purple pall,

The flower of all Granada's youth, the

loveliest of them all;

His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale,

The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnish'd mail;

And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their wailing,—

Its sound is like no earthly sound,—“ Alas! alas for Celin!"

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands,the Moor stands at his door;

One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore;

Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew Upon their broider'd garments, of crimson, green, and blue;

Before each gate the bier stands still,

then bursts the loud bewailing, From door and lattice, high and low,66 Alas! alas for Celin!"

An old, old woman cometh forth when she hears the people cry,

Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye;

'Twas she that nursed him at her breast,that nursed him long ago:

She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know!

With one deep shriek, she through doth break, when her ears receive their wailing,

thornes,

And scourged him to disgrace,

In scornfull sort they led him forthe
Unto his dying place,

Where thousand thousands in the streete
Beheld him passe along,

Yet not one gentle heart was there,
That pity'd this his wrong.

Both old and young revilèd him,
As in the streete he wente,

And naught he found but churlish tauntes,
By every ones consente:

His owne deare crosse he bore himselfe,
A burthen far too great,
Which made him in the streete to fainte,
With blood and water sweat.

Being weary thus, he sought for rest,
To ease his burthen'd soule,
Upon a stone; the which a wretch

Did churlishly controule;
And sayd, Awaye, thou King of Jewes,
Thou shalt not rest thee here;
Pass on; thy execution-place

Thou seest nowe draweth neare.

And thereupon he thrust him thence;
At which our Saviour sayd,

I sure will rest, but thou shalt walke,
And have no journey stay'd.
With that this cursed shoemaker,

For offering Christ this wrong,
Left wife and children, house and all,
And went from thence along.

Where after he had seene the bloude Of Jesus Christ thus shed,

alas for Celin !"

(From the Spanish.) JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

THE WANDERING JEW.

WHEN as in faire Jerusalem
Our Saviour Christ did live,
And for the sins of all the worlde

His own deare life did give;

The wicked Jewes with scoffes and scornes

Did dailye him molest,

That never till he left his life,

Our Saviour could not rest.

Awaye with speed he fled,

Without returning backe againe

Unto his dwelling-place,

And wandred up and downe the worlde, A runnagate most base.

No resting could he finde at all,

No ease, nor hearts content;

No house, nor home, nor biding-place: But wandring forth he went

From towne to towne in foreigne landes,

With grievèd conscience still, Repenting for the heinous guilt Of his fore-passèd ill.

Thus after some fewe ages past In wandring up and downe ; He much again desired to see

Jerusalems renowne,

But finding it all quite destroyd,

He wandred thence with woe,

If people give this Jew an almes,
The most that he will take

Is not above a groat a time:
Which he, for Jesus' sake,
Will kindlye give unto the poore,
And thereof make no spare,

To verifie and showe.

"I'll rest, sayd hee, but thou shalt walke."

So doth this wandring Jew
From place to place, but cannot rest

For seeing countries newe;
Declaring still the power of Him,
Whereas he comes or goes,
And of all things done in the east,
Since Christ his death he showes.

The world he hath still compast round
And seene those nations strange,
That hearing of the name of Christ,
Their idol gods doe change:

To whom he hath told wondrous thinges
Of time forepast, and gone,
And to the princes of the worlde
Declares his cause of moane:

Desiring still to be dissolved,

And yeild his mortal breath;
But if the Lord hath thus decreed,

He shall not yet see death.
For neither lookes he old nor young,
But as he did those times,

When Christ did suffer on the crosse
For mortall sinners crimes.

Of him hath dailye care.

"TWAS in the prime of summer-time,

An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school:

leapt,

Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,
And souls untouch'd by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran,-
Turning to mirth all things of earth
As only boyhood can;
But the Usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man!

"My head was like an ardent coal,

My heart as solid ice;

My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,
Was at the Devil's price:

A dozen times I groan'd; the dead
Had never groan'd but twice!

"And now, from forth the frowning sky,
From the heavens' topmost height,
I heard a voice-the awful voice

Of the blood-avenging Sprite :'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead And hide it from my sight!'

"I took the dreary body up,

And cast it in a stream,—
A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extreme:-
My gentle Boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream!

A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime!

"One stern, tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave; Stronger and stronger every pulse

Did that temptation crave,Still urging me to go and see

The dead man in his grave!

"Heavily I rose up, as soon
As light was in the sky,
And sought the black accursed pool
With a wild misgiving eye;
And I saw the Dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry.

"Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dewdrop from its wing;

But I never mark'd its morning flight,

I never heard it sing:

Under the horrid thing.

"With breathless speed, like a soul in

chase,

I took him up and ran ;

There was no time to dig a grave

Before the day began:

souls,

And mine so black and grim!

I could not share in childish prayer,
Nor join in Evening Hymn :
Like a Devil of the Pit I seem'd,
'Mid holy Cherubim !

"And peace went with them, one and all,
And each calm pillow spread;
But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain
That lighted me to bed;

And drew my midnight curtains round,
With fingers bloody red!

"All night I lay in agony,

In anguish dark and deep;
My fever'd eyes
I dared not close,
But stared aghast at Sleep:
For Sin had render'd unto her
The keys of Hell to keep!

All night I lay in agony,
From weary chime to chime,
With one besetting, horrid hint,
That rack'd me all the time;

I hid the murder'd man!

"And all that day I read in school,

But my thought was other where; As soon as the midday task was done, In secret I was there:

And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare!

"Then down I cast me on my face,

And first began to weep, For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep : Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep.

"So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, Till blood for blood atones!

Ay, though he's buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh,—
The world shall see his bones!

"O God! that horrid, horrid dream Besets me now awake!

Again-again, with dizzy brain,

The human life I take;

And my right red hand grows raging hot, Like Cranmer's at the stake.

"And still no peace for the restless clay,
Will wave or mould allow ;
The horrid thing pursues my soul,-

It stands before me now!"
The fearful boy look'd up and saw
Huge drops upon his brow.

That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin eyelids kiss'd,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between,
With gyves upon his wrist.

THOMAS HOOD,

THE INCHCAPE ROCK.

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was