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See him from that bright pageant turning, The wasted bones from charnel rise,
When lo! a maiden's plaintive wail

Is borne upon the midnight gale.

The flowing robe, the life-like air,
All that is outward passing fair,
But of the thin disguise bereft,

"They are gone, they are gone; the light Nothing save loathsome death is left.

The portents of that coming fate,

of to-morrow Will dawn on Grenada in sadness and Might satisfy a Moslem's hate, gloom, And Osmail gloated on the sight But alas who can know the depth of my Of Spanish glory sunk in night. Back from each conquest she had made, The last whom I loved is now sunk in In their own blood her soldiers wade, the tomb. The riches that her coffers prest Are turned to canker in her breast,

sorrow,

My brother! in hope but this morning we Or wasted with her blood in toils, parted, Where others reaped the victor's spoils. Thine eye was unquenched, and thy Her people once so free and proud, step it was firm, Now to the papal crosier bowed, Though the unbidden tear from its recess The light on other nations breaking. was started,

Seems more and more her land forsaking,

I dreamed not but thou wouldst in glo- Religion, science, freedom, law,
ry return.

Their last faint glim'ring rays withdraw,
Or gleam with a malignant light,

And O, though I feared, yet the thought Worse than the deepest gloom of night.

of thy dying,

The pageant ceased; nor more the spell

My Hamet, scarce entered one moment Could of the distant future tell. my breast, But I saw o'er the plain thy comrades Avenged, I care not now to die.

were flying,

"Enough! enough!" was Osmail's cry,

Nobly within these ruined walls

And thy undaunted valor it told me the We'll battle till Grenada falls;

rest.

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And never shall our fated state
In suppliant guise on Spaniard wait-
With our own swords we'll dig her grave,
When these no more have power to save."

But hark! beyond the castle walls
Grenada's trump on Osmail calls;

For ye cared not to live and ye feared No more with its exulting pride
not to die.

That sound shall Christian hosts deride;
No more shall call to warlike deed,

O Allah, give ear to the prayer that is Declare no more the victor's meed.
swelling
In sadness Osmail heard the blast,
From a heart in its anguish now ceas- For well he knew it was the last;
Yet following at the herald's call,

ing to beat, Let a full tide of woe thy red vengeance Full soon he reached Alhambra's hall. telling, O where was now that lordly crowdAge after age on our enemies sweep." Where was the welcome clear and loud,

O how did Osmail's throbbing breast
Second the maiden's last request;
Lo! as in answer to the prayer,
Changed was the gorgeous vision there.
It seemed as when in beauty's guise

The greeting, such as chieftains give?
Alas! but few, how few now live!

Around he glanced on visage pale-
He listened to the stifled wail;
"What do we here," was Osmail's cry,

"Have ye resolved to do or die?
Say, does the blood of brothers slain
Quicken afresh each throbbing vein?
Feel ye that now it rests on you,
Weak though ye be, a wasted few,
Vengeance for fallen sons to take,
And your own hate in blood to slake?
Needs there my voice to fire your zeal
For glory and your country's weal?"
None answered; and with downcast look
Not one would Osmail's fire glance brook.
Then as in death there burst from all,
"Allah has willed Grenada's fall!
Long have we with the Christian striven,
Our blood and treasure freely given;
But who can stop the swelling tide
Of Ocean in his power and pride?
Who the red lightning can restrain?
Who cap the mountain's bursting flame?
As well do this, as save the name
The fates have doomed to wo and shame.
Osmail, seek thou the Spaniard's tent-
Tell him thy king by thee has sent
To own him as his sovereign lord-
Add thou each well befitting word."
"And think ye me a recreant knave,
Or take me for a coward slave?
By Allah, no! my knee ne'er bends,
Nor e'er by me Grenada sends
Submission to our haughty foe :
Better to drink the dregs of woe-
Better that on us now should fall
The dome of this ancestral hall.
Deem ye their hearts in danger feared,
Who this proud palace for us reared?
What! dare ye with their ghosts around,
To yield this spot of sacred ground?
Think on that superhuman power,
That instant may our foemen cower;
Think on the strength of desperate men,
O, for your country strike again.”

Silent they sat all sad and stern,
Hopeless and to their purpose firm.
As well the maiden's breath might melt
The frosts by hoary Atlas felt,
As man, with words of empty air,
Rouse from this utter, black despair.

