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.

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!

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!

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.