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render men as renowned as the most prosperous achievements, provided they sustain them with magnanimity.'

The unhappy monarch, however, was not to be consoled; his tears continued to flow. ‘Allah Acbar!' exclaimed he; 'when did misfortunes ever equal mine?'

From this circumstance, the hill, which is not far from the Padul, took the name of Feg Allah Acbar: but the point of view commanding the last prospect of Granada, is known among Spaniards by the name of The last sigh of the Moor.'


The Child of Earth.Mrs. Norton.

Fainter her slow step falls from day to day,

Death's hand is heavy on her darkening brow; Yet doth she fondly cling to earth, and say,

I am content to die—but, oh! not now!Not while the blossoms of the joyous spring

Make the warm air such luxury to breathe Not while the birds such lays of gladness sing

Not while the bright flowers round my footsteps wreathe.
Spare me, great God! lift up my drooping brow-
I am content to die—but, oh! not now!'
The spring hath ripened into summer-time;

The season's viewless boundary is past;
The glorious sun hath reached his burning prime:

Oh! must this glimpse of beauty be the last? · Let me not perish while o’er land and sea,

With silent steps, the Lord of li ht moves on; For while the murmur of the mountain-bee Greets


dull ear with music in its tone: Pale sickness dims my eye and clouds my browI am content to die!—but, oh! not now!! Summer is gone: and autumn's soberer hues

Tint the ripe fruits, and gild the waving corn;The huntsman swift the flying game pursues,

Shouts the halloo! and winds his eager horn. Spare me awhile, to wander forth and gaze

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On the broad meadows and the quiet stream,
To watch in silence while the evening rays

Slant through the fading trees with ruddy gleam!
Cooler the breezes play around my brow-
I am content to die—but, oh! not now!'
The bleak wind whistles: snow-showers far and near

Drift without echo to the whitening ground;
Autumn hath passed away, and, cold and drear,

Winter stalks on with frozen mantle bound: Yet still that prayer ascends. “Oh! laughingly

My little brothers round the warm hearth crowd,
Our home-fire blazes broad, and bright, and high,

And the roof rings with voices light and loud;
Spare me awhile! raise up my drooping brow!
I am content to die—but, oh! not now!'
The spring is come again--the joyful spring!

Again the banks with clustering flowers are spread:
The wild bird dips upon its wanton wing:-

The child of earth is numbered with the dead! • Thee never more the sunshine shall awake,

Beaming all redly through the lattice-pane;
The steps of friends thy slumbers may not break,

Nor fond familiar voice arouse again!
Death's silent shadow veils thy darkened brow-
Why didst thou linger?—thou art happier now!'


On Visiting a Scene of Childhood. Blackwood's MAG.

“I came to tne place of my birth, and saiil, “The friends of my youth, where are they?' and Echo answered, 'Wheie are they?'”

Long years had elapsed since I gazed on the scene,
Which my fancy still robed in its freshness of green,-
The spot where, a school-boy, all thoughtless, I strayed
By the side of the stream, in the gloom of the shade.
I thought of the friends, who had roamed with me there,
When the sky was so blue, and the flowers were so fair,–

- All scattered !-all sundered by mountain and wave,
And some in the silent embrace of the grave!
I thought of the green banks, that circled around,
With wild flowers, and sweet-brier, and eglantine crowned:
I thought of the river, all quiet and bright
As the face of the sky on a blue summer night:
And I thought of the trees, under which we had strayed,
Of the broad leafy boughs, with their coolness of shade;
And I hoped, though disfigured, some token to find
Of the names, and the carvings, impressed on the rind.
All eager, I hastened the scene to behold,
Rendered sacred and dear by the feelings of old;
And I deemed that, unaltered, my eye should explore
This refuge, this haunt, this Elysium of yore.
'Twas a dream!—not a token or trace could I view
Of the names that I loved, of the trees that I knew:
Like the shadows of night at the dawning of day,
• Like a tale that is told,'-they had vanished away.
And methought the lone river, that murmured along,
Was more dull in its motion, more sad in its song,
Since the birds, that had nestled and warbled above,
Had all fled from its banks, at the fall of the grove.
I paused:--and the moral came home to my heart:-
Behold, how of earth all the glories depart!
Our visions are baseless,-0

-our hopes but a gleam,
Our staff but a reed,--and our life but a dream.
Then, Oh, let us look_let our prospects allure-
To scenes that can fade not, to realms that endure,
To glories, to blessings, that triumph sublime
O'er the blightings of change, and the ruins of time.


Autumn Woods.-BRYANT.

ERE, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,

The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,

Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold
In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,

That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown
The upland, where the mingled splendors glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down

On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown

Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-

The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet;
So grateful, when the noon of summer made

The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze,

Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, Shines with the image of its golden screen,

And glimmerings of the sun.

But ’neath yon crimson tree,
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn! why so soon
Depart the hues that make thy forests glad;

Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,

And leave thee wild and sad!

Ah! 't were a lot too blest
Forever in thy colored shades to stray;
Amidst the kisses of the soft southwest

To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife
That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power,
The passions and the cares that wither life,

And waste its little hour.


Early Recollections.-New. MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

It is delightful to fling a glance back to our early years, and recall our boyish actions, glittering with the light of hope, and the sanguine expectations of incipient being. But the remembrance of our sensations, when we were full of elasticity, when life was new, and every sense and relish keen, when the eye saw nothing but a world of beauty and glory around, every object glittering in golden resplendency, is the most agreeable thing of all.

The recollection of boyish actions gives small gratification to persons of mature years, except for what may, perchance, be associated with them. But youthful sensations, experienced when the edge of enjoyment was most keen, and the senses exquisitely susceptible, furnish delightful recollections, that cling around some of us, in the last stage of life, like the principle of being itself. How do we recollect the exquisite taste of a particular fruit or dish to have been then! how delicious a cool draught from the running stream! A landscapé, a particular tree, a field, how much better defined and delightfully colored then, than they ever appeared afterwards. There was a single tree opposite the door of my

father's house:--I remember, even now, how every limb branched off, and that I thought no tree could be finer or larger. I loved its shade; I played under it for years; but when I visited it, after my first absence for a few months from home,

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