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"Now take the harp, Eulalia mine,
Drink not deep, howe'er it glow,
Heaven, too, lends her angels wings. Her very birthright-hope,- but earth What can charms to pleasure give, Keeps not the promise of its birth.
Such as being fugitive? ’T was whisper'd that young maiden's breast Thus with love: oh! never try Had harbour'd wild and dangerous guest; Further than a blush or sigh; Love had been there,-in that is said Blush gone with the clouds that share it, All that of doom the heart can dread. Sigh pass'd with the winds that bear it. Oh! born of Beanty, in those isles Which far 'mid Grecian seas arise, They call'd thy mother queen of smiles, But, Love, they only gave thee sighs.
But met she then young Vidal's eye,
His half sad, half reproachful sigh:
His ISABELLE! and could she be
Votaress of inconstancy?
As if repentant of her words,
I have belied my woman 's heart,
In my false song's deceiving words;
Vain, vain love would be
Farewell, farewell, I 'll dream no more,
'T is misery to be dreaming; Farewell, farewell, and I will be
At least like thee in seeming.
Where the sweet wild flowers are dwelling,
And the woodland-fount is welling.
Has spring flung o'er each blossom;
The unrest of my bosom.
Where midnight passes fleetest;
Of saddest and of sweetest. I'll turn me to the gifted page
Where the bard his soul is flinging;
Breaking e'en while singing.
When wilt thou lose thy sorrow?
Would I slept there to-morrow!
No, love was made to soothe and share
The ills that wait our mortal birth;
Born amid the hours of spriog,
Timid as the tale of woe,
Tender as the wood-dove's sigh,
Made all chance and change to prove,
Well changed, fair lady, laughing said Rose-bud-mouth, sunny brow,
A girl beside, whose chesnut-hair Wore she, who, fairy-like, sprung now Was wreathed with the wild vine-leaves Beside the harp. Careless she hung
spread, Over the chords; her bright hair flung
As if that she some wood-nymph were; A sunshine round her. Light laugh'd she: And darker were her brow and cheek, “All too sad are your songs for me;
And richer in their crimson break, Let me try if the strings will breathe Than those of the fair ring beside. For minstrel of the aspen wreath." In sooth, Lolotte had often tried Lightly the answering prelude fell,
The influence of the wind and sun, Thus sang the Lady ISABELLE.
That loved the cheek they dwelt upon
Too well, to leave it without trace
Mind, dangerous and glorious gift, They had known such sweet dwelling-place. Too much thy native heaven has left And her bright eyes seem'd as they had won Its nature in thee, for thy light The radiance which the summer-sun To be content with earthly home: Brought to her valleys lone and wild, It hath another, and its sight
W bere she had dwelt. And now half child, Will too much to that other roam,-
And heavenly light and earthly clay
But ill bear with alternate sway ;She came to the Lady of Isaure's towers, Till jarring elements create As fresh and as sweet as the forest-bowers The evil which they sought to shun, Where the gladness had passid of her earliest And deeper feel their mortal state,
In struggling for a higher one. «Now hearken thee, Lady IsabelLE, There is no rest for the proud mind; See if aright I read thy spell,
Conscious of its high powers confined, And the rule of thy charmed sway, to keep Vain dreams 'mid its best hopes arise; Watch over Love's enchanted sleep.
It is itself its sacrifice.
Defaced, and with gray moss o’ergrown; Where, oh! where 's the chain to fling,
And sad to see the broken lute One that will bind Cupid's wing,
For ever to its music mute! One that will have longer power
But what is lute, or fallen tower, Than the April sun or shower?
Or ship sunk in its proudest hour, Form it not of Eastern gold,
To awe and mystery combined All too weighty it to hold;
In their worst shape-the ruin'd mind? Form it neither all of bloom,
To her was trusted that fine power Never does Love find a tomb
Which rules the bard's enthusiast hour; Sudden, soon, as when he meets
The human heart gave up its keys Death amid unchanging sweets :
To her, who ruled its sympathies But if you would fling a chain,
In song whose influence was brought And not fling it all in vain,
From what first in herself had wrought Like a fairy form a spell
Too passionate ; her least emotion Of all that is changeable:
Swept like the whirlwind o'er the ocean.' Take the purple tints that deck,
Kind, terder, but too sensitive, Meteor-like, the peacock's neck;
None seem'd her equal love to bear; Take the many hues that play
Affection's ties small joys could give, On the rainbow's colour'd way;
Tried but by what she hoped they were. Never let a hope appear
Too much on all her feelings threw Without its companion fear;
The colouring of their own hue; Only smile to sigh, and then
Too much her ardent spirit dream'd Change into a smile again;
Things would be such as she had deem'd. Be to-day as sad, as pale,
She trusted love, albeit her heart As minstrel with his lovelorn tale;
Was ill made for love's happiness; But to-morrow gay as all
She ask'd too much, another's part Life had been one festival.
