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IF thou shouldst ever come to Modena, And filled his glass to all; but his hand Stop at a palace near the Reggio Gate,
shook, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. And soon from guest to guest the panic Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, spread. And numerous fountains, statues, cy- | 'Twas but that instant she had left Franpresses,
cesco, Will long detain thee; but before thou go, Laughing and looking back, and flying Enter the house-pr’ythee, forget it not- still, And look a while upon a picture there. Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas ! she was not to be found; "l'is of a lady in her earliest youth;
Nor from that hour could anything be She sits inclining forward as to speak,
guessed, Her lips half-open, and her finger up,
But that she was not! Weary of his life, As though she said, “Beware!”_her vest Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith of gold
Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Broidered with flowers, and clasped from Orsini lived; and long mightst thou have HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALLEY OF CHAMOUNI.
head to footAn emerald stone in every golden clasp;
An old man wandering as in quest of And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
something, A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
Something he could not find-he knew So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
not what. The overflowings of an innocent heart- When he was gone, the house remained It haunts me still, though many a year has
a while fled,
Silent and tenantless-then went to Like some wild melody Alone it hangs
strangers. Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, An oaken chest half-eaten by the worm. When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery, She was an only child; from infancy That mouldering chest was noticed; and The joy, the pride, of an indulgent sire.
'twas said Her mother dying of the gift she gave, By one as young, as thoughtless, as Ginevra, That precious gift, what else remained to Why not remove it from its lurkinghim?
place?" The young Ginevra was his all in life, 'Twas done as soon as said; but on the Still as she grew, for ever in his sight.
way She was all gentleness, all gaiety,
It burst-it fell; and, lo! a skeleton ! Her pranks the favourite theme of every And here and there a pearl, an emeraldtongue.
stone, But now the day was come, the day, the A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold. hour;
All else had perished-save a nuptial ring, And in the lustre of her youth, she gave And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Her hand, with her heart in it, to Fran. Engraven with a name, the name of bothcesco.
GINEVRA.”—There, then, had she found
a grave! Great was the joy ; but at the bridal Within that chest had she concealed herfeast,
self, When all sat down, the bride was wanting Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the there
happy; Nor was she to be found! Her father When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush cried,
there, “ 'Tis but to make a trial of our love !" Fastened her down for ever!
Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star | And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! In his steep course! So long he seems to Who called you forth from night and utter pause
death, On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign From dark and icy caverns called you Blanc !
forth, The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful rocks, form,
For ever shattered, and the same for ever? Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, Who gave you your invulnerable life, How silently! Around thee, and above, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
your joy, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? As with a wedge. But when I look again, And who commanded, and the silence It is thine own calm home, thy crystal came, shrine,
Here let the billows stiffen and have rest?” Thy habitation from eternity. 0 dread and silent mount! I gazed upon Ye ice falls ! ye that from the mountain's thee
brow Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Adown enormous ravines slope amainDidst vanish from my thought: entranced Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty in prayer
voice, I worshipped the Invisible alone.
And stopped at once amid their maddest
plunge! Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts! So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Who made you glorious as the gates of Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with heaven my thought,
Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade Yea, with my life, and life's own secret joy;
the sun Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with Into the mighty vision passing—there,
living flowers As in her natural form, swelled vast to Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your heaven.
GOD! let the torrents, like a shout of Awake, my soul I not only passive praise nations, Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, Answer! and let the ice plains echo, God! Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake, GOD! sing, ye meadow streams, with gladVoice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, some voice! awake!
Ye pine groves, with your soft and soulGreen vales and icy cliffs! all join my hymn. like sounds!
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the snow, vale!
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, Oh, struggling with the darkness all the GOD!
night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal Or when they climb the sky, or when they frost!
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's Companion of the
star at dawn, Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn storm! Co-herald, wake, O wake, and utter praise ! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? clouds ! Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? | Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! Who made thee parent of perpetual Utter forth God, and fill the hills with streams?
THE ARCHERY OF WILLIAM TELL.
PLACE there the boy," the tyrant said; Slow rose the shaft:-it trembled--hung. Fix me the apple on his head :
‘My only boy!” gasped on his tongue: Ha! rebel - now!
He could not aim ! There is a fair mark for thy shaft,
“Ha!” cried the tyrant, doth he quail? There, try thy boasted archer craft!” He shakes ! his haughty brow is pale!” And hoarsely the dark Austrian laughed. Shoot!” cried a low voice; canst thon With quivering brow
Cast to the heaven one burning look,“Ha! so ye blench?” fierce Gesler cried :
Of all doubts reft:
He drew the bow-the arrow fled-
The apple left the stripling's head“And what the meed?” at length Tell
'Tis cleft ! 'tis cleft!” asked.
