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What could her grief be?-she had all she loved,
And he who had so loved her was not there
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wisli,
Or ill-repressi afflictiou, her pure thoughts.
What could hier grief be?-she had loved him not,
Nor given bim cause to deem himself beloved,
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd
Upon her mind-a spectre of the past.

VI.
A change came o'er the spirit of my

dream.
The wonderer was return'd.--I saw him stand
Before an aluar-with a gentle bride;
ller face was fair, but was not that which made
The star-light of his boyhood ;-as he stood
Even at the alur, o'er his brow there came
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock
That in the antique oratory shook
llis bosom in its solitude; and then-
As in that hour-a moment o'er his face
The tablet of unullerable thoughts
Was traced, -and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The filling vows, but hicard not his own words,
And all things reell around him; hic could see
Northat which was, nor that which should have been
But the old mansion, and the accustom'd hull,
And the remember d chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine and the shade,
111 things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was lois destiny came back,
And trust themselves between him and the light
What business had they there al such a time?

VII.
A change came o'er the spirit of

my

dream.
The lady of his love ;---oh! she was changed
Is by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wander d from its dwelling, and her eyes,
They bad not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the cartı; she was become

of a fantastic realm; lier thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And forms, inipalpable and unperceived
of others' night, fainiliar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wic
llave a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its plantasies,
And brings life near iu utter nakedness,
Making the cold reality 100 real!

VII.
A change came o'er the spirit of dream.
The wanderer was alone as bieretofore,
The bcings which surrounded him were gone,
Or were at war wille lim; he wis a mark

For blight and desolation, compassid round
| With hatred and contention; pain was puix'd

In all which was served up to him, intil,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
lle fed ou poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains : with the stars

The queen

I.
On Venice! Venice! when thy marble walls

Are level with the waters, there shall be
I cry of nations o'er thy sunken halls,

A loud lament along the sweeping sea!

IFT, a northern wanderer, weep for thee,
What should thy sous do ?-any thing but Weep:
And

yet they only murmur in their sleep.
In contrast with their fathers as the lime,
The dull green ooze of the receding deep,
Is with the disliing of the spring-tide foam,
That drives the sailor shipless to liis home,
Are they to those that were; and thus they creep,
Crouching and cral-like through their sapping streita
Oh! agony—that centuries should reap
No mellower luarvest! Thirteen hundred years
Of wcalılı and glory turu'd to dust and tears,
And every monument the stranger meets,
Church, palace, pillar, as a mourner greets;
Audcven the Lion all subdued appears,
and ene bar-lı sound of the barbarian drum,
Wil dull and daily dissonance, repeats
The echo of thy tyrani's voice along
The soft waves, once all musical to song,
That heaved beneath the moon-liglat with the throng
Of gondolas--and to the busy huin
Of clieerful creatures, whose most sinful deeds
Were but the overboating of the heart,
And tlow of 100 much happiness, which needs
The aid of age to turn its course apart
From the luxuriant and voluptuous tlood
Of swert sensations battling with the blood.
But these are better than the gloomy errors,
The weeds of nations in their last decay,
When vice walks forth with her unsoften'd terrors.
Init nirth is madness, and but smiles to slay;
And Jope is nothing but a false delay,
The sick man's lightning half an hour ere death,
When femtness, the last mortal birth of pain,
And apathy of limb, the dull beginning
Of the cold staggering race which death is winniog,
Surals vein by veio and pulse by pulse away;
Yet so relieving the o'ertortured clay,
To him appears renewal of liis breath,
ind freedom the mere numbness of his chain ;-
And then he talks of life, and how again
lle feels leis spirits soaring-albeit weak,
And of the freslier air, which he would seek;
And as lie whispers knows not that he gasps,
That big thin linger feels not what it clasps,

my

I Mihridat * of Ponius.

| And so the film comes o'er lim--and the dizzy Were of the softer order-born of love,

Chamber swims round and round-and shadows busy She drank no blood, nor fatten'd on the dead,
At wlrich hc vainly catches, llit and gleam,

But gladden'd where her harmless conquests spread; Till the last rattle chokes the strangled scream,

For these restored the cross, that from above And all is ice and blackness,--and the earth

Hallow'd her sheltering banners, which incessant
That which it was the moment ere our birth.

