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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 Kor 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:
9

Ah! then, his love still let me share,
To whom I've pledged my oath;

The felters 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 % 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:
h! 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 oiââ 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.

0, in my childhood, I have sate,
When that sweet voice hath breathed,
Forgetful of each o 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 §§
I never could delay.

"Twas she who sang me many a rhyme,
And told me many a tale,

And many a legend of old time
That made my spirit quail.

There are a thousand pleasant sounds
Around our cottage still—
The torrent that before it bounds,
The breeze upon the hill,
The murmuring of the wood-doves' sigh,
The swallow in the eaves,
And the wind that sweeps a melody
In passing from the leaves, -
And the pattering of the early rain,
The opening flowers to wet-
But they want my sister's voice again,
To make them sweeter yet.

We stood around her dying bed,
We saw her blue eyes close;
While from her heart the pulses fled,
And from her cheek the rose.
And still her lips in fondness moved,
And still she strove to speak
To the mournful beings that she loved,
And yet she was too weak; -
Till at last from her eye came one bright ray,
That bound us like a spell;
And as her spirit pass'd away,
We heard her sigh—“farewell!”

And oft since then that voice hath come
Across my heart again;
And it seems to speak as from the tomb,
And bids me not complain:
And I never hear a low soft flute,
Or the sound of a rippling stream,
Or the rich deep music of a lute,
But it renews my dream,

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