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See him from that bright pageant turning, The wasted bones from charnel rise,
But of the thin disguise bereft, “ They are gone, they are gone; the light Nothing save loathsome death is left. of to-morrow
The portents of that coming fate, 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. sorrow,
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, 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,
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.
|“ Enough! enough!" was Osmail's cry, But I saw o'er the plain thy comrades Avenged, I care not now to die. were flying,
Nobly within these ruined walls And thy undaunted valor it told me the we'll battle till Grenada falls; rest.
And never shall our fated state
In suppliant guise on Spaniard waitThe cold damps of death on your fore
With our own swords we'll dig her grave, heads are resting,
When these no more have power to save.” As on the red ground together ye lie, Around you a part of that tide ye were But hark! beyond the castle walls breasting,
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 ; ing to beat,
Yet following at the herald's call, 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,
The greeting, such as chieftains give ? O how did Osmail's throbbing breast Alas! but few, how few now live! Second the maiden's last request; Lo! as in answer to the prayer, Around he glanced on visage palem Changed was the gorgeous vision there. He listened to the stifled wail; It seemed as when in beauty's guise " What do we here," was Osmail's cry,
- Have ye
resolved to do or die ? This Osmail saw_“I go,” said he, Say, does the blood of brothers slain “I go, as I have lived, the free; Quicken afresh each throbbing vein ? My message to the Spaniard given Feel ye that now it rests on you, Shall be my lance through corslet driven. Weak though ye be, a wasted few, The only words that I shall bring, Vengeance for fallen sons to take, My falchion on his helm shall ring. And your own hate in blood to slake? Seek other messengers to bear Needs there my voice to fire your zeal The diadem your king should wear; For glory and your country's weal ?” Others to say we e'er shall yield, None answered; and with downcast look Except in death on battle field. Not one would Osmail's fire glance brook. Yet know, in vain ye turn aside Then as in death there burst from all, A moment more the sweeping tide, " Allah has willed Grenada's fall! 'Twill come at last with deadlier power, Long have we with the Christian striven, Nor wilt avail ye meanly cower. Our blood and treasure freely given;
Ye have your choice, your loved to mourn, But who can stop the swelling tide
fond bosoms fiercely torn;
cap the mountain's bursting flame? Yes, ye may choose to die like slaves,As well do this, as save the name
Or fill up honored, patriot graves." The fates have doomed to wo and shame. Osmail, seek thou the Spaniard's tent, He turned, and soon was heard the sound Tell him thy king by thee has sent Of charger speeding o'er the ground. To own him as his sovereign lord- Grenada’s gates were open thrown, Add thou each well befitting word.” The draw-bridge fell with clanging tone, 6 And think ye me a recreant knave, But onward, onward, still he flew, Or take me for a coward slave ?
And never bridle rein he drewBy Allah, no! my knee ne'er bends, Onward, but lo! yon serried band Nor e'er by me Grenada sends
By Zenel's banks call loudly, stand ! Submission to our haughty foe :
The moon's pale light around is streamBetter to drink the dregs of woeBetter that on us now should fall On polished helm and breastplate gleamThe dome of this ancestral hall.
ing; Deem ye their hearts in danger feared, He marks the foremost foeman's breast, Who this proud palace for us reared ?
His lance is settled in its rest-
Then gleaned aloft his falchion bright, That instant may our foemen cower ;
Then closed around the deadly fight; Think on the strength of desperate men, He shunned not one of thousand blows, O, for your country strike again.” And fiercer from each wound arose;
While round him slaughtered foemen lie, Silent they sat all sad and stern, Deathless his hate, he scarce could die. Hopeless and to their purpose firm. At length he fell-yet e’en in death As well the maiden's breath might melt Not 'neath his foes sped Osmail's breath ; The frosts by hoary Atlas felt,
For Zenel's darkly flowing tide As man,
with words of empty air, Closed o'er the warrior of her pride. Rouse from this utter, black despair.
DULL PAPERS FROM THE DULL PORTFOLIO OF A DULL MAN.
THERE is not a more miserable habit among young men, than 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 usblessed 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.
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 one. 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
open to them, the mind meanwhile in a sort of delightful equipoise, noting the pulsations on the drum of the hearing or
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.
HONEY-SUCKLE AND WATER-DROP.-SAILOR'S CAROL.
THE HONEY-SUCKLE AND WATER-DROP.
'Tis sweet at the dawn
Of a bright summer's morn,
And with it the view
In the far distant blue,
'Tis joyous to soar
'Mid the cataract's roar,
And view, as I go,
On the earth far below,
Ah! sweet is the view,
When the sparkling dew
And the sun rides high
On the azure sky,
I sailed upon the ocean
I've sailed upon the ocean, While yet in youth's bright glow;
When waves with foam-crowned heads 'Twas a wild-a boyish notion
Were tossed in wild commotion That prompted me to go.
Up from their coral beds. I longed to see the world,
That was a fearful hour I left my friends and home,
Tears and distress were there, With Fortune's fickle banner spread, We knelt, our stubborn hearts were bow'd In other lands to roam.
In agonizing prayer. "I've sailed upon
I've sailed upon the ocean Cooled by the gentle breeze,
For many a rolling year ; And oh, what glad emotion
I love its giddy motionDid my young bosom seize.
I'll live my life out here. That zephyr spoke of days,
I love the roaring surge,
I love the rippling wave-
The sea shall be my grave !
Y. N. Y.