Flew between earth and the unholy crescent,
"hich, if it waned and dwindled, carth may thank

The city it has clothed in chains, which clank
II.
There is no bope for patioas! Search the page

Now, creaking in the cars of those who owe

The name of freedom to her glorious struggles;
Of many thousand years--the daily scene,

Yet she but shares with them a common woe,
The flow and ebb of each recurring age,

And call'd the « kingdom» of a conquering foe,-
The everlasting to be which hath been,

But knows what all-and, most of all, we know-
Hath taught us nought or little : still we lean
On things that rot beneath our weight, and wear

With what set gilded terms a tyrant juggles!
Our strength away in wrestling with the air;
For 't is our nature strikes us down : the beasts

IV.

The name of commonwealth is past and gone
Slaughter'd in bourly hecatombs for feasts
Are of as bigh an order--they must go

O'er the three fractions of the groaning globe;

Venice is crush'd, and Holland deigns to own Even where their driver goads them, though to slaughter. Ye men, who

A sceptre, and endures the purple robe; pour your blood for kings as water, What have they given your children in return?

If the free Switzer yet bestrides alone A heritage of servitude and woes,

Ilis chainless mountains, 't is but for a time, A blindfold bondage, where your hire is blows.

For tyranny of late is cunning grown, What? do no yet the red-hot ploughshares burn,

Aud in its own good season tramples down O'er which you stumble in a false ordeal,

The sparkles of our ashes. One great clime, And deem this proof of loyalıy the real;

Whose vigorous offspring by dividing ocean Kissing the haud that guides you to your scars,

Are kept apart and nursed in the devotion And glorying as you tread the glowing bars ?

Of freedom, which their fathers fought for, and All that your sires have left you, all that time

Bequeath &-a heritage of heart and hand, Bequcaths of free, and history of sublime,

And proud distinction from each other land, Spring from a different theme !-Ye see and read,

Whose sons must bow them at a monarch's motion, Admire and sigh, and then succumb and bleed!

As if his senseless sceptre were a wand Save the few spirits, who despite of all,

Full of the magic of exploded scienceAnd worse than all, the sudden crimes engender'd

Sull one great clime, in full and free defiance, By the down-thundering of the prison-wall,

Yet rears her crest, unconquer'd and sublime, And thirst to swallow the sweet waters tender'd,

Above the far Atlantic!--She has taught Gushing from freedom's fountains, when the crowd,

Her Esau-brethren that the haughty tlag, Madden'd with centuries of drought, are loud,

The tioating fence of Albion's feebler crag, And trample on each other to obtain

May strike to those whose red right hands have bought The cup which brings oblivion of a chain

Rights cheaply earn'd with blood. Still, still, for ever Heavy and sore, -in which Jong yoked they plough'd

Better, though each man's life-blood were a river, The sand, or if there sprung the yellow grain,

That it should flow, and overflow, than creep 'T was not for them, their necks were too much bowd, Through thousand lazy channels in our veins, And their dead palates chew'd the cud of pain :

Damm'd like the dull canal with locks and chains, Yes! the few spirits-who, despite of deeds

And moving, as a sick man in his sleep,

Thrce Which they abhor, confound not with the cause

paces, and then faltering : better be

Where the extinguish'd Spartans still are free, Those momentary starts from nature's laws,

in their proud charnel of Thermopyla, Which, like the pestilence and earthquake, smite But for a term, then pass, and leave the earth

Than stagnate in our marsh,-or o'er the deep With all her seasons to repair the blight

Fly, and one current to the ocean add, With a few summers, and again put forth

One spirit to the souls our fathers liad,

One freeman more, America, to thee!
Cities and generations-fair, when free-
For, tyranny, there blooms po bud for thec!

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
Glory and empire! once upon these towers

As o'er the cold sepulchral stone
With freedom-god-like triad! how

Some name arrests the passer-by,
The league of mightiest nations, in those hours

Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,
When Venice was an envy, might abate,

May mine attract thy pensive eye!
But did not quench, her spirit-in her fate
All were enwrapp'd : the feasted monarchs knew

And when by thee that name is read,
And loved their hostess, nor could learn to hate,

Perchance in some succeeding year,
Although they humbled-with the kingly few

Reflect on me as on the dead, The many felt, for from all days and climes

And think my heart is buried here. She was the voyager's worship;-even her crimes

September 14th, 1809.

III.

ye sate!

