[Footnote 3:  The Humming-bird.  Kakopit (florum regulus) is the name of an Indian bird, referred to this class by Seba.]

[Footnote 4:  Il sert apres sa mort aparer les jeunes Indiennes, qui portent en pendans d’oreilles deux de ces charmans oiseaux.  Buffon.]

[Footnote 5:  According to an antient tradition.  See Oviedo, Vega, Herrera, &c.  Not many years afterwards a Spaniard of distinction wandered every where in search of it; and no wonder, as Robertson observes, when Columbus himself could imagine that he had found the seat of Paradise,]

CANTO XI. 
Evening—­a banquet—­the ghost of Cazziva.

Her leaves at length the conscious tamarind clos’d,
And from wild sport the marmoset repos’d;
Fresh from the lake the breeze of twilight blew,
And vast and deep the mountain-shadows grew;
When many a fire-fly, shooting thro’ the glade,
Spangled the locks of many a lovely maid,
Who now danc’d forth to strew His path with flowers. 
And hymn His welcome to celestial bowers. [Footnote 1]
   There od’rous lamps adorn’d the festal rite,
And guavas blush’d as in the vales of light, [Footnote 2]
—­There silent sat many an unbidden Guest, [Footnote 3]
Whose stedfast looks a secret dread impress’d;
Not there forgot the sacred fruit that fed
At nightly feasts the Spirits of the Dead,
Mingling in scenes that mirth to mortals give,
Tho’ by their sadness known from those that live. 
There met, as erst, within the wonted grove,
Unmarried girls and youths that died for love! 
Sons now beheld their antient sires again;
And sires, alas, their sons in battle slain! 
   But whence that sigh?  ’Twas from a heart that broke! 
And whence that voice?  As from the grave it spoke! 
And who, as unresolv’d the feast to share,
Sits half-withdrawn in faded splendour there? 
’Tis he of yore, the warrior and the sage,
Whose lips have mov’d in prayer from age to age;
Whose eyes, that wander’d as in search before,
Now on COLUMBUS fix’d—­to search no more! 
CAZZIVA, [Footnote 4] gifted in his day to know
The gathering signs of a long night of woe;
Gifted by Those who give but to enslave;
No rest in death! no refuge in the grave! 
—­With sudden spring as at the shout of war,
He flies! and, turning in his flight, from far
Glares thro’ the gloom like some portentous star! 
Unseen, unheard!—­Hence, Minister of Ill! [Footnote 5]
Hence, ‘tis not yet the hour; tho’ come it will! 
They that foretold—­too soon shall they fulfil; [Footnote 6]
When forth they rush as with the torrent’s sweep, [Footnote 7]
And deeds are done that make the Angels weep!—­