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 filed
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 arc 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 ear,
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.

And, midst the deepening tumults of the strife, Teach every pulse to thrill with more than life.

High o'er the camp, in many a broider'd fold, Floats to the wind a standard rich with gold: There, imaged on the cross, his form appears Who drank for man the bitter cup of tears-1 His form, whose word recall'd the spirit fled, Now borne by hosts to guide them o'er the dead! O'er yon fair walls to plant the cross on high, Spain hath sent forth her flower of chivalry. Fired with that ardour which, in days of yore, To Syrian plains the bold crusaders bore; Elate with lofty hope, with martial zeal, They come, the gallant children of Castile; The proud, the calmly dignified :--and there Ebro's dark sons with haughty mien repair, And those who guide the fiery steed of war From yon rich province of the western star.2

But thou, conspicuous midst the glittering scene, Stern grandeur stamp'd upon thy princely mien ; Known by the foreign garb, the silvery vest, The snow-white charger, and the azure crest,3 Young Aben-Zurrah! midst that host of foes, Why shines thy helm, thy Moorish lance? Disclose! Why rise the tents where dwell thy kindred train, O son of Afric! midst the sons of Spain? Hast thou with these thy nation's fall conspired, Apostate chief! by hope of vengeance fired? How art thou changed! still first in every fight, Hamet the Moor! Castile's devoted knight ! There dwells a fiery lustre in thine eye, But not the light that shone in days gone by; There is wild ardour in thy look and tone, But not the soul's expression once thine own, Nor aught like peace within. Yet who shall say What secret thoughts thine inmost heart may sway?

1 "El Rey D. Fernando bolviò à la Vega, y pusò su Real à la vista de Huecar, a veyute y seys dias del mes de Abril, adonde fuè fortificado de todo lo necessario; poniendo el Christiano toda su gente en esquadron, con todas sus vanderas tendidas, y su Real Estandarte, el qual llevava por divisa un Christo crucificado."-Historia de las Guerras Civiles de Granada.

2 Andalusia signifies, in Arabic, the region of the evening r the west; in a word, the Hesperia of the Greeks.-See CASIRI'S Bibliot. Arabico-Hispana, and GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, &c.

3" Los Abencerrages salieron con su acostumbrada librea azul y blanca, todos llenos de ricos texidos de plata, las plumas de la misma color; en sus adargas, su acostumbrada divisa, salvages que desquixalavan leones, y otros un mundo que lo deshazia un selvage con un baston."-Guerras Civiles de Granada.

No eye but Heaven's may pierce that curtain'd breast,

Whose joys and griefs alike are unexpress'd.

There hath been combat on the tented plain;
The Vega's turf is red with many a stain;
And, rent and trampled, banner, crest, and shield
Tell of a fierce and well-contested field.
But all is peaceful now: the west is bright
With the rich splendour of departing light;
Mulhacen's peak, half lost amidst the sky,
Glows like a purple evening-cloud on high,
And tints, that mock the pencil's art, o'erspread
Th' eternal snow that crowns Veleta's head;1
While the warm sunset o'er the landscape throws
A solemn beauty, and a deep repose.
Closed are the toils and tumults of the day,
And Hamet wanders from the camp away.
In silent musings rapt:-the slaughter'd brave
Lie thickly strewn by Darro's rippling wave.
Soft fall the dews-but other drops have dyed
The scented shrubs that fringe the river side,
Beneath whose shade, as ebbing life retired,
The wounded sought a shelter-and expired.5
Lonely, and lost in thoughts of other days,
By the bright windings of the stream he strays,
Till, more remote from battle's ravaged scene,
All is repose and solitude serene.

There, 'neath an olive's ancient shade reclined,
Whose rustling foliage waves in evening's wind,
The harass'd warrior, yielding to the power,
The mild sweet influence of the tranquil hour,,
Feels by degrees a long-forgotten calm
Shed o'er his troubled soul unwonted balm;
His wrongs, his woes, his dark and dubious lot,
The past, the future, are awhile forgot;
And Hope, scarce own'd, yet stealing o'er his breast,
Half dares to whisper, "Thou shalt yet be blest!"

Such his vague musings-but a plaintive sound Breaks on the deep and solemn stillness round; A low, half-stifled moan, that seems to rise From life and death's contending agonies. He turns: Who shares with him that lonely shade? --A youthful warrior on his death-bed laid. All rent and stain'd his broider'd Moorish vest, The corslet shatter'd on his bleeding breast; In his cold hand the broken falchion strain'd, With life's last force convulsively retain'd;

4 The loftiest heights of the Sierra Nevada are those called Mulhacen and Picacho de Veleta.

5 It is known to be a frequent circumstance in battle, that the dying and the wounded drag themselves, as it were mechanically, to the shelter which may be afforded by any bush or thicket on the field.