A VERY MOURNFUL BALLAD

ROMANCE MUY DOLOROSO

ON THE

DEL

SITIO Y TOMA DE ALILAMA,

EL CU.IL DECIA EN ARABIGO ASI.

PASEABASE el Rey moro
Por la ciudad de Granada,
Desde la

puerta de Elvira Hasta la de Bivarambla.

Ay de mi, Whama!

SIEGE AND CONOCEST OF ALUAMA, Which, in the Arabic language, is to the following

purport. The effert of the original ballad (which existed both in Spanih and Arabia) was such, that it is forbidden to be sua lista Doors, on pain of death, within Granada.

The Moorish king rides up and down
Through Granada's royal town;
From Elvira's gates to ikose
Of Bivarambla on he goes.

Woe is

ine,

Alhama!
Letters to the monarch tell
Uow Alhama's city fell;
In the fire the scroll he threw,
And the messenger be slew.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Cartas le fucron venidas Que Albaina era ganada. Las cartas echó en el fuego, Y al mensagero matara.

Ay de mí, Alhama : Descavalya de una mula, Y en un caballo cavalga. Por d Zacatin arriba Subido se habial Alhambra.

Ay de mí, ihana!

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Como en el Alhambra esiuvo, Al mismo punto mandaba Que se toquen las trompetas Con analiles de plata.

Ay de mí, Alhama! Y que atumbores de guerra Apriesa toquen alarma ; Por que lo oigan uns Voros, Los de la Vega y Granada.

Ay de mí, Alhama!

And when the hollow drums of war
Beat the loud alarm afar,
That the Moors of town and plain
Miglit answer to the martial strain.

Woe is me, Albama!

Then the Moors, by this aware
That bloody Mars recall'd them there,
One by one, and two by two,
To a mighty squadron grew.

Woe is me, Alhama!

Out then «pake an aged Moor In these words the king before, « Wherefore call on us, oh king? What may mean this gathering?»

Woc is me, Allama!

Los Moros

que

d son overon, Que al sangriento Marte llama, l'un á uno, y

dos á dos, Cu gran escuadıon formaban.

Ay de mi, Albama!
Alli habló un Moro virjo;
De esta manera hablaba :-
«l'ara que nos llamas, Rey?
¿Para que es esta llamada ?»

Ay de mi, Alhama!
« Habeis de saber, amigos,
Una nueva desdichada :
Que cristianos, con bravera,
Ya nos han tornado Uham 1.)

Av de mí, llhama!
Alli habló un viejo Alfiqui,
De barba crecida

y cina: « Bien se te emple, buen Rey; Buco Rey, bien se tr ompleabr.

Ay de ni, albama!
u Mataste los Bencerrages,
Que eran la flor de Granada;
Cogisce los tornadizos
De Córdova nombrada.

Ay de iní, Albania:

Friends! ye luave, alas! to know Of a most disastrous blow, That the Christians, stern and bold, llave obtund Alhama's hold.»

Woe is me, Albama!

Out theu spake old Alfaqui,
With his beard so white to see,
« Good king, thou art justly served,
Good king, this thou hast deserved.

Woe is me, Alhuna!

« By thee were slaid, in evil hour, The thencerrage, Granada's tlower; And strangers were received by thee Of Cordova the chivalry.

Woe is me, Alhama!

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Di due vache donzelle, oneste, accorte

Licci e miscri padri il ciel ne fco;
Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte,

L'una e l'altra vergendo, ambo chiedeo.
La mia fu tolta da veloce morte

A le fumanti tede d' Imenco:
La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte

Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.
Ma tu almeno potrai de la gelosa

Irremeabil soglia, ove s'asconde

La sua tenera udir voce pictosa.
Io verso un fiume d'amarissim' onda,

Corro a quel marmo in cui la figlia or posu,
Balto e riballo, ma nessun risponde.

Of two fair virgins, modest though admired,

Heaven made us happy, and now, wretched sires;

Ileaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,
And garing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of llymen newly fired

L'ecomes cxtinguislid, soon–100 soon expires :
But thine, within the closing grate retired,

Eternal captive, to her God aspires:
But thou at least from out the jealous door,

Which sbuts between your never-meeting eyes,

May-t hear her sweet and pious voice opce more
I to tie marble, where my daughter lics,
Rush,-the swoln flood of bitterness I

pour, And knock, and knock, and knock--but none replies.

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