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But by sudden wrench, believe not,

Hearts can thus be torn away;

Still thine own its life retaineth

Still must mine—though bleeding-beat, And the undying thought which paineth

Is—that we no more may meet.

These are words of deeper sorrow

Than the wail above the dead : Both shall live--but every morrow

Wakes us from a widow'd bed.

And when thou wouldst solace gather

When our child's first accents flowWilt thou teach her to say—“Father ?”

Though his care she must forego ?

When her little hands shall press thee

When her lip to thine is prest— . Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee

Think of him thy love hath bless'd.

Should her lineaments resemble

Those thou never more may'st seeThen thy heart will softly tremble

With a pulse yet true to me.

All my faults-perchance thou krowest

All my madness—none can know; All my hopes—where'er thou goest,

Wither--yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken ;

Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee-by thee forsaken,

Even my soul forsakes me now.

But 'tis done-all words are idle

Words from me are vainer still ;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle

Force their way without the will.

Fare thee well!—thus disunited,

Torn from every nearer tie ;
Sear'd in heart--and lone-and blighted,

More than this, I scarce can die.

STANZAS.

L. E. LANDON.

I would not care, at least so much, sweet Spring,
For the departing colour of thy flowers,
The green leaves early falling from thy boughs-
Thy birds so soon forgetful of their songs-
Thy skies, whose sunshine ends in heavy showers;-
But thou dost leave thy memory, like a ghost,
To haunt the ruined heart, which still recurs
To former beauty; and the desolate
Is doubly sorrowful when it recalls
It was not always desolate.

When those eyes have forgotten the smile they wear

now,

When care shall have shadowed that beautiful browWhen thy hopes and thy roses together lie dead, And thy heart turns back pining to days that are fled

Then wilt thou remember what now seems to pass
Like the moonlight on water, the breath-stain on glass ;
Oh! maiden, the lovely and youthful, to thee,
How rose-touched the page of thy future must be !

By the past, if thou judge it, how little is there
But flowers that flourish, but hopes that are fair ;
And what is thy present? a southern sky's spring,
With thy feelings and fancies like birds on the wing.

As the rose by the fountain flings down on the wave
Its blushes, forgetting its glass is its grave ;
So the heart sheds its colour on life's early hour,
But the heart has its fading as well as the flower.

The charmed light darkens, the rose-leaves are gone,
And life, like the fountain, floats colourless on.
Said I, when thy beauty's sweet vision was fled,
How wouldst thou turn, pining, to days like the dead 1

Oh! long ere one shadow shall darken that brow,
Wilt thou weep like a mourner o’er all thou lovest

now; When thy hopes, like spent arrows, fall short of their

mark; Or, like meteors at midnight, make darkness more

dark ;

When thy feelings lie fettered like waters in frost,
Or, scattered too freely, are wasted and lost :
For aye cometh sorrow when youth has past by-
What saith the Arabian? Its memory's a sigh.

THE CAPTIVE OF ALHAMA.

LORD JOHN RUSSELL.

The Moslem etar was on the wane,

Eclipsed the Paynim powers,
And the haughty lord of Christian Spain

Besieged Granada's towers :
Gonsalvo, with a hundred knights

Of Leon's chivalrie,
Well posted on Alhama's heights,

Staid succour from the sea.

One morn a Moorish youth was led

To brave Gonsalvo's tent,
His escort from the field had fled,

And his horse had fall'n o'erspent ;
He hung his head in speechless grief,

As the tear roll'd down his cheek, And scornful looked each mailed chief,

To behold a youth so weak.

Is it a girl," Gonsalvo cries,

“That in our toils is caught ? That thus it weeps, in woman's guise,

Where its fierce forefathers fought?" “Nay, hear my tale," exclaimed the youth,

His eye one moment brightning, “And Allah, if I speak not truth,

Consume me with his lightning!

"From beauteous Malaga I came,

But by no beaten way ; Superb Granada was my aim,-

Wo, wo the luckless day! For had I in my journey sped

To Darro's rushing water, This morn Zorayda I had wed,

Granada's fairest daughter.

“ If pity, then, or love's sweet power,

E’er touched thy gallant breast, But grant me freedom for an hour

To the oar I give the rest ;
These few bright moments yield in grace,

My mournful fate to tell,
To see once more Zorayda's face,

And take my long farewell !"

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 turned 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 Moor bowed low

Before the Christian knight;

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