palm, and quaff the wine
of the _acrocomia_. I climb thy mountains of amygdaloid and porphyry--
thy crags of quartz, that yield the white silver and the yellow gold. I
cross thy fields of lava, rugged in outline, and yet more rugged with
their coverture of strange vegetable forms--acacias and cactus, yuccas
and zamias. I traverse thy table-plains through bristling rows of giant
aloes, whose sparkling juice cheers me on my path. I stand upon the
limits of eternal snow, crushing the Alpine lichen under my heel; while
down in the deep barranca, far down below, I behold the feathery fronds
of the palm, the wax-like foliage of the orange, the broad shining
leaves of the pothos, of arums, and bananas! O that I could again look
with living eye on these bright pictures, that even thus palely outlined
upon the retina of memory, impart pleasure to my soul!

Land of Moctezuma! I have other souvenirs of thee, more deeply graven
on my memory than these pictures of peace. Thou recallest scenes of
war. I traversed thy fields a foeman--sword in hand--and now, after
years gone by, many a wild scene of soldier-life springs up before me
with all the vividness of reality.

_The Bivouac_!--I sit by the night camp-fire; around are warlike forms
and bearded faces. The blazing log reflects the sheen of arms and
accoutrements--saddles, rifles, pistols, canteens, strewing the ground,
or hanging from the branches of adjacent trees. Picketed steeds loom
large in the darkness, their forms dimly outlined against the sombre
background of the forest. A solitary palm stands near, its curving
fronds looking hoary under the fire-light. The same light gleams upon
the fluted columns of the great organ-cactus, upon agaves and bromelias,
upon the silvery _tillandsia_, that drapes the tall trees as with a
toga.

The wild tale is told--the song is sung--the jest goes round--the hoarse
peal echoes through the aisles of the forest, frighting the parrot on
its perch, and the wolf upon his prowl. Little reck they who sing, and
jest, and laugh--little reck they of the morrow.

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