Was cold beside her own excess. If a woman would secure
She sought for praise; her share of fame, All that makes her reign endure,
It went beyond her wildest claim: And, alas! her reign must be
But ill could her proud spirit bear Ever most in phantasy,
All that befalls the laurel's share;Never let an envious eye
Oh, well they gave the laurel-tree Gaze upon the heart too nigh;
A minstrel's coronal to be! Never let the veil be thrown
Immortal as its changeless hue, Quite aside, as all were known
The deadly poison circles through, Of delight and tenderness,
Its venom makes its life; ah! still In the spirit's last rece88;
Earth's lasting growths are those of ill ;And, one spell all spells above,
And mined was the foundation-stone,
The spirit's regal shrine o'erthrown.
Yet had a beauty left behind ;
To tell of what had passid before.
O’er her pale brow and radiant eyes, AMENAIDE, the wreck of thee?
Wild as the light of midnight-skies,
THB SECOND DAY.
When the red meteor rides the cloud,
Sweet Spirit of delicious Song,
Is it war? At once are borne
Words like notes of martial horn.
Is it love? Comes some sweet tale
Is it Nature's lovely face?
Rise lines touch'd with her own grace. Yet not the less know I that heart
Is it some bright garden-scene? Was a goal whence proud steeds started, There, too, hath the minstrel been, Though now it be a ruind shrine
Linking words of charmed power
With the green leaf and the flower.
He hath revell’d to excess,
And the starry harps are swelling. In dark eye or rosy smile.
Is it deed that hath its claim That spirit within me burneth,
Upon earth's most holy fame,
But for hearth and home content?
Laurel, laud, and love belong
Not in courtly hall to-day ’T was as for very pity they wept. Meets the lady's congress gay.
'T is a bright and summer-sky,
They will bear it company ; A faded flower, a broken gem,
Odours float upon the gale, Are emblems mine :
Comrades suiting minstrel-tale;
Flowers are spreading, carpet meet
For the beauty's fairy-feet.
Shame to stay in marble-hall
Thus from nature's festival.
Is wanting now.
The garden had one fair resort,
As if devised for minstrel-court:
An amphitheatre of trees
Shut from soft cheeks the ruder breeze;
Where, if a sunbeam wander'd through, The lorn one with her song has pass’d, 'T was like the silver fall of dew; 'T was meet such song should be the last. The middle was an open space
Of softest grass, and those small flowers,
The gold and blush of morning's hours.
A purple cloud had fallen there,
Grew thousand violets, whose sighs They sparr’d their steeds, and on they dash’d, Breathed forth an Eastern sacrifice;
as sweeps the midnight-wind; And, like a canopy, o'erhead
While their youngest brother stood and wept A Provence-rose luxuriant spread,
that he must stay behind. And its white flowers, pale and meek, Seem'd sisters to the lady's cheek.
Come here, my child, the father said, and
wherefore dost thou weep? And ranged in a graceful order round,
The time will come when from the fray A fairy-court upon fairy-ground, Group'd the bright band; and, like a tent, when thou wilt be the first of all amid the
nought shall my favourite keep; Leaves and bloom over all were blent,
hostile spears. -. Flinging bright colours, but changing fast, The boy shook back his raven-hair, and As ever the varying sunbeams pass'd; And in the midst grew a myrtle-tree,
laugh'd amid his tears. There was the minstrel's place to be, And its buds were delicate, frail, and fair, As the hopes and joys of his own heart are. The sun went down, but lance nor shield
reflected back his light;
The moon rose up, but not a sound broke Dark was the brow, and the bearing proud,
on the rest of night. of the bard who first stept forth from the The old man watch'd impatiently, till with crowd;
morn o'er the plain A sınall cloak down from his shoulder hung, There came a sound of horses' feet, there And a light guitar o'er his arm was slung;
came a martial train. Many a lady's casement had known The moonlight-spell of its magic tone: But the fire of youth from his cheek had But gleam'd not back the sunbeam glad pass'd,
from plume or helm of gold, And its hopes and its dreams had faded as fast; No, it shone upon the crimson vest, the The romance of his earlier time was over,
turban's emerald fold. The warrior had half forgotten the lover; A Moorish herald ; six pale heads hung at And the light grew dark in his radiant eyes,
his saddlebow, As he told his tale of high emprize. Gash'd, changed, yet well the father knew
the lines of each fair brow.
