de vêtemens, s'habillent de blanc, comme pour la cérémonie | -Why doth a mother live to say-my first-born nuptiale, avec cette diffèrence, qu'elles gardent la tête nue, and my dead?

les cheveux épars et pendants. Ces apprêts terminés, les They tell me of thy youthful fame, they talk of

parentes reviennent dans leur parure de deuil; toutes se rangent en circle autour du mort, et leur douleur s'exhale de

victory won

my sweet son!"

nouveau, et, comme la première fois, sans règle et sans con--Speak thou, and I will hear! my child, Ianthis! trainte. A ces plaintes spontanées succèdent bientôt des la. mentations d'une autre espèce: ce sont les Myriologues. Ordinairement c'est la plus proche parente qui prononce le

sien la première; après elle les autres parentes, les amies, les A wail was heard around the bed, the deathbed simples voisines. Les Myriologues sont toujours composés et of the young,

chantés par les femmes. Ils sont toujours improvisés, tou- A fair-haired bride the Funeral Chant amidst jours en vers, et toujours chantés sur un air qui diffère d'un lieu à un autre, mais qui, dans un lieu donné, reste invariablement consacré à ce genre de poësie."

Chants Populaires de la Grèce Maderne, par C. Fauriel.

A WAIL was heard around the bed, the death-bed of the young,

Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful mother sung.

"Ianthis! dost thou sleep?-Thou sleepest! but this is not the rest,

The breathing and the rosy calm, I have pillowed on my breast!

I lulled thee not to this repose, Ianthis! my sweet

son!

her weeping sung.

"Ianthis! look'st thou not on me?-Can love

indeed be fled?

As in thy glowing childhood's time by twilight I"But

have done

-How is it that I bear to stand and look upon

thee now?

And that I die not, seeing death on thy pale glorious brow?

"I look upon thee, thou that wert of all most fair and brave!

I see thee wearing still too much of beauty for the grave!

Though mournfully thy smile is fixed, and heavily thine eye

Hath shut above the falcon-glance that in it loved to lie!

And fast is bound the springing step, that seemed on breezes borne,

When to thy couch I came and said,—'Wake, hunter, wake! 'tis morn!'

Yet art thou lovely still, my flower! untouched by slow decay,

-And I, the withered stem, remain—I would that

grief might slay!

would have been a blessed thing together had we died!

where was I when thou didst fall beneath the fatal sword?

Was I beside the sparkling fount, or at the peace

Or

Or

ful board?

And thou wert lying low the while, the life-drops from thy heart

Fast gushing like a mountain-spring!—and couldst thou thus depart?

Couldst thou depart, nor on my lips pour out thy fleeting breath?

-Oh! I was with thee but in joy, that should have been in death!

"Yes! I was with thee when the dance through mazy rings was led,

And when the lyre and voice were tuned, and when the feast was spread,

But not where noble blood flowed forth, where sounding javelins flew—

"Oh! ever when I met thy look, I knew that this -Why did I hear love's first sweet words, and

would be!

I knew too well that length of days was not a gift for thee!

not its last adieu?

What now can breathe of gladness more, what scene, what hour, what tone?

I saw it in thy kindling cheek, and in thy bearing The blue skies fade with all their lights, they high;fade, since thou art gone! A voice came whispering to my soul, and told me Even that must leave me, that still face, by all my thou must die! tears unmoved

That thou must die, my fearless one! where-Take me from this dark world with thee, Ianthis! my beloved!"

swords were flashing red.

A wail was heard around the bed, the death-bed | Called out the soul's bright smile; the gentle hand, Which through the sunshine led forth infant steps

of the young,

Amidst her tears the Funeral Chant a mournful To where the violets lay; the tender voice

sister sung.

"Ianthis! brother of my soul !-oh! were are now the days

That laughed among the deep green hills, on all our infant plays?

When we two sported by the streams, or tracked them to their source,

That earliest taught them what deep melody
Lives in affection's tones.—He left not these.
-Happy the weeper, that but weeps to part
With all a mother's love!—A bitterer grief
Was his-To part unloved!—of her unloved,
That should have breathed upon his heart, like
Spring,

And like a stag's, the rocks along, was thy fleet Fostering its young faint flowers!

fearless course!

