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to prevent her. “Do you not hear the splendid harmonies of the master ?” said Julia ; " I must find him, I must sing with him." But sister Emanuella held her tight by the arm, and said, in a solemn voice, “Wretched sinner, who deserts the service of the saints; whose heart is full of worldly thoughts; know, that if you quit this place, thy voice will break; that gift which was lent to thee to give praise will be extinguished for ever!"

• Julia bowed her head in silence, and departed.

• At the hour of matins, at the time when the nuns again assembled in the church, a thick smoke spread on all sides, and soon the flames penetrated, hissing, through the wooden buildings, and encircled the cloister. It was with great trouble and danger that the nuns were able to save their lives. The trumpets sounding through the camp awoke the soldiers, who, headed by Don Aguilar, hastened to give assistance. Aguilar sought in vain everywhere for Julia, to save her from the flames; she was nowhere to be seen. In a very short time the immense camp of Isabella was only a heap of cinders. The Moors took advantage of the confusion which reigned to attack the Christian army; but the Spaniards displayed the greatest valour; and when the enemy was repulsed, the queen assembled her chiefs, and ordered that a town should be built on the very spot so lately occupied by the camp: Thus the Moors were informed that the siege of Granada would never be raised.'

• If religious matters might be meddled with upon the stage,' said the chapel-master, the part of Julia would exhibit some brilliant things, in two distinct styles, the romances and the church music. A march for the Spaniards would do very well; and that scene of the mendicant would, I think, be a hit. But go on, and let us hear more about Julia, who I hope was not burnt to death.'

Take notice first, my dear chapel-master, that the town, which was built by the Spaniards in the space of twenty-one days, is Santa Fé, to be found very near Granada still. I ought to have told you this en passant, but your strange remarks have involuntarily drawn me into a too familiar style. That I may regain the true tale-telling dignity, do play me, if you please, one of those adagios of Beethoven. I see you have him open upon the piano.'

The chapel-master did as the other requested, who afterwards continued thus :

• The Moors ceased not to annoy the Spaniards during the building of the town, and consequently many sanguinary combats took place, in which Don Aguilar displayed the greatest valour. Returning one day from a skirmish, he quitted the troops, and continued his road to the camp alone, delivering himself up to sad thoughts. The image of Julia was continually before his eyes. Even in the fight he often thought he heard her voice and then in his loneliness he fancied in the distance strange sounds—combined wild Moorish modulations and solemn church music. Suddenly he heard the clang of armour near him; a Moorish cavalier, mounted on an Arab steed, passed rapidly by, and a javelin whistled close to the ear of Aguilar. He would have rushed upon the aggressor, but a second javelin struck the chest of his charger; mad with rage and pain, the animal sprung forward, and then fell, rolling with its rider on the earth. The Spaniard quickly disengaged himself

, but already the Moor was above him, standing in his stirrups with his scimitar raised. Aguilar, in the twinkling of an eye, threw himself upon his antagonist, grappled him vigorously in his nervous arms, bore him to the ground, and, putting his knee upon his breast, placed his poniard at his throat. He would have pierced him, but the Moor pronounced the name of Zuleima. « Wretch !” exclaimed Aguilar, “whose name do you call upon?"

* « Strike, strike!" said the Moor; “ strike him who has sworn thy death. Know, Christian, that Hichem is the last of the race of Alhamar; know that it was I who carried off Zuleima; know that I was the mendicant who burned thy idolatrous temple, to save the soul of my thoughts! Strike ! take my life! I would have taken thine."

• “Julia-Zuleima-is she living ?" exclaimed Aguilar.

· Hichem laughed horridly. “She lives, but thy gory, thorncrowned idol has struck her with a magic curse; the beautiful flower withered in your hands; her melodious voice is silent, and the life of Zuleima is also quenching. Take my life, Christian; you have already taken from me more than life.

· Aguilar raised himself slowly. “Hichem," said he, “ Zuleima was my prisoner by the laws of war; enlightened by grace, she renounced Mahomet. Call not 'the soul of thy thoughts' one whom I have chosen for my love, or prepare to dispute the cause with me in fair and knightly combat.

Take to thy weapons!"

· Hichem took again speedily his buckler and his scimitar ; but, instead of attacking Aguilar, he sprung upon his steed, and, spurring it, dashed away with the rapidity of lightning.'

Here the chapel-master imitated upon the piano the noise of a cavalier galloping off; the tale-teller signed not to be interrupted, and continued his recital.

• Beaten continually in their sorties, and pressed by famine, the Moors were forced at last to capitulate, and Ferdinand and Isabella made their triumphal entry into Granada. The priests consecrated the great mosque into a cathedral, and assembled there to sing a grand Te Deum, and to thank the God of armies. Knowing the desperate fury and fanaticism of the Moors, divisions of troops were placed in the streets to protect the procession. Don Aguilar commanded one of those divisions; and, as he was marching it towards the cathedral, he felt himself suddenly wounded on the left shoulder by an arrow. At the same instant a body of Moors rushed from a neighbouring street, and attacked the Christians with astonishing impetuosity. Hichem was their leader; to him Aguilar forced his way, and left him not until his sword had pierced his heart. The Spaniards then pursued the Moors to a large house of stone, into which they fled for refuge. From the windows of this house they poured out flights of arrows, and many of Aguilar's soldiers were killed and wounded. Aguilar then ordered that fire, and all kinds of combustibles, should be brought. This order was executed, and the flames already roared above the roof, when a wonderful voice was heard in the burning building. It sang loudly, “ Sanctus, sanctus Dominus Deus sabaoth !"

