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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,
Even my soul forsakes me now.
But 'tis done-all words are idle
Words from me are vainer still ;
Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well!—thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie ;
More than this, I scarce can die.
L. E. LANDON.
I would not care, at least so much, sweet Spring,
When those eyes have forgotten the smile they wear
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
By the past, if thou judge it, how little is there
As the rose by the fountain flings down on the wave
The charmed light darkens, the rose-leaves are gone,
Oh! long ere one shadow shall darken that brow,
now; When thy hopes, like spent arrows, fall short of their
mark; Or, like meteors at midnight, make darkness more
When thy feelings lie fettered like waters in frost,
THE CAPTIVE OF ALHAMA.
LORD JOHN RUSSELL.
The Moslem etar was on the wane,
Eclipsed the Paynim powers,
Besieged Granada's towers :
Of Leon's chivalrie,
Staid succour from the sea.
One morn a Moorish youth was led
To brave Gonsalvo's tent,
And his horse had fall'n o'erspent ;
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 ;
My mournful fate to tell,
And take my long farewell !"
Gonsalvo had no marble heart,
Albeit his look was stern ;
And ere set of sun return :
Yet sometimes turned his head,
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;