On Afric's arid plains and yellow sands,

Leagued with the Moslem's wild and ruthless bands,
With desperate force he grasp'd the fatal lance,
And shrank not at the scimitar's broad glance;
Fighting for strangers' rights he bravely fell,
While his own land was sunk in slavery's spell;
Far from affection's soft and soothing hand,
Interr'd by strangers in a foreign land.

How strange the structure of the human heart,
Which springs anew 'neath sorrow's quivering dart;
Bursting from wild despair, from sullen gloom,
And fired by frenzy, hastening to the tomb.
Reckless of danger,-rushing to the strife,—
For strangers bleeding,-yielding even life,—
Thus did Boabdil sink on Afric's plain,
His name dishonour'd in his own bright Spain!

NOTES TO BOABDIL EL CHICO.

NOTE I.

"Behold yon gate! the ancient sages say.'

On the keystone of the arch is engraven a gigantic hand; within the vestibule on the keystone of the portal is engraven in like manner a gigantic key. Those who pretend to some knowledge of Mahometan symbols affirm, that the hand is an emblem of doctrine, and the key of faith. The latter, they add, was emblazoned on the standard of the Moslems, when they subdued Andalusia, in opposition to the Christian emblem of the cross. According to Mateo, it is a tradition handed down from the oldest inhabitants, that the hand and key were magical devices, upon which the fate of the Alhambra depended.The Moorish king who built it was a great magician, and, as some believe, had sold himself to the devil, and had lain the whole fortress under a magical spell. This spell, the tradition went on to say, would last till the hand on the outer arch should reach down and grasp the key, when the whole pile would tumble to pieces, and all the treasures buried beneath it by the Moors would be revealed.-Irving.

NOTE II.

"Why mourn as a maid, who in sorrow will bend."

It was here, too, his affliction was embittered by the reproaches of his mother Ayxa who had often assisted him in times of peril, and had vainly sought to instil into him a portion of her own resolute spirit-" Why mourn as a woman, for that which as a man you could not defend ?"—Irving.

NOTE III.

"Which long shall re-echo Boabdil's last sigh."

Beyond the embowered regions of the Vega, you behold a line of arid bills. It was from the summit of one of these that the unfortunate Boabdil cast back his last look on Granada, and gave vent to the agony of his soul. It is the spot famous in song and history as "The Last Sigh of the Moor."—Irving.

NOTE IV.

"And he murmur'd farewell on the dark hill of tears."

Another name given to the hill on the summit of which he bade farewell to Granada.

NOTE V.

"But whither do his weary footsteps bend ?"

After leaving the Alpuxarra mountains he proceeded to Africa, and died in defence of the territories of Muley Aben, King of Fez. On leaving Spain, a band of faithful followers and the members of his household collected on the beach, to bid him farewell. As the vessel in which he had embarked was slowly floating onward, they shouted, Farewell, Boabdil! Allah preserve thee, El Zogoybi!" (or the unlucky.) The name thus given him sank so deeply into his heart, that he burst into a flood of tears, and was unable to speak from emotion.

1834.

THE SHUNAMITE.

THE sun had gently shed his twilight beams
O'er Shunam's graceful waving harvest fields,
And with his golden rays each object tinged,
Imparting to all nature hues of joy :
The western sky had caught his parting ray,
And with reflected glory shone above,
In all the lovely varied hues which deck
A summer sky; masses of floating cloud
Hung gorgeous in the clear, blue firmament,
Brilliant as are the fairest rainbow's hues;
While round them spread the light and silver haze,
Beyond whose fold the eye could just discern
The pure transparence of the azure heaven.
The scene was beautiful! A tranquil sleep
Seem'd on the brow of nature lightly resting!
It was an hour when the pure soul might rise
And dwell in sweet communion with its God,
And contemplation and unmingled love
Find for a while repose and silence there.
But where is she, the gentle, lovely mother,
Whose soul delighted in an hour like this?
Oh, why does not her footstep softly shake
From the moist grass the drops of pearly dew?
Say, have the glittering charms of wealth and pride
Allured her from the sweetest charms of nature?
Have the gay baubles she was wont to scorn
Enticed her from this lovely scene away?
It cannot be; perchance amid the sick
Or suffering poor, her pitying spirit

Finds sweet employment, while her liberal hand
Offers relief to the sad prisoners

Who on her bounty live. No! while her heart
Was free from care and racking anguish,
She could soothe another's grief; but now-
Alas! how alter'd now-her darling child,
The laughing, sprightly boy, who at her side
Was wont in childish frolic to remain-
Where is he now? The tones of his soft voice
Would soothe a mourner's heart, however sad,
Much more the mother's, who so dearly loved him--
Ay, loved him! for she now hath nought to love
Save the cold remnant of what once was life!
Yes! in the splendid mansion which but seems
To mock her heartfelt agony, she weeps,
And weeping, watches o'er the lifeless corpse
Of her adored, her beautiful, her boy.

Perhaps just heaven removed this cherish'd flower,
That her own heart, bereft of earthly joy,
Might cling more closely to her God and Maker.
I know not-but the blow was keenly felt,
And deeply, truly mourn'd.

The spacious room With rich embroider'd tapestry was hung. And, mingled with the massy, crimson folds, Shone many a gem of burning lustre. The floor was paved with polish'd marble, And the lifeless form which lay before her Was array'd in costly garments; but she, Vainly communing there with icy death, If at her feet lay all the wealth of nations, One speaking glance of life from those sweet eyes Now closed for ever, had been worth it all. The boy lay gently cradled on the knee Of the fond mother, and her crimson robe Around his form was wrapt; while on one arm His fair young head was pillow'd, and her brow, Her aching brow, reclined upon the other. The auburn curls around his temples clung, Clustering in beauty there, and the blue veins, So clearly seen 'neath the transparent skin, Seem'd flowing still with life-blood; the long lash Of his blue, half-closed eye appear'd to tremble On his fair cheek, while the fast-rolling tears Which from his mother's darker orbits fell, Droop'd from his snowy brow, as they had rested Upon a marble statue.

