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The viands were various, to each of their taste,
And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversions to see,
From one branch to another, his cobwebs he slung,
LAMENTATION FOR THE DEATH OF CELIN.
At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are
barr’d, At twilight, at the Vega gate, there is a trampling
heard ; There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound
of woe. “What tower is fall'n, what star is set, what chief
come these bewailing ?” “ A tower is fall'n, a star is set. Alas! alas, for Celin!"
Three times they knock, three times they cry, and
wide the doors they throw: Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go : In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the
hollow porch, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and
flaming torch; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is
wailing, For all have heard the misery. “Alas! alas, for Celin!"
Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje’s blood, 'Twas at the solemn jousting; around the nobles
stood ; The Hobles of the land were there, and the ladies
bright and fair Look'd from their latticed windows, the haughty sight
to share; But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are be
wailing, For he was Granada’s darling knight. “ Alas! alas,
for Celin!” Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to
Behind him his four sisters, each wrapt in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes take
their doleful tale ; When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brother
less bewailing, And all the people, far and near, cry,~“Alas! alas,
O, lovely lies he on the bier above the purple pall, The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of
them all ; His dark, dark eyes are closed, and his rosy lip is pale, The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his
burnish'd mail, And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon
their wailing, Its sound is like no earthly sound,-“Alas! alas, for
The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor
stands at his door, One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weep
ing sore : Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes
black they strew, Upon their broider'd garments of crimson, green and
blueBefore each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the
loud bewailing, From door and lattice, high and low-_"Alas! alas,
An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the
people cry; Her hair is white as silyer, like horn her glazed eye. 'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed
him long ago; She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she
well shall know
With one deep shriek she through doth break, when
her ears receive their wailing“ Let me kiss my Celin ere I die- Alas! alas, for Celin!"
O MELANCHOLY Moon, Queen of the midnight, though thou palest away
Far in the dusky west, to vanish soon Under the hills that catch thy waning ray, Still art thou beautiful beyond all spheres, The friend of grief, and confidant of tears.
Mine earliest friend wert thou: My boyhood's passion was to stretch me under The locust tree, and, through the chequer'd
Youth grew; but as it came,
To gaze, and dream, and breathe perchance the
And manhood, though it bring
Mine eyes from thy lone loveliness; still spring
Would it were so; for earth
And her sweet chimes, that once were woke to
Would it were so; for still
Mine eyes can have no bitler shame to fill,
A boyish thought, and weak:-
And in the land of palms, and on the peak
Let it be so indeed
And let me perish where no heart shall bleed, And naught, save passing winds, shall make my No tears, save night's, to wash my humble shrine, And watching o'er me, no pale face but thine.
THE CORAL INSECT. Toil on! toil on! ye ephemeral train, Who build in the tossing and treacherous main; Toil on--for the wisdom of man ye mock, With your sand-based structures and domes of rock; Your columns the fathomless fountains lave, And your arches spring up to the crested wave; Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear.