They perish'd-not as heroes should have died,
On the red field, in victory's hour of pride,
In all the glow and sunshine of their fame,
And proudly smiling as the death-pang came:
Oh had they thus expired, a warrior's tear
Had flow'd, almost in triumph, o'er their bier.
For thus alone the brave should weep for those
Who brightly pass in glory to repose.

-Not such their fate: a tyrant's stern command
Doom'd them to fall by some ignoble hand,
As, with the flower of all their high-born race,
Summon'd Abdallah's royal feast to grace,
Fearless in heart, no dream of danger nigh,
They sought the banquet's gilded hall-to die.
Betray'd, unarm'd, they fell-the fountain wave
Flow'd crimson with the life-blood of the brave,
Till far the fearful tidings of their fate
Through the wide city rang from gate to gate,
And of that lineage each surviving son [won.
Rush'd to the scene where vengeance might be

For this young Hamet mingles in the strife, Leader of battle, prodigal of life, Urging his followers, till their foes, beset, Stand faint and breathless, but undaunted yet. Brave Aben-Zurrahs, on! one effort more, Yours is the triumph, and the conflict o'er.

But lo! descending o'er the darken'd hall, The twilight-shadows fast and deeply fall, Nor yet the strife hath ceased though scarce they know, [foe; Through that thick gloom, the brother from the

1 Aben-Zurrahs: the name thus written is taken from the translation of an Arabic MS. given in the third volume of Bourgoanne's Travels through Spain.

Till the moon rises with her cloudless ray,
The peaceful moon, and gives them light to slay

Where lurks Abdallah?―midst his yielding train They seek the guilty monarch, but in vain. He lies not number'd with the valiant dead, His champions round him have not vainly bled; But when the twilight spread her shadowy veil, And his last warriors found each effort fail, In wild despair he fled-a trusted few, Kindred in crime, are still in danger true; And o'er the scene of many a martial deed, The Vega's green expanse, his flying footsteps lead. He pass'd th' Alhambra's calm and lovely bowers, Where slept the glistening leaves and folded flowers In dew and starlight-there, from grot and cave, Gush'd in wild music many a sparkling wave; There on each breeze the breath of fragrance rose, And all was freshness, beauty, and repose.

But thou, dark monarch! in thy bosom reign Storms that, once roused, shall never sleep again. Oh! vainly bright is nature in the course Of him who dies from terror or remorse! A spell is round him which obscures her bloom, And dims her skies with shadows of the tomb; There smiles no Paradise on earth so fair But guilt will raise avenging phantoms there. Abdallah heeds not, though the light gale roves Fraught with rich odour, stolen from orangegroves; [rise, Hears not the sounds from wood and brook that Wild notes of nature's vesper-melodies; Marks not how lovely, on the mountain's head, Moonlight and snow their mingling lustre spread; But urges onward, till his weary band, Worn with their toil, a moment's pause demand. He stops, and turning, on Granada's fanes In silence gazing, fix'd awhile remains In stern, deep silence: o'er his feverish brow, And burning cheek, pure breezes freshly blow, But waft in fitful murmurs, from afar, Sounds indistinctly fearful-as of war. What meteor bursts with sudden blaze on high, O'er the blue clearness of the starry sky? Awful it rises, like some Genie-form, Seen midst the redness of the desert storm, Magnificently dread-above, below, Spreads the wild splendour of its deepening glow.

The Vega, the plain surrounding Granada, the scene of frequent actions between the Moors and Christians.

3 An extreme redness in the sky is the presage of the Simoom.-See BRUCE's Travels.

Lo! from the Alhambra's towers the vivid glare
Streams through the still transparence of the air!
Avenging crowds have lit the mighty pyre,
Which feeds that waving pyramid of fire;
And dome and minaret, river, wood, and height,
From dim perspective start to ruddy light.

