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“ The very walls your bounty rear'd, for the stranger's

homeless head, Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious

dead ! Though the grass be where ye feasted once, where lute

and cittern rung, And the serpent in your palaces lie coild amidst its

young

“ It is enough! mine eye no more of joy or splendor

sees, I leave your name, in lofty faith, to the skies and to the

breeze! I go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the bright

and fair, And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chiefs,

are there !”

But while the old man sang, a mist of tears
O’er Haroun's eyes had gathered, and a thought-

Oh ! many a sudden and remorseful thought
Of his youth's once-lov'd friends, the martyr'd race,
O’erflow'd his softening heart." Live, live !” he

cried,
“ Thou faithful unto death ! live on, and still
Speak of thy lords : they were a princely band !”

THE SPANISH CHAPEL.*

Weep not for those whom the veil of the tomb,

In life's early morning, hath hid from our eyes,
Ere sin threw a veil o'er the spirit's young bloom,
Or earth had profan'd what was born for the skies.

MOORE.

I MADE a mountain-brook my guide,

Through a wild Spanish glen,
And wander'd on its grassy side,

Far from the homes of men.

* Suggested by a scene beautifully described in the Recollections of the Peninsula.

It lured me with a singing tone,

And many a sunny glance, To a green spot of beauty lone, ,

A haunt for old romance.

A dim and deeply-bosom'd grove

Of many an aged tree,
Such as the shadowy violets love,

The fawn and forest-bee.

The darkness of the chestnut bough

There on the waters lay, The bright stream reverently below,

Check’d its exulting play;

And bore a music all subdued,

And led a silvery sheen,
On through the breathing solitude

Of that rich leafy scene.

For something viewlessly around

Of solemn influence dwelt,
In the soft gloom, and whispery sound,

Not to be told, but felt :

While sending forth a quiet gleam

Across the wood's repose,
And o’er the twilight of the stream,

A lowly chapel rose.

A pathway to that still retreat

Through many a myrtle wound, And there a sight-how strangely sweet!

My steps in wonder bound.

For on a brilliant bed of flowers,

Even at the threshold made,
As if to sleep through sultry hours,

A young fair child was laid.

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