His plumage soil'd with dust, with crimson dyed,
And the red lance in fragments by his side:
He lies forsaken-pillow'd on his shield,
His helmet raised, his lineaments reveal'd.
Pale is that quivering lip, and vanish'd now
The light once throned on that commanding brow;
And o'er that fading eye, still upward cast,
The shades of death are gathering dark and fast.
Yet, as yon rising moon her light serene
Sheds the pale olive's waving boughs between,
Too well can Hamet's conscious heart retrace,
Though changed thus fearfully, that pallid face,
Whose every feature to his soul conveys
Some bitter thought of long-departed days.

"Oh! is it thus," he cries, "we meet at last?
Friend of my soul in years for ever past!
Hath fate but led me hither to behold
The last dread struggle, ere that heart is cold,-
Receive thy latest agonising breath,

And with vain pity soothe the pangs of death?
Yet let me bear thee hence-while life remains,
E'en though thus feebly circling through thy veins,
Some healing balm thy sense may still revive;
Hope is not lost-and Osmyn yet may live!
And blest were he whose timely care should save
A heart so noble, e'en from glory's grave."

Roused by those accents, from his lowly bed The dying warrior faintly lifts his head; O'er Hamet's mien, with vague uncertain gaze, His doubtful glance awhile bewilder'd strays; Till by degrees a smile of proud disdain Lights up those features late convulsed with pain; A quivering radiance flashes from his eye, That seems too pure, too full of soul, to die; And the mind's grandeur, in its parting hour, Looks from that brow with more than wonted power.

"Away!" he cries, in accents of command, And proudly waves his cold and trembling hand. "Apostate, hence! my soul shall soon be freeE'en now it soars, disdaining aid from thee. "Tis not for thee to close the fading cyes Of him who faithful to his country dies; Not for thy hand to raise the drooping head Of him who sinks to rest on glory's bed.

Soon shall these pangs be closed, this conflict o'er,

And worlds be mine where thou canst never soar :
Be thine existence with a blighted name,
Mine the bright death which seals a warrior's
fame !"

The glow hath vanish'd from his cheek-his eye
Hath lost that beam of parting energy;
Frozen and fix'd it seems-his brow is chill;
One struggle more-that noble heart is still.
Departed warrior! were thy mortal throes,
Were thy last pangs, ere nature found repose,
More keen, more bitter, than th' envenom'd dart
Thy dying words have left in Hamet's heart?
Thy pangs were transient; his shall sleep no more,
Till life's delirious dream itself be o'er;
But thou shalt rest in glory, and thy grave
Be the pure altar of the patriot brave.

Oh, what a change that little hour hath wrought
In the high spirit and unbending thought!
Yet, from himself each keen regret to hide,
Still Hamet struggles with indignant pride;
While his soul rises, gathering all its force,
To meet the fearful conflict with remorse.

To thee, at length, whose artless love hath been His own, unchanged, through many a stormy

scene;

Zayda to thee his heart for refuge flies;
Thou still art faithful to affection's ties.
Yes! let the world upbraid, let foes contemn,
Thy gentle breast the tide will firmly stem;
And soon thy smile and soft consoling voice
Shall bid his troubled soul again rejoice.

Within Granada's walls are hearts and hands
Whose aid in secret Hamet yet commands;
Nor hard the task, at some propitious hour,
To win his silent way to Zayda's bower,
When night and peace are brooding o'er the world,
When mute the clarions, and the banners furl'd.
That hour is come-and, o'er the arms he bears,
A wandering fakir's garb the chieftain wears:
Disguise that ill from piercing eye could hide
The lofty port, and glance of martial pride;
But night befriends-through paths obscure he
pass'd,

And hail'd the lone and lovely scene at last;
Young Zayda's chosen haunt, the fair alcove,
The sparkling fountain, and the orange grove :
Calm in the moonlight smiles the still retreat,
As form'd alone for happy hearts to meet.
For happy hearts !-not such as hers, who there
Bends o'er her lute with dark unbraided hair;
That maid of Zegri race, whose eye, whose mien,
Tell that despair her bosom's guest hath been.
So lost in thought she seems, the warrior's feet
Unheard approach her solitary seat,

Till his known accents every sense restore

My own loved Zayda! do we meet once more?"