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Gonsalvo, with a hundred knights
Of Leon's chivalrie,

Well posted on Alhama's heights,
Staid succour from the sea.

One morn a Moorish youth was led
To brave Gonsalvo's tent,
His escort from the field had fled,
And his horse had fall'n o'erspent;
He hung his head in speechless grief,
As the tear roll'd down his cheek,
And scornful look'd each mailed chief,
To behold a youth so weak.

"Is it a girl," Gonsalvo cries,
"That in our toils is caught?
That thus it weeps, in woman's guise,
Where its fierce forefathers fought?"
"Nay, hear my tale," exclaim'd the youth,
His eye one moment bright'ning,
And Allah, if I speak not truth,
Consume me with his lightning!

66

"From beauteous Malaga I came,
But by no beaten way;
Superb Granada was my aim,-
Woe, woe the luckless day!
For had I in my journey sped
To Darro's rushing water,
This morn Zorayda I had wed,
Granada's fairest daughter.

"If pity then, or love's sweet power,
E'er touch'd thy gallant breast,
But grant me freedom for an hour-
To the oar I give the rest;

These few bright moments yield in grace,

My mournful fate to tell,"

To see once more Zorayda's face,

And take my long farewell!"

Gonsalvo had no marble heart,
Albeit his look was stern;

He bade the Moorish youth depart,
And ere set of sun return:

Each pass and strait the chieftain eyed,
Yet sometimes turn'd his head,

To mark how down the mountain side
His captive featly sped.

The Sierra's dazzling peak of snow
Yet blush'd with rosy light,
When again the grieving Moor bow'd low
Before the Christian knight;
But alone he came not, as he went,
For a damsel press'd his arm,
Faint as a rose by tempests bent,
And quivering with alarm.

Awhile they stood in speechless gloom,
She look'd at him and wept;

And the knights, still reckless of his doom,
An equal silence kept.

At length the maid unveil'd her head,
She knelt at the chieftain's knee,
Few were the stifled words she said,
But he well could guess the plea.

"Gazul, thy captive, Christian knight,
Is here by his solemn vow,
He was my lover yesternight,
He is my husband now;
Without him life to me is vain,

And its sounding pageants hollow,
With him I've promised to remain;
Him, him alone I follow.

""T was for me he dared, unwisely brave, The ambush'd road to take;

He was your foe, he is your slave,

But he suffers for my sake:

Ah! then, his love still let me share,
To whom I've pledged my oath;
The fetters if you will prepare,

But let them bind us both!"

Knights, little used to pity, sigh'd,
They soften'd to his suit;

For her voice to their hearts was felt to glide
Like music from a lute.

"Our arms," Gonsalvo said, "achieve
The buttress, not the bower;

My falchion's edged the oak to cleave,
And not to crush the flower.

"Peace be to both! you both are free!
Live happy; and whene'er
To you a Christian bends his knee,
Believe Gonsalvo there!"

They silent kiss'd his robes, and sped
To their own dear Darro's water;
And thus Gazul Zorayda wed,
Granada's noblest daughter!

RUSSELL.

THE HAPPIEST TIME.

WHEN are we happiest-when the light of morn
Wakes the young roses from their crimson rest;
When cheerful sounds, upon the fresh winds borne,
Tell man resumes his work with blither zest;
While the bright waters leap from rock to glen-
Are we the happiest then?

Alas, those roses!-they will fade away,
And thunder-tempests will deform the sky;
And summer heats bid the spring buds decay,
And the clear sparkling fountain may be dry;
And nothing beauteous may adorn the scene,

To tell what it has been!

When are we happiest ?-in the crowded hall,
When fortune smiles, and flatterers bend the knee?
How soon,-how very soon, such pleasures pall!
How fast must falsehood's rainbow colouring flee;
Its poison flow'rets brave the sting of care:

We are not happy there!

Are we the happiest, when the evening hearth
Is circled with its crown of living flowers?
When goeth round the laugh of harmless mirth,
And when affection from her bright urn showers
Her richest balm on the dilating heart?

Bliss! is it there thou art!

Oh, no!-not there; it would be happiness
Almost like heaven's, if it might always be
Those brows without one shading of distress,
And wanting nothing but eternity;
But they are things of earth and pass away,

They must, they must decay.

Those voices must grow tremulous with years,
Those smiling brows must wear a tinge of gloom;
Those sparkling eyes be quench'd in bitter tears,
And, at the last, close darkly in the tomb.
If happiness depends on them alone,

How quickly is it gone!

When are we happiest, then?-oh! when resign'd
To whatsoe'er our cup of life may brim;
When we can know ourselves but weak and blind,
Creatures of earth! and trust alone in Him
Who giveth, in his mercy, joy or pain:

Oh! we are happiest then!

MISS MARY ANNE BROWNE

THE SISTER'S VOICE.

"O what a voice is silent!"-Barry Cornwall.

O My sister's voice is gone away!
Around our social hearth

We have lost its tones, that were so gay,

So full of harmless mirth

We miss the glancing of her eye,
The waving of her hair,

The footsteps lightly gliding by,

The hand so small and fair;

And the wild bright smile that lit her face,
And made our hearts rejoice-
Sadly we mourn each vanish'd grace,
But most of all her voice.

For oh! it was so soft and sweet
When it breathed forth in words;
Such tones it had as hearts repeat
In echoes on their chords;

And lovely when in measure soft
She sung a mournful song,
And heavenly when it swell'd aloft
In triumph chorus strong;
And dearest when its words of love
Would soothe our bosoms' care,
And loveliest when it rose above
In sounds of praise and prayer.

O, in my childhood, I have sate,
When that sweet voice hath breathed,
Forgetful of each merry mate-

Of the wild flowers I had wreathed;
And though each other voice I scorn'd
That call'd me from my play,

If my sweet sister only warn'd,
I never could delay.

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