This Osmail saw-"I go," said he,
"I go, as I have lived, the free;
My message to the Spaniard given
Shall be my lance through corslet driven.
The only words that I shall bring,
My falchion on his helm shall ring.
Seek other messengers to bear
The diadem your king should wear;
Others to say we e'er shall yield,
Except in death on battle field.
Yet know, in vain ye turn aside
A moment more the sweeping tide,
"Twill come at last with deadlier
Nor wilt avail ye meanly cower.
Ye have your choice, your loved to mourn,
From your fond bosoms fiercely torn;
Ye have your choice, to waste away
By slow and torturing decay ;
Yes, ye may choose to die like slaves,—
Or fill up honored, patriot graves."

power,

He turned, and soon was heard the sound
Of charger speeding o'er the ground.
Grenada's gates were open thrown,
The draw-bridge fell with clanging tone,
But onward, onward, still he flew,
And never bridle rein he drew-
Onward, but lo! yon serried band
By Zenel's banks call loudly, stand!
The moon's pale light around is stream-
ing,

On polished helm and breastplate gleam-
ing;

He marks the foremost foeman's breast,
His lance is settled in its rest-
A moment, and with spouting gore
That foeman to the ground he bore.
Then gleamed aloft his falchion bright,
Then closed around the deadly fight;
He shunned not one of thousand blows,
And fiercer from each wound arose;
While round him slaughtered foemen lie,
Deathless his hate, he scarce could die.
At length he fell-yet e'en in death
Not 'neath his foes sped Osmail's breath;
For Zenel's darkly flowing tide
Closed o'er the warrior of her pride.

H.

DULL PAPERS FROM THE DULL PORTFOLIO OF A DULL MAN.

No. 1.

ON THE READING OF BOOKS.

than

THERE is not a more miserable habit among young men, that of reading many books. There is often a vanity on this subject, and persons will forego the real treasures of a worthy volume for the foolish distinction of knowing many books by

name.

If the true object of reading were to see how many pages, no matter as to the quality, a man could run over in so many hours, perhaps it would be well to give up all thought in the making of books, since in this way such readers might find themselves relieved of a burden. Thought, with such, is merely secondary, or of no account; and its presence might occasion them, in their hurry, sometimes a serious inconvenience.

We are of opinion, now, that there is a much higher object to be gained in the reading of books, than any acquaintance with their prefaces and title-pages. There is a method, as we think, whereby the mind is fed; where what is read becomes, by an assimilating process, ours; and we are made to feel that each successive book that passes our hands has perhaps blessed us— blessed us by opening new ranges of thought, giving us glimpses of fair fields of truth hitherto unknown to us, and setting us higher in the scale of being. There is a pleasure in such reading, that which does not debase while it gratifies, and we feel ourselves won away by it from the coarser allurements of life.

We think a man should read a book with some feeling of responsibility. Why it is that responsibility should be attached to other equally unimportant (so esteemed) acts, and yet there be none here, we cannot understand. If the results of an act were the test of its quality, we know of few things that would sooner rise into importance, than the way in which men think best to run through a volume. Here is that which is forming the soul ! This stream, which is running through the mind, will either wear into it, or it will deposit something in its course! It cannot leave the mind in the condition in which it finds it! Now if this is so, ought not a man to feel he is doing something else than just "giving time a shove," when he reads a book? Would not such a feeling, truly pervading the mind, have some beneficial influence on our choice of books? Would it not, if held as a truth, sweep a mighty current of trash from the shelves of booksellers, and leave us a little more of that which smacks of the "wells of English undefiled?"

If there is a truth which ought to be written on the right palm of every man, it is that much reading does not consist in the number of books read, but rather in the amount of labor bestowed on books. We will venture to say that the greatest readers have not been those who have been over the most ground. A great reader is one who reads to the most purpose what he reads. He travels over as much ground as possible, yet no farther or faster than he can safely pick his way.

one.

The way to read a book, is to read it as you would write it, with the mind at its highest tension. We know there are those who hold a different doctrine, yet they are of that large class who neither know the value of a book nor the proper design of With them, a book is to be read in a quiescent state, partly approaching to torpidity, and knowledge, in their view, is something that is to fall softly upon the mind and the affections, as the rain falls on and is drunk up by the quiescent earth. They would gain knowledge as we gain sweet sounds, by letting the ear lie open to them, the mind meanwhile in a sort of delightful equipoise, noting the pulsations on the drum of the hearing organ. Of this class are all those who from time to time have regaled the literary world, with essays on the best method of perusing books, at the least expense of time and physical comfort. We are told of the luxury of lolling on a sofa of an afternoon, reading a good book, and that by one of our first writers ;* as if that which is to store the mind with rich materials, invigorate its powers, and set a man on that upward active course which is to be perfected in another state, was a thing of no more importance than the gratification of the meanest of our physical appetites! We wonder if such men ever dream that the life we live is for some other end than the perfecting of our merely animal

nature.

.*

One volume thoroughly mastered, will furnish the mind with more available intellectual wealth, than will fifty read without reflection. Let a man choose his books as he would choose a friend, not for the glitter about them, but for their real worth. In this way will he be prepared, at least, to derive some benefit from their acquaintance. And perhaps as he in his solitary hours seeks, and seeks earnestly, for that which truly feeds him, he may find a pleasure stealing through his heart as much more exquisite than the pleasures of light reading, as is a vein of pure gold preferable to its counterfeit, or a strain of sweet music to an overture on a tin kettle.

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B.

1840.] HONEY-SUCKLE AND WATER-DROP.-SAILOR'S CAROL. 17

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