And now they reach the mountain's height,
And she was weary with her flight,
She laid her head on Manuel's breast,
And pleasant was the maiden's rest.
But while she slept, the passing gale
Waved the maiden's flowing veil,
Her father, as he crost the height,
Saw the veil so long and white.
Young Manuel started from his sleep,
He saw them hastening up the steep,
And Laila shriek'd, and desperate now
They climb'd the precipice's brow.
They saw him raise his angry hand,
And follow with his ruffian band,
They saw them climbing up the steep,
And heard his curses loud and deep.
Then Manuel's heart grew wild with woe,
He loosen'd crags and roll'd below,
He loosen'd rocks, for Manuel strove
For life, and liberty, and love.
The ascent was steep, the rock was high,
The Moors they durst not venture nigh,
The fugitives stood safely there,
They stood in safety and despair.
The Moorish chief, unmoved could see
His daughter bend the suppliant knee;
He heard his child for pardon plead,
And swore the Christian slave should bleed.
He bade the archers bend the bow,
And make the Christian fall below,
He bade the archers aim the dart,
And pierce the maid's apostate heart.
The archers aim'd their arrows there,
She clasp'd young Manuel in despair,
Death, Manuel, shall set us free!
Then leap below, and die with me."
He clasp'd her close and groan'd farewell,
In one another's arms they fell;
They leapt adown the craggy side,
In one another's arms they died.
And side by side they there are laid,
The Christian youth and Moorish maid,
But never cross was planted there,
To mark the victims of despair.
Yet every Murcian maid can tell
Where Laila lies who loved so well,
And every youth who passes there,
Says for Manuel's soul a prayer.
HENRY THE HERMIT.
Ir was a little island where he dwelt,
A solitary islet, bleak and bare,
Short scanty herbage spotting with dark spots
Its gray stone surface. Never mariner
Approach'd that rude and uninviting coast,
Nor ever fisherman his lonely bark
Anchored beside its shore. It was a place
Befitting well a rigid anchoret,
Dead to the hopes, and vanities, and joys,
And purposes of life; and he had dwelt
Many long years upon that lonely isle;
For in ripe manhood he abandoned arms,
Honours and friends and country and the world,
And had grown old in solitude. That isle
Some solitary man in other times
Had made his dwelling-place; and Henry found
The little chapel which his toil had built
Now by the storms unroofed; his bed of leaves
Wind-scattered; and his grave o'ergrown with grass,
And thistles, whose white seeds, winged in vain,
Withered on rocks, or in the waves were lost.
So he repaired the chapel's ruined roof,
Clear'd the grey lichens from the altar-stone,
And underneath a rock that shelter'd him
From the sea-blast, he built his hermitage.
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The peasants from the shore would bring him food,
And beg his prayers; but human converse else
He knew not in that utter solitude,
Nor ever visited the haunts of men,
Save when some sinful wretch on a sick bed
Implored his blessing and his aid in death.
That summons he delayed not to obey,
Though the night tempest or autumnal wind
Maddened the waves; and though the mariner,
Albeit relying on his saintly load,
Grew pale to see the peril. Thus he lived
A most austere and self-denying man,
Till abstinence, and age, and watchfulness
Had worn him down, and it was pain at last
To rise at midnight from his bed of leaves
And bend his knees in prayer. Yet not the less,
Though with reluctance of infirmity,
Rose he at midnight from his bed of leaves,
And bent his knees in prayer; but with more zeal,
More self-condemning fervour, raised his voice
For pardon for that sin, 'till that the sin
Repented was a joy like a good deed.
One night upon the shore his chapel bell
Was heard; the air was calm, and its far sounds
Over the water came, distinct and loud.
Alarmed at that unusual hour to hear
Its toll irregular, a monk arose.
The boatmen bore him willingly across,
For well the hermit Henry was beloved.
He hastened to the chapel; on a stone
Henry was sitting there, cold, stiff, and dead,
The bell-rope in his hand, and at his feet
The lamp that stream'd a long unsteady light,
THE CROSS ROADS.
THERE was an old man breaking stones
To mend the turnpike way;
He sate him down beside a brook
And out his bread and cheese he took,
For now it was mid-day.
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