Oh Heaven! the anguish of Abdallah's soul, The rage, though fruitless, yet beyond control! Yet must he cease to gaze, and raving fly For life such life as makes it bliss to die! On yon green height, the mosque, but half reveal'd Through cypress-groves, a safe retreat may yield. Thither his steps are bent-yet oft he turns, Watching that fearful beacon as it burns. But paler grow the sinking flames at last, Flickering they fade, their crimson light is past; And spiry vapours, rising o'er the scene,

Mark where the terrors of their wrath have been. And now his feet have reach'd that lonely pile, Where grief and terror may repose awhile; Embower'd it stands, midst wood and cliff on high, Through the gray rocks a torrent sparkling nigh: He hails the scene where every care should cease, And all-except the heart he brings-is peace.

There is deep stillness in those halls of state Where the loud cries of conflict rang so late; Stillness like that, when fierce the Kamsin's blast Hath o'er the dwellings of the desert pass'd.1 Fearful the calm-nor voice, nor step, nor breath Disturbs that scene of beauty and of death: Those vaulted roofs re-echo not a sound, Save the wild gush of waters-murmuring round

1 Of the Kamsin, a hot south wind, common in Egypt, we have the following account in Volney's Travels :-" These winds are known in Egypt by the general name of the winds of fifty days, because they prevail more frequently in the fifty days preceding and following the equinox. They are mentioned by travellers under the name of the poisonous winds or hot winds of the desert: their heat is so excessive, that it is difficult to form any idea of its violence without having experienced it. When they begin to blow, the sky, at other times so clear in this climate, becomes dark and heavy; the sun loses his splendour, and appears of a violet colour; the air is not cloudy, but gray and thick, and is filled with a subtle dust, which penetrates every where: respiration becomes short and difficult, the skin parched and dry, the lungs are contracted and painful, and the body consumed with internal heat. In vain is coolness sought for; marble, iron, water, though the sun no longer appears, are hot: the streets are deserted, and a dead silence pervades every where. The natives of towns and villages shut themselves up in their houses, and those of the desert in tents, or holes dug in the earth, where they wait the termination of this heat, which generally lasts three days. Woe to the traveller whom it surprises remote from shelter: he must suffer all its dreadful effects, which are sometimes mortal."

In ceaseless melodies of plaintive tone,
Through chambers peopled by the dead alone.
O'er the mosaic floors, with carnage red,
Breastplate and shield and cloven helm are spread
In mingled fragments-glittering to the light
Of yon still moon, whose rays, yet softly bright,
Their streaming lustre tremulously shed,
And smile in placid beauty o'er the dead:
O'er features where the fiery spirit's trace
E'en death itself is powerless to efface;
O'er those who flush'd with ardent youth awoke,
When glowing morn in bloom and radiance broke,
Nor dreamt how near the dark and frozen sleep
Which hears not Glory call, nor Anguish weep;
In the low silent house, the narrow spot,
Home of forgetfulness-and soon forgot.

But slowly fade the stars-the night is o'er— Morn beams on those who hail her light no more; Slumberers who ne'er shall wake on earth again, Mourners, who call the loved, the lost, in vain. Yet smiles the day-oh! not for mortal tear Doth nature deviate from her calm career: Nor is the earth less laughing or less fair, Though breaking hearts her gladness may not share. O'er the cold urn the beam of summer glows, O'er fields of blood the zephyr freshly blows; Bright shines the sun, though all be dark below, And skies arch cloudless o'er a world of woe; And flowers renew'd in spring's green pathway. bloom,

Alike to grace the banquet and the tomb.

Within Granada's walls the funeral rite Attends that day of loveliness and light; And many a chief, with dirges and with tears, Is gather'd to the brave of other years: And Hamet, as beneath the cypress shade His martyr'd brother and his sire are laid, Feels every deep resolve and burning thought Of ampler vengeance e'en to passion wrought; Yet is the hour afar-and he must brood O'er those dark dreams awhile in solitude. Tumult and rage are hush'd-another day In still solemnity hath pass'd away, In that deep slumber of exhausted wrath, The calm that follows in the tempest's path.

And now Abdallah leaves yon peaceful fane, His ravaged city traversing again. No sound of gladness his approach precedes, No splendid pageant the procession leads; Where'er he moves the silent streets along, Broods a stern quiet o'er the sullen throng.

No voice is heard; but in each alter'd eye,
Once brightly beaming when his steps were nigh,
And in each look of those whose love hath fled
From all on earth to slumber with the dead,
Those by his guilt made desolate, and thrown
On the bleak wilderness of life alone-
In youth's quick glance of scarce-dissembled rage,
And the pale mien of calmly-mournful age,
May well be read a dark and fearful tale
Of thought that ill the indignant heart can veil,
And passion like the hush'd volcano's power,
That waits in stillness its appointed hour.

No more the clarion from Granada's walls,
Heard o'er the Vega, to the tourney calls;
No more her graceful daughters, throned on high,
Bend o'er the lists the darkly-radiant eye:
Silence and gloom her palaces o'erspread,
And song is hush'd, and pageantry is fled.
-Weep, fated city! o'er thy heroes weep-
Low in the dust the sons of glory sleep!
Furl'd are their banners in the lonely hall,
Their trophied shields hang mouldering on the
wall,

Wildly their chargers range the pastures o'er-
Their voice in battle shall be heard no more.
And they, who still thy tyrant's wrath survive,
Whom he hath wrong'd too deeply to forgive,
That race of lineage high, of worth approved,
The chivalrous, the princely, the beloved---
Thine Aben-Zurrahs-they no more shall wield
In thy proud cause the conquering lance and shield:
Condemn'd to bid the cherish'd scenes farewell
Where the loved ashes of their fathers dwell,
And far o'er foreign plains as exiles roam,
Their land the desert, and the grave their home.
Yet there is one shall see that race depart
In deep though silent agony of heart:
One whose dark fate must be to mourn alone,
Unseen her sorrows and their cause unknown,
And veil her heart, and teach her cheek to wear
That smile in which the spirit hath no share-
Like the bright beams that shed their fruitless glow
O'er the cold solitude of Alpine snow.

Soft, fresh, and silent is the midnight hour, And the young Zayda seeks her lonely bower; That Zegri maid, within whose gentle mind One name is deeply, secretly enshrined. That name in vain stern reason would efface: Hamet! 'tis thine, thou foe to all her race!

And yet not hers in bitterness to prove The sleepless pangs of unrequited love

Pangs which the rose of wasted youth consume,
And make the heart of all delight the tomb,
Check the free spirit in its eagle flight,
And the spring-morn of early genius blight:
Not such her grief-though now she wakes to weep,
While tearless eyes enjoy the honey-dews of sleep.1

A step treads lightly through the citron-shade, Lightly, but by the rustling leaves betray'dDoth her young hero seek that well-known spot, Scene of past hours that ne'er may be forgot? "Tis he--but changed that eye, whose glance of fire Could like a sunbeam hope and joy inspire, As, luminous with youth, with ardour fraught, It spoke of glory to the inmost thought: Thence the bright spirit's eloquence hath fled, And in its wild expression may be read Stern thoughts and fierce resolves-now veil'd in And now in characters of fire portray'd. Changed e'en his voice-as thus its mournful tone Wakes in her heart each feeling of his own.

[shade,

"Zayda! my doom is fix'd-another day
And the wrong'd exile shall be far away;
Far from the scenes where still his heart must be,
His home of youth, and, more than all-from thee.
Oh! what a cloud hath gather'd o'er my lot
Since last we met on this fair tranquil spot!
Lovely as then the soft and silent hour,

And not a rose hath faded from thy bower;
But I-my hopes the tempest hath o'erthrown,
And changed my heart, to all but thee alone.
Farewell, high thoughts! inspiring hopes of praise '
Heroic visions of my early days!

In me the glories of my race must end-
The exile hath no country to defend !
E'en in life's morn my dreams of pride are o'er,
Youth's buoyant spirit wakes for me no more,
And one wild feeling in my alter'd breast
Broods darkly o'er the ruins of the rest.
Yet fear not thou-to thee, in good or ill,
The heart, so sternly tried, is faithful still!
But when my steps are distant, and my name
Thou hear'st no longer in the song of fame;
When Time steals on, in silence to efface
Of early love each pure and sacred trace,
Causing our sorrows and our hopes to seem
But as the moonlight pictures of a dream,—
Still shall thy soul be with me, in the truth
And all the fervour of affection's youth?
If such thy love, one beam of heaven shall play
In lonely beauty o'er thy wanderer's way."

1 "Enjoy the honey-heavy-dew of slumber."-SHAKSPEARE

"Ask not if such my love! Oh! trust the mind
To grief so long, so silently resign'd!
Let the light spirit, ne'er by sorrow taught
The pure and lofty constancy of thought,
Its fleeting trials eager to forget,
Rise with elastic power o'er each regret!
Foster'd in tears, our young affection grew,
And I have learn'd to suffer and be true.
Deem not my love a frail, ephemeral flower,
Nursed by soft sunshine and the balmy shower;
No! 'tis the child of tempests, and defies,
And meets unchanged, the anger of the skies!
Too well I feel, with grief's prophetic heart,
That ne'er to meet in happier days we part.
We part! and e'en this agonising hour,
When love first feels his own o'erwhelming power,
Shall soon to memory's fix'd and tearful eye
Seem almost happiness-for thou wert nigh!
Yes! when this heart in solitude shall bleed,
As days to days all wearily succeed,

When doom'd to weep in loneliness, 'twill be
Almost like rapture to have wept with thee !

"But thou, my Hamet! thou canst yet bestow All that of joy my blighted lot can know. Oh! be thou still the high-soul'd and the brave, To whom my first and fondest vows I gave ; In thy proud fame's untarnish'd beauty still The lofty visions of my youth fulfil.

So shall it soothe me, midst my heart's despair, To hold undimm'd one glorious image there!"

"Zayda, my best-beloved! my words too well, Too soon, thy bright illusions must dispel ; Yet must my soul to thee unveil'd be shown, And all its dreams and all its passions known. Thou shalt not be deceived-for pure as heaven Is thy young love, in faith and fervour given. I said my heart was changed-and would thy thought

Explore the ruin by thy kindred wrought,

In fancy trace the land whose towers and fanes, Crush'd by the earthquake, strew its ravaged plains;

And such that heart where desolation's hand
Hath blighted all that once was fair or grand!
But Vengeance, fix'd upon her burning throne,
Sits midst the wreck in silence and alone;
And I, in stern devotion at her shrine,
Each softer feeling, but my love, resign.
Yes! they whose spirits all my thoughts control,
Who hold dread converse with my thrilling soul;
They, the betray'd, the sacrificed, the brave,
Who fill a blood-stain'd and untimely grave,

Must be avenged! and pity and remorse

In that stern cause are banish'd from my course.
Zayda! thou tremblest-and thy gentle breast
Shrinks from the passions that destroy my rest;
Yet shall thy form, in many a stormy hour,
Pass brightly o'er my soul with softening power,
And, oft recall'd, thy voice beguile my lot,
Like some sweet lay, once heard, and ne'er forgot.

"But the night wanes-the hours too swiftly fly, The bitter moment of farewell draws nigh; Yet, loved one! weep not thus-in joy or pain, Oh! trust thy Hamet, we shall meet again! Yes, we shall meet! and haply smile at last On all the clouds and conflicts of the past. On that fair vision teach thy thoughts to dwell, Nor deem these mingling tears our last farewell!"

Is the voice hush'd, whose loved expressive tone
Thrill'd to her heart-and doth she weep alone?
Alone she weeps; that hour of parting o'er,
When shall the pang it leaves be felt no more?
The gale breathes light, and fans her bosom fair,
Showering the dewy rose-leaves o'er her hair;
But ne'er for her shall dwell reviving power
In balmy dew, soft breeze, or fragrant flower,
To wake once more that calm serene delight,
The soul's young bloom, which passion's breath
could blight-

The smiling stillness of life's morning hour,
Ere yet the day-star burns in all his power.
Meanwhile, through groves of deep luxurious
shade,

In the rich foliage of the South array'd,
Hamet, ere dawns the earliest blush of day,
Bends to the vale of tombs his pensive way.
Fair is that scene where palm and cypress wave
On high o'er many an Aben-Zurrah's grave.
Lonely and fair, its fresh and glittering leaves
With the young myrtle there the laurel weaves,
To canopy the dead; nor wanting there
Flowers to the turf, nor fragrance to the air,
Norwood-bird's note, nor fall of plaintive stream—
Wild music, soothing to the mourner's dream.
There sleep the chiefs of old-their combats o'er,
The voice of glory thrills their hearts no more.
Unheard by them th' awakening clarion blows;
The sons of war at length in peace repose.
No martial note is in the gale that sighs
Where proud their trophied sepulchres arise,
Mid founts, and shades, and flowers of brightest
bloom-