• Julia ! Julia !" cried Aguilar in despair. The gates opened, and Julia, clad as a Benedictine nun, advanced, repeating, “ Sanctus, sanctus Dominus Deus sabaoth!” Behind her marched a long train of Moors, their faces inclined to earth, and their arms crossed upon their breasts. The Spaniards involuntarily fell back, and Julia, followed by the Moors, proceeded through their ranks towards the cathedral,which she entered, singing, “Benedictus qui venit in nomine Domini." The people all fell upon their knees; and Julia, with eyes upturned to heaven, continued her progress with a firm step towards the great altar, at which knelt Ferdinand and Isabella. As the last chord of the “ Dona nobis pacem” died away, Julia fell fainting into the arms of the queen. All the Moors who had followed her received that very same day the holy sacrament of baptism.'

Just as the tale was concluded, the doctor entered in a great hurry, and said, “You remain here telling stupid stories, and don't know how near my patient is to you, nor how you may aggravate her case for the worse.'

Why, what has happened, my dear doctor ?' asked the chapelmaster, quite alarmed.

I know very well what has happened,' said the tale-teller, quietly.

Why nothing more or less, sir, than that your daughter has been in the next room, and so has heard all his rigmarole. This comes of lying tales and foolish ideas; but I shall consider him responsible for all that may occur.'

* But, doctor,' replied the tale-teller, if the malady of Clara is mental, why should we not apply a moral remedy, and, in that case, perhaps my tale

• Silence 'exclaimed the doctor; ' I know very well what would say.'

• It is not worth a pin for an opera,' said the chapel-master.

A week after, Clara sang, in a voice more melodious, if possible, than ever, the • Stabat Mater' of Pergolese: W. L. T.

you

91

THE CO PSE.

TO ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.

Nor step, nor speech of human thing is near;

But many-winged creatures, round me flying, Make the incessant airs one voice appear

From Being's infinite heart! Upon the dying Trunk of this mossy fruit-tree, old and sere,

And half-uprooted, toward the green slope lying, Will I recline; and fold me in a trance of meditation with the bard of France.

Away! thou art too wild for this calm dell;

Anon, I'll ponder with thee by the foam ; A bridal music not a burial knell

Must echo here: within this leafy dome
Soft-gushing melodies high o'er me swell

From two enamour'd birds, to shadow come
To bless each other with a summer song,
Whilst yet the earth is green and daylight long.

0, god Apollo ! there be million pleasures

Which thine eternal lyre can ne'er express, That warble in these winged poets' measures,

Full flowing from their little hearts' excess !
I know not what may be the rhymed treasures

That have been lost in old Time's wilderness;
But well I weet that never human lips
Breath'd love to love with sweeter soul-eclipse !

They chant, till their own exquisite melodies

Entrance them into silence, and they flit Mutely among the leaves : the gleaming flies,

Whose wings are rainbows, as with ether lit, Around me wheel with stirring harmonies

That ne'er from dawn to twilight intermit; And deep in yon green cave a veiled stream Murmurs like thoughts of Heaven in a dream.

Alphonse de Lamartine! Come hither, hither

Furling thy sullen spirit's eagle pinion,
As mine is fürld; and let us weave together

A sunny song of panting Love's dominion
Over the universe! let us wear ether

Unclouded in our hearts, leaving the minion Of common life to strive with common sorrow, And with our lyrès assert the joy of Heaven's morrow! · I am here! but not rejoicing

With thine idle gladness;
From the music round us voicing

I but gather sadness :
Thou sittest on a tree uprooted,
Which shall no more be leav'd or fruited ;
Those minstrel birds, the bird of prey,
Or winter and its want, shall slay ;
Those insects are each other's slaughter;
And the sweet music of the water,
Yon emerald cavern's mystic river,
The falling earth strikes dumb for ever!'

I would reply; but, hark to that pure

strain Those wiser bards sing in the boughs again!

* W.*

AMERICAN SKETCHES,

JOTTED DOWN DURING A COUNTRY RAMBLE IN NEW ENGLAND,

A light heart and a thin pair of breeches go through the world.' Now, thought I, as I have as much of the one as cost me two dollars and a half, and as much of the other as falls to the lot of any common man, why should not I make a try ? So, without more ado, I packed up a compendious bundle, containing a miscellany not very unlike that of the man with the great nose when he entered the town of Strasburg. I had been shut up for six months in a narrow room in a narrow street in Boston. I will just gallop off to the lakes, said I, skip over the Green Mountains, climb the highlands of New Hampshire, and be back again with such luck as may betide me. No sooner said than done ; the next morning, at one o'clock, I found myself in the stage bound for Northampton. The waning moon hung low in the east, faintly gilding the spires of the city, and the still waters of the bay reflected her beams, unruffled by a breeze. We rattled off at a great pace, and soon lost sight of busy Boston. The night was cool, and, as we proceeded into the country, we found a thick mist, that, as the morning broke, settled into the valleys; and they thus appeared like great lakes full of islands, from the hills and tree tops rising above the surface of white fog. The rising sun dissipated this great sea of vapour, and all became verdant and smiling. We stopped to breakfast at the village of Framingham.

Pray, Mr. Landlord, where is the post-office ? asked I of the man as he stood at his bar. • This is the post-office,' replied he. • And where is the postmaster ?' Why I am postmaster. I dare say, then, you have a letter for me.' l'Il look,' returned he; so fumbling among the punch-bottles and segar-boxes on a shelf behind him, he drew it out. You have a way of mixing

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