Her grief

Burst forth awhile in sobs and bitter groans;
But when the view of death had for a time
Met her dull vision, and the sight of sorrow
Grew more familiar, then her full heart
Burst forth in words, simple but plaintive.
Sweetly pathetic were the gentle tones
Of her melodious voice; no ear
Could listen but to pity, and no eye
That saw her but must gaze and weep.

LAMENT.

And art thou gone, my beautiful, my boy,
Thy sorrowing father's pride, thy mother's joy!
I had not thought, my child, to view thee so,
In death's cold clasp laid motionless and low!

I had not thought to close thy beaming eyes,
To hear thy dying groans, thy feeble cries.
Alas! that thus for thee my tears should flow!
I thought not that this form, so fair and bright,
Death with his chilling arrows e'er could blight;
And oh, my child, my child, it cannot be
That his cold hand hath rested upon thee!
That this fair form, so active but to-day,
Is now a senseless, lifeless mass of clay-
Dust of the earth, fit subject for decay!

How white thy brow! how beautiful thy skin!
The spirit must be resting still within!

The pure, warm blood thy lip is tinging still,-
The purple current seems each vein to fill!

Oh no, it cannot be! My boy, awake!

Rouse from this slumber, for thy mother's sake!
Rouse, ere that mother's mourning heart shall break!
It is not so! my boy is gone for ever,
And I shall view his face again, oh never!

Ah, my sweet boy, I've watch'd thine infant years
With joy and grief, alternate hopes and fears.

For many a night I've borne thee on my knee,
Full many an hour of care I've spent for thee;
Thy joy would glad me, and thy grief bring tears.
Fond fancy pictured thee a noble man,
The fairest work in nature's wondrous plan;
The foremost leader in each patriot band,
Redeeming Syria from her foeman's hand;
Fearless in battle, swiftest in the race,

Replete with courage, virtue, strength, and grace;
I saw thee generous, noble, active, mild,
And blest the hero as my darling child!

But oh, my God! these hopes were crush'd by thee;
How shall I murmur at thy dread decree!
Hush, rebel spirit! whispering conscience tells
I should not vent each troubled thought which swells
In my torn heart-my woes I'll speak no more,
Nor each vain thought which there impatient dwells,
Waiting for utterance at my bosom's door.
Rouse, dormant soul! nor sleep when needed most,
While thy frail bark on adverse seas is tost,
And all thy comfort, all thy hope is lost!
I'll hie me to the prophet's mountain home,
He shall redeem my darling from the tomb,
Or teach me how, resign'd, to bear my doom.
She ceased;

A glance of hope o'er her pale features flash'd,
And with unwonted energy she raised
Her feeble hands in prayer to heaven.
Once more she press'd her pallid lips upon
The marble forehead of her lovely boy,
Then rising, laid the cold and lifeless load
From off her bosom, strong in her despair;
Then wildly throwing back the silken folds
Which droop'd upon the wall, she rush'd along,
Through many a corridor and hall, illumed
With glittering lamps and gems of burning lustre.
Her sandall'd feet glanced lightly on the floor,
And her soft tread no answering echo gave;
But heavier far her footstep would have been,
Beneath the galling burden on her heart,
If all had been despair; but the small grain of hope
Which linger'd still within, her onward course

?

Served but to quicken; something in her soul
Seem'd battling with its sorrow, and a spark,
Lighted by hope, within, a tiny star,
Shone o'er the almost desert gloom of woe.
She hasted on; and soon her form was lost,
In its dim outline, amid the windings
Of her noble mansion. Where hath she gone
Why at this moment leave her lifeless son?
What human voice can yield her heart relief?
What hand redeem her loved one from the dust?
Return, frail mourner! and indulge thy grief,
Where none are nigh to view its heartfelt pangs;
Return, nor seek one sympathetic heart
In the cold world around thee: thou wilt see,
Since rankling sorrow hath oppress'd thy soul,
All who with smiles attended thee before
Will gaze on thee in scorn, and mock thy tears,
Nor heed thy bitter groans. Oh better far
In thine own heart to hide each torturing grief,
And meet thy sorrow here. But she hath gone!
Twilight is stealing on, and she hath gone!

And where ! Gaze on yon rugged path, which leads
Far onward to the mountain's brow, and there
Behold her toiling on her weary way!

The thorny brambles meet along her path,

And close around o'ershadowing thickets grow-
But still she rushes on- - the piercing thorn
Or fallen bough, alike unheeding all,
And with despairing heart and weary step
Reaches the mighty prophet's mountain home.

The last faint day-streak gleams on Carmel's brow,
And lights the tearful traveller on her way,
As with the holy man of God she turns
Her sorrowing footsteps backward to her home -
They enter, and once more she stands beside
The silent couch of her unconscious boy.
There, overcome by speechless, mute despair,
Her agony how great!-Cold, deathlike drops
Hang on her snowy brow, and, half-distracted
With o'erwhelming grief, she turns her from the sight
Of the dear object of her fondest love.

Behold the prophet! Lo! the man of God
Is lowly bending o'er the couch of death
His long, dark mantle floating loosely round
His tall, majestic form; his silver locks
Parted far backward on his noble brow,
And his full, piercing eye upraised to heaven!
His hands are clasp'd the feeble fingers
Trembling with emotion, and from his lips
Bursts forth an ardent prayer. He ceased,
And on the body stretch'd his aged form,