But while the old man sang, a mist of tears
O'er Haroun's eyes had gather'd, and a thought-
Oh! many a sudden and remorseful thought-

Of his youth's once loved friends, the martyr'd race, O'erflow'd his softening heart."Live! live!" he cried,

"Thou faithful unto death! live on, and still Speak of thy lords-they were a princely band!”

1

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."

I MADE a mountain brook my guide
Through a wild Spanish glen,
And wander'd 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 bosom'd grove
Of many an aged tree,

Such as the shadowy violets love,

The fawn and forest bee.

MOORE.

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

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

The bright stream reverently below
Check'd 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,

E'en 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 press'd,

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 heap'd beside.

I stoop'd-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 turn'd, 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 shadow'd 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.

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 crown'd.

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 hush'd-the knights made way
For the queenly mother's tread,

As up the hall, in dark array,

Two fair-hair'd boys she led.

She led them e'en to the Kaiser's place,
And still before him stood;

Till, with strange wonder, o'er his face
Flush'd the proud warrior blood:
AndSpeak, 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 nought

Speak of thy childhood's hours,

And smite thee with a tender thought
Of thy dead father's towers?