As, in his native vale, some shepherd's tomb.

spread

Dark o'er that silent valley of the dead;

Where two fair pillars rise, embower'd and lone,
Not yet with ivy clad, with moss o'ergrown,
Young Hamet kneels-while thus his vows are
pour'd,

The fearful vows that consecrate his sword:
-"Spirit of him who first within my mind
Each loftier aim, each nobler thought enshrined,
And taught my steps the line of light to trace
Left by the glorious fathers of my race,
Hear thou my voice !-for thine is with me still,
In every dream its tones my bosom thrill,
In the deep calm of midnight they are near,
Midst busy throngs they vibrate on my car,
Still murmuring 'vengeance!'-nor in vain the call,
Few, few shall triumph in a hero's fall!
Cold as thine own to glory and to fame,
Within my heart there lives one only aim;
There, till th' oppressor for thy fate atone,
Concentring every thought, it reigns alone.
I will not weep-revenge, not grief, must be,
And blood, not tears, an offering meet for thee;
But the dark hour of stern delight will come,
And thou shalt triumph, warrior! in thy tomb.

"Thou, too, my brother! thou art pass'd away, Without thy fame, in life's fair dawning day. Son of the brave! of thee no trace will shine In the proud annals of thy lofty line; Nor shall thy deeds be deathless in the lays That hold communion with the after-days. Yet, by the wreaths thou might'st have nobly won, Hadst thou but lived till rose thy noontide sun; By glory lost, I swear! by hope betray'd, Thy fate shall amply, dearly, be repaid: War with thy foes I deem a holy strife, And to avenge thy death devote my life.

In charms that fix th' enthusiast's pensive eye;
Yet hast thou scenes of beauty, richly fraught
With all that wakes the glow of lofty thought;
Fountains, and vales, and rocks, whose ancient name
High deeds have raised to mingle with their fame.
Those scenes are peaceful now: the citron blows,
Wild spreads the myrtle, where the brave repose.
No sound of battle swells on Douro's shore,
And banners wave on Ebro's banks no more.
But who, unmoved, unawed, shall coldly tread
Thy fields that sepulchre the mighty dead?
Blest be that soil! where England's heroes share
The grave of chiefs, for ages slumbering there;
Whose names are glorious in romantic lays,
The wild, sweet chronicles of elder days-
By goatherd lone and rude serrano sung
Thy cypress dells and vine-clad rocks among.
How oft those rocks have echo'd to the tale
Of knights who fell in Roncesvalles' vale;
Of him, renown'd in old heroic lore,
First of the brave, the gallant Campeador;
Of those, the famed in song, who proudly died
When Rio Verde roll'd a crimson tide;
Or that high name, by Garcilaso's might
On the Green Vega won in single fight.1

Round fair Granada, deepening from afar, O'er that Green Vega rose the din of war. At morn or eve no more the sunbeams shone O'er a calm scene, in pastoral beauty lone; On helm and corslet tremulous they glanced, On shield and spear in quivering lustre danced. Far as the sight by clear Xenil could rove, Tents rose around, and banners glanced above: And steeds in gorgeous trappings, armour bright With gold, reflecting every tint of light, And many a floating plume and blazon'd shield Diffused romantic splendour o'er the field.

There swell those sounds that bid the life-blood start

Swift to the mantling cheek and beating heart:
The clang of echoing steel, the charger's neigh,
The measured tread of hosts in war's array;
And, oh! that music, whose exulting breath
Speaks but of glory on the road to death:

In whose wild voice there dwells inspiring power
To wake the stormy joy of danger's hour;
To nerve the arm, the spirit to sustain,
Rouse from despondence, and support in pain;

1 Garcilaso de la Vega derived his surname from a single combat (in which he was the victor) with a Moor, on the Vega of Granada.