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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

117

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!

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!"

THE KAISER'S FEAST

119

THE KAISER'S FEAST

[LOUIS, Emperor of Germany, having put his brother, the Palsgrave Rodolphus, under the ban of the empire in the twelfth century, that unfortunate prince fled to England, where he died in neglect and poverty. "After his decease, his mother Matilda privately invited his children to return to Germany; and, by her mediation, during a season of festivity, when Louis kept wassail in the Castle of Heidelberg, the family of his brother presented themselves before him in the garb of suppliants, imploring pity and forgiveness. To this appeal the victor softened."-Miss Benger's Memoirs of the Queen of Bohemia.]

THE Kaiser feasted in his hall-
The red wine mantled high;
Banners were trembling on the wall
To the peals of minstrelsy;
And many a gleam and sparkle came
From the armour hung around,

As it caught the glance of the torch's flame,
Or the hearth with pine-boughs crowned.

Why fell there silence on the chord
Beneath the harper's hand?

And suddenly from that rich board,

Why rose the wassail band?

The strings were hushed-the knights made way

For the queenly mother's tread,

As up the hall, in dark array,

Two fair-haired boys she led.

She led them even to the Kaiser's place,

And still before him stood;

Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face,
Flushed the proud warrior-blood:
And "Speak, my mother! speak!" he cried;
"Wherefore this mourning vest,

And the clinging children by thy side
In weeds of sadness drest?"

"Well

may a mourning vest be mine, And theirs, my son, my son! Look on the features of thy line

In each fair little one!

Though grief awhile within their eyes
Hath tamed the dancing glee,
Yet there thine own quick spirit lies-
Thy brother's children see!

"And where is he, thy brother-where? He in thy home that grew,

And smiling with his sunny hair,

Ever to greet thee flew ?

How would his arms thy neck entwine,
His fond lips press thy brow!

My son oh, call these orphans thine!
Thou hast no brother now!

"What! from their gentle eyes doth naught Speak of thy childhood's hours, And smite thee with a tender thought

Of thy dead father's towers?

Kind was thy boyish heart and true,

When reared together there,

Through the old woods like fawns ye flewWhere is thy brother-where?

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