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

Of his youth's once-lov'd friends, the martyr'd 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!"


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 profan'd what was born for the skies.

I MADE a mountain-brook my guide,
Thro' 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.


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

A dim and deeply-bosom'd grove

Of many an aged tree,

Such as the shadowy violets love,
The fawn and forest-bee.

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 thro' 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

Thro' 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 thro' sultry hours,
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

Thro' 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 wo, 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.

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