-I see the pines there waving yet, I see the rills descend,

Yet had he friends,

And they went forth to cheer him on his way

I see thy bounding step no more-my brother and Unto the parting spot-and she too went, my friend!

A YOUTH Went forth to exile, from a home
Such as to early thought gives images,
The longest treasured and most oft recalled,
And brightest kept, of love;—a mountain home,
That, with the murmur of its rocking pines
And sounding waters, first in childhood's heart
Wakes the deep sense of nature unto joy,

That mother, tearless for her youngest-born.
The parting spot was reached :—a lone deep glen,
Holy, perchance, of yore, for cave and fount
Were there, and sweet-voiced echoes; and above,
The silence of the blue, still, upper Heaven.
Hung round the crags of Pindus, where they wore
Their crowning snows.-Upon a rock he sprung,
The unbeloved one, for his home to gaze
Through the wild laurels back; but then a light
Broke on the stern proud sadness of his eye,
A sudden quivering light, and from his lips
A burst of passionate song.

"Farewell, farewell! "I hear thee, O thou rushing stream!-thou 'rt from my native dell,

Thou 'rt bearing thence a mournful sound-a murmur of farewell!

And fare thee well-flow on, my stream!—flow on,

thou bright and free!

I do but dream that in thy voice one tone laments for me;

But

And

I have been a thing unloved, from childhood's loving years,

therefore turns my soul to thee, for thou hast known my tears;

The mountains, and the caves, and thou, my secret tears have known:

The woods can tell where he hath wept, that ever wept alone!

"I see thee once again, my home! thou 'rt there amidst thy vines,

And clear upon thy gleaming roof the light of summer shines.

And half unconscious prayer;-a Grecian home, It is a joyous hour when eve comes whispering

With the transparence of blue skies o'erhung,
And, through the dimness of its olive shades,
Catching the flash of fountains, and the gleam
Of shining pillars from the fanes of old.
And this was what he left!-Yet many leave
Far more:-the glistening eye, that first from
theirs

through thy groves,

The hour that brings the son from toil, the hour the mother loves!

-The hour the mother loves!-for me beloved it hath not been;

Yet ever in its purple smile, thou smil'st, a blessed

scene!

Whose quiet beauty o'er my soul through distant | years will come

-Yet what but as the dead, to thee, shall I be then, my home?

"Not as the dead!—no, not the dead!—We speak

of them-we keep

Their names, like light that must not fade, within our bosoms deep!

We hallow e'en the lyre they touched, we love the lay they sung,

We pass with softer step the place they filled our band among!

But I depart like sound, like dew, like aught that

leaves on earth

There had passed many changes o'er her brow,
And cheek, and eye; but into one bright flood
Of tears at last all melted; and she fell
On the glad bosom of her child, and cried
“Return, return, my son!"-the echo caught
A lovelier sound than song, and woke again,
Murmuring "Return, my son!"-

THE SULIOTE MOTHER.

It is related in a French Life of Ali Pacha, that several of

the Suliote women, on the advance of the Turkish troops into their mountain fastnesses, assembled on a lofty summit, and, after chanting a wild song, precipitated themselves, with their No trace of sorrow or delight, no memory of its children, into the chasm below, to avoid becoming the slaves birth!

I go! the echo of the rock a thousand songs may swell

When mine is a forgotten voice.-Woods, mountains, home, farewell!

"And farewell, mother!-I have borne in lonely silence long,

But now the current of my soul grows passionate and strong!

of the enemy.

SHE stood upon the loftiest peak,
Amidst the clear blue sky,

A bitter smile was on her cheek,
And a dark flash in her eye.

"Dost thou see them, boy?—through the dusky
pines

Dost thou see where the foeman's armour shines?

And I will speak! though but the wind that wan-Hast thou caught the gleam of the conqueror's ders through the sky,

And but the dark deep-rustling pines and rolling

streams reply.

Yes! I will speak!—within my breast whate'er hath seemed to be,

There lay a hidden fount of love, that would have gushed for thee!

