THE TOURNAMENT. LADY, if you love to hear But there is a gentle sight, Roselike, always born with May, Full of arms and glances bright, "Tis GRANADA's holyday! Twilight on the west was sleeping, When a silver trumpet sounded, In the plain, balconies proud, Hung with silk and flowery chain, Like a statued temple, shewed, Rank o'er rank, the dames of Spain. Soon the tapestried kettle-drums Through the distant square were pealing; Soon was seen the toss of plumes Then, before the portal arch, Like a wave of steel and gold, At their sight arose the roar From the people gazing round ;— Proudly came the squadrons four, Prancing up the tilting ground. First they gallop where the screen Round the barrier then they wheel, Hark! the trumpet long and loud !— Light as roe-bucks bound the steeds; Sunny bright the armour gleams; Gallant charge to charge succeeds, Like the rush of mountain streams! Noon has come, the warriors rest, Each dismounting from his barb; Loosening each his feathery crest, Weighty sword, and steely garb. Then are shown the lordly form, As they wander round the plain, Till again the trumpets play, And the Moorman's turban torn. Closes then the tournament ; And the noble squadrons four, Proudly to the banquet-tent, March by Turia's flowery shore. Lovely as the evening sky, Ere the golden sun is down, March Granada's chivalry, Champions of the Church and Crown! One still lingered, pale and last, By the lonely gallery's stair, As if there his soul had past, Who the knight ?-To few was known. Who his love?-He ne'er would tell. But her eyes were-like thine own,And his heart was,-Oh, Farewell! Blackwood's Magazine. ЕРІТАРН. OPHELIA was the maiden's name, Only her beauty died; Envy has nothing to proclaim, Nor Flattery to hide. I THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. BY MRS. HEMANS. WHAT hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells? We ask not such from thee. Yet more, the Depths have more! What wealth untold, Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful Main! Yet more, the Depths have more !-Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry! Dash o'er them, Ocean! in thy scornful play, Man yields them to decay! Yet more! the Billows and the Depths have more! Give back the lost and lovely! Those for whom -But all is not thine own! To thee the love of woman hath gone down; Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, New Monthly Magazine. MAGDALENA. SILENT and lone, beneath the cypress bough, She felt her dream of happiness was gone; But Hope, still lingering, shed its heavenly ray, Her bosom had been stained in passion's hour, It had been washed and purified at last. Those long dark lashes, beaded still with tears— Her's was the heart's still prayer :-her lips were sealed. Those meek eyes, glancing to their kindred heaven, In dewy orisons her soul revealed: She asked not—but she looked to be forgiven. Literary Gazette. H. A. D. |