The dreamer stood before the Caliph's throne:
Sentenced to death he stood, and deeply pale,
And with his white lips rigidly compressed;
Till, in submissive tones, he asked to speak
Once more, ere thrust from earth's fair sunshine forth,
Was it to sue for grace? His burning heart

Sprang with a sudden lightning to his eye,

And he was changed!—and thus, in rapid words,

The o'ermastering thoughts, more strong than death, found way :

"And shall I not rejoice to go, when the noble and the brave,

With the glory on their brows, are gone before me to the grave?

What is there left to look on now, what brightness in the land?

I hold in scorn the faded world, that wants their princely band!

My chiefs my chiefs! the old man comes that in your halls was nursed

That followed you to many a fight, where flashed your sabres first

That bore your children in his arms, your name upon his heart :

Oh! must the music of that name with him from earth

depart?

It shall not be ! A thousand tongues, though human voice were still,

With that high sound the living air triumphantly shall

fill;

The wind's free flight shall bear it on as wandering seeds

are sown,

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115

And the starry midnight whisper it with a deep and thrilling tone.

For it is not as a flower whose scent with the dropping leaves expires,

And it is not as a household lamp, that a breath should quench its fires;

It is written on our battle-fields with the writing of the sword,

It hath left upon our desert-sands a light in blessings

poured.

The founts, the many gushing founts which to the wild

ye gave,

Of you, my chiefs! shall sing aloud, as they pour a joyous wave;

And the groves with whose deep lovely gloom ye hung the pilgrim's way,

Shall send from all their sighing leaves your praises on

the day.

The very walls your bounty reared 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 coiled amidst its

young.

It is enough! Mine eye no more of joy or splendour

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 thoughtOh! many a sudden and remorseful thoughtOf his youth's once-loved friends, the martyred race, O'erflowed 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 profaned what was born for the skies."
MOORE.

I MADE a mountain-brook my guide
Through a wild Spanish glen,
And wandered on its grassy side,
Far from the homes of men.

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 bosomed grove
Of many an aged tree,

Such as the shadowy violets love,

The fawn and forest-bee.

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

THE SPANISH CHAPEL

The darkness of the chestnut-bough
There on the waters lay,

The bright stream reverently below
Checked 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.

To sleep?-Oh! ne'er, on childhood's eye

And silken lashes pressed,

Did the warm living slumber lie

With such a weight of rest!

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66

Yet still a tender crimson glow

Its cheek's pure marble dyed

"Twas but the light's faint streaming flow Through roses heaped beside.

I stooped-the smooth round arm was chill,
The soft lip's breath was fled,

And the bright ringlets hung so still-
The lovely child was dead!

'Alas !" I cried, "fair faded thing!
Thou hast wrung bitter tears,
And thou hast left a woe, to cling
Round yearning hearts for years!"

But then a voice came sweet and low-
I turned, and near me sate
A woman with a mourner's brow,
Pale, yet not desolate.

And in her still, clear, matron face,
All solemnly serene,

A shadowed image I could trace
Of that young slumberer's mien.

"Stranger! thou pitiest me," she said
With lips that faintly smiled,
"As here I watch beside my dead,
My fair and precious child.

"But know, the time-worn heart may be
By pangs in this world riven,
Keener than theirs who yield, like me,
An angel thus to heaven !"