And cleft it was—and Tell was free. Bold fool! when slaves like thee are Quick the brave boy was at his knee, tasked,
With flushing cheek;
But ere the sire his child embraced,
The baffled Austrian cried in haste, And nerved to such nice archery,
An arrow in thy belt is placed-
What means it? speak !”
"To smite thee, tyrant, to the heart ! Give him a bow and arrow there
Had Heaven so willed it that my dart One shaft-but one." Madness, despair,
Touched this, my boy!”
“Treason ! rebellion! chain the slave !"
They chained the Switzer, arm and “I take thy terms,” he murmured low;
limb; Grasped eagerly the proffered bow; They racked him till his eyes grew dim, The quiver searched;
And reeled his brain : Chose out an arrow keen and long,
Nor groan, nor pain-wrung prayer gave Fit for a sinewy arm and strong
he; Placed it upon the sounding thong,
But smiled beneath his belt to see
That shaft, whose point he swore should be Deep stillness fell on all around;
Not sped in vain !
Red with revenge, in Gesler's soul,
When Lucerne's lake
And Freedom's call abroad was blown, The light wind died into a sigh,
And Switzerland, a giant grown,
Her fetters brake.
With wakening swell-
And Austrian haughtiness grew tame, He knew it was the father scanned
And freedom's watchword was-the name The boy he loved !
Of William Tell !
THE MOORS IN SPAIN.
We pursued our way over a rolling, mountainous country, until, arriving at the crest of an eminence, the snowy summit of the Sierra Nevada, which we had beheld on our voyage from Tunis to Gibraltar, rose before us in all its majesty—a sign that the object of our pilgrimage could not be very far distant. From the top of a range of dreary sand-hills blazing in the sun, the dark green carpet of the Vega of Granada suddenly expanded at our feet. It is a vast inland plain, everywhere surrounded by mountains, elegated some thousand feet above the level of the sea, with a climate comparatively cool and bracing, and a soil of the most exuberant fertility, watered by the melting snows of the Sierra, wbich towers above it like a defensive wall. On the slope of one of the inferior heights appeared the white city, buried in groves ; and on a hill above it, the red towers of the Moorish fortress of the Alhambra.
At this sight, we all felt like pilgrims in sight of a long-desired bourne; and, heedless of the burning sun, galloped across the green Vega until we had attained the suburbs of Granada.
We cannot easily describe the feelings with which we found ourselves close to this capital of the Arabians in Spain, and actually within sight of the most elegant monument of their architecture. What manner of people those Moors were, how surprising their civilizition, and how melancholy their fate, must be described by abler pens than mine, and the reader will thank me for placing before him one of the most beautiful passages of Washington Irving, which sums up, in a few eloquent words, the prominent points in the history of this gallant but ill-fated race :--
“I fell into a course of musing upon the singular fortunes of the Arabian or Moresco-Spaniards, whose whole existence is as a tale that is told, and certainly forms one of the most anomalous yet splendid episodes in history. Potent and durable as was their dominion, we scarcely know how to call them. They were a (13)
nation without a legitimate country or a name. A remote wave of the great Arabian inundation cast upon the shores of Europe, they seemed to have all the impetus of the first rush of the torrent. Their career of conquest, from the rock of Gibraltar to the cliffs of the Pyrenees, was as rapid and brilliant as the Moslem victories of Syria and Egypt; nay, had they not been checked on the plains of Tours, all France, all Europe, might have been overrun with the same facility as the empires of the East, and the Crescent might at this day have glittered on the fanes of Paris and of London.
Repelled within the limits of the Pyrenees, the mixed hordes of Asia and Africa that formed this great eruption gave up the Moslem principle of conquest, and sought to establish in Spain à peaceful and permanent dominion. As conquerors, their heroism was only equalled by their moderation; and in both, for a time, they excelled the nations with whom they contended. Severed from their native homes, they loved the land given them, as they supposed, by Allah, and strove to embellish it with everything that could administer to the happiness of man. Laying the foundations of their power in a system of wise and equitable laws, diligently cultivating the arts and sciences, and promoting agriculture, manufactures, and commerce, they gradually formed an empire unrivalled for its prosperity by any of the empires of Christendom; and diligently drawing round them the graces and refinements that marked the Arabian empire in the East, at the time of its greatest civilization, they diffused the light of oriental knowledge through the western regions of benighted Europe. ....
“If the Moslem monuments in Spain, if the Mosque of Cordova, the Alcazar of Seville, and the Alhambra of Granada still bear inscriptions fondly boasting of the power and permanency of their dominion, can the boast be derided as arrogant and vain ? Generation after generation, century after century had passed away, and still they maintained possession of the land. A period had elapsed longer than that which has passed since England was subjugated by the Norman Conqueror, and the descendants of Musa and Taric might as little anticipate being driven into exile