THE YOUNG AVENGER.
“Oh! did they fall by numbers, or did they
basely yield?" SPANISK MINSTREL'S TALB.
Not so; beneath the same bold hand thy
children press'd the field. The warrior's strength is bow'd by age, the They died as NouRREDDI would wish all
foes of his should die; warrior's step is slow,
Small honour does the conquest boast when And the beard upon his breast is white as is the winter-snow;
won from those who fly. Yet his eye shines bright, as if not yet its
last of fame were won; Six sons stand ready in their arms to do as And thus he saith : “This was the sword that he has done.
swept down thy brave band, Find thou one who can draw it forth in all
thy Christian land.' Now take your way, ye Laras bold, and to If from a youth such sorrowing and scathe the battle ride ;
thou hast endured, For loud upon the Christian air are vaunts Dread thou to wait for vengeance till his of Moorish pride :
summers are matured. Your six white steeds stand at the gate; go
forth, and let me see Who will return the first and bring a Mos- The aged chieftain took the sword, in vain lem-head to me.
his hand essay'd To draw it from its scabbard forth, or
poise the heavy blade; Forth they went, six gallant knights, all He flung it to his only child, now sadly mail'd from head to heel;
standing by Is it not death to him who first their fiery i Now weep, for here is cause for tears; alas! strength shall feel?
mine own are dry."
Then answer'd proud the noble boy: "My His cheek is as his foeman's pale, his whit tears last morning came
lips gasp for breath: For weakness of my own right hand; to Ay, this was all he ask'd of Heaven, the shed them now were shame:
victory and death. I will not do my brothers' names such deep
and deadly wrong; Brave were they unto death, success can He raised him on his arm: “My page, coe but to God belong.
thou and do my will; Canst thou not see a turban'd band upen
yon distant hill ?
Now strip me of my armour, boy, by yonder And years have fled, that boy bas sprung
river's side, unto a goodly height, And fleet of foot and stout of arm in his Place firm this head upon my breast, and old father's light;
Aling me on the tide." Yet breathed he never wish to take in glorious strife his part,
That river wash'd his natal halls, its waters And shame and grief his backwardness was
bore him on, to that father's heart.
Till the moonlight on the hero in his father's
The old chief to the body drew, his gallant Cold, silent, stern, he let time pass, until
boy was dead, he rush'd one day,
But his vow of vengeance had been kept. Where mourning o'er his waste of youth
he bore NOURREDDIN's head. the weary chieftain lay. Unarm'd he was, but in his grasp he bore
a beavy brand :
Of him who now awoke the lute,
Then would those tuneful lips be mate. For years no hour of quiet sleep upon my His cheek was worn, what was the care eyelids came,
Had writ such early lesson there? For NOURREDDIN had poison'd all my slumber Was it Love, blighted in its hour with his fame.
Of earliest and truest power I have waited for my vengeance; but now, By worldly chills which ever fling alive or dead,
Their check and damp on young Love's wing; I swear to thee by my brothers' graves Or unrequited, while the heart that thou shalt have his head." Could not from its fond worship part?
Or was it but the wasting woe
Which every human path must know; It was a glorious sight to see, when those Or hopes, like birds, sent forth in vain, two warriors met:
And seeking not their ark again; The one dark as a thunder-cloud, in strength Or faithless to our utmost trust;
Friends in their very love unjust, and manhood set; The other young and beautiful, with lithe Or fortune's gifts, to win so hard ; and graceful form,
Or fame, that is its own reward But terrible as is the flash that rushes Or has no other, and is worn
Mid through the storm.
envy, falsehood, hate, and scorn? All these ills had that young bard knowl, And they had laid his funeral stone.
Slowly and sad the numbers pass'd, And eye to eye, and hand to hand, in deadly As thus the minstrel sung his last.
strife they stood, And smoked the ground whereon they fought,
hot with their mingled blood; Till droop'd the valiant infidel, fainter his blows and few,
THE ROSE. While fiercer from the combat still the youthful Christian grew.
THE ITALIAN MINSTREL'S TALE.
The Count Gonfali held a feast that night, NOURREDDIN falls, his sever'd head, it is And colour'd lamps sent forth their odorous young Lara's prize:
light But dizzily the field of death floats in the Over gold carvings and the purple fall victor's eyes
Of tapestry; and around each stately hall