Brightly it would have gushed, but thou, my mother! thou hast thrown

Back on the forests and the wilds what should have been thine own!

crest?

My babe, that I cradled on my breast!

Wouldst thou spring from thy mother's arms with joy?

-That sight hath cost thee a father, boy!"

For in the rocky strait beneath,

Lay Suliote sire and son;

They had heaped high the piles of death
Before the pass was won

"They had crossed the torrent, and on they come!

"Then fare thee well! I leave thee not in loneli-Wo for the mountain hearth and home!

ness to pine,

Since thou hast sons of statelier mien and fairer

brow than mine!

There, where the hunter laid by his spear,
There, where the lyre hath been sweet to hear,
There, where I sang thee, fair babe! to sleep,
Nought but the blood-stain our trace shall keep!”

And now the horn's loud blast was heard,
And now the cymbal's clang,
Till even the upper air was stirred,

As cliff and hollow rang.

"Hark! they bring music, my joyous child!
What saith the trumpet to Suli's wild!
Doth it light thine eye with so quick a fire,
As if at a glance of thine armed sire?
-Still!-be thou still!-there are brave men low-
Thou wouldst not smile couldst thou see him
now!"

But nearer came the clash of steel,
And louder swelled the horn,

The Siege of Valencia.

A DRAMATIC POEM.

Judicio ha dado esta no vista hazana
Del valor que en los siglos venideros
Tendrán los Hijos de la fuerte Espana,
Hijos de tal padres herederos.

Hallò sola en Numancia todo quanto
Debe con justo titulo cantarse.
Y lo que puede dar materia al canto.
Numancia de Cervantes.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA.

SCENE-ROOM IN A PALACE OF VALENCIA.
XIMENA singing to a lute.

BALLAD.

At the pouring of the wine;
Men bear not from the Hall of Song,
A mien so dark as thine!

THE history of Spain records two instances of the severe and self-devoting heroism, which forms the subject of the following dramatic poem. The first of these occurred at the siege of Tarifa, which « THOU hast not been with a festal throng, was defended in 1294 for Sancho, King of Castile, during the rebellion of his brother, Don Juan, by Guzman, surnamed the Good. The second is related of Alonzo Lopez de Texeda, who, until his garrison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, maintained the city of Zamora for the children of Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of Trastamara.t

Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished both these memorable sieges, it appeared to the author of the following pages that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger colour of nationality, might be imparted to the scenes in which she has feebly attempted "to describe high passions and high actions;" by connecting a religious feeling with the patriotism and high-minded loyalty which had thus been proved "faithful unto death," and by surrounding her ideal dramatis persona with recollections derived from the heroic legends of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this reason, employed the agency of imaginary characters, and fixed upon " Valencia del Cid" as the scene to give them

"a local habitation and a name."

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

ALVAR GONZALEZ, Governor of Valencia.

His Sons.

A Priest.

A Moorish

"

-There's blood upon thy shield,
There's dust upon thy plume,
Thou hast brought, from some disastrous field,
That brow of wrath and gloom!"

And is there blood upon my shield?
-Maiden! it well may be!

We have sent the streams from our battle-field,
All darkened to the sea!

We have given the founts a stain,
'Midst their woods of ancient pine;
And the ground is wet-but not with rain,
Deep-dyed—but not with wine!

"The ground is wet-but not with rain-
We have been in war array,
And the noblest blood of Christian Spain
Hath bathed her soil to-day.

I have seen the strong man die,
And the stripling meet his fate,
Where the mountain-winds go sounding by,
In the Roncesvalles' Strait.

"In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait
There are helms and lances cleft;
And they that moved at morn elate
On a bed of heath are left!
There's many a fair young face
Which the war steed hath gone o'er;

the armybestging, Chief of. At many a board there is kept ge

A Spanish Knight.

Wife to Gonzalez.

Her Daughter.

An Attendant.

For those that come no more!"

"Alas! for love, for woman's breast,

If wo like this must be!

-Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle crest,

And a white plume waving free?

With his proud quick flashing eye,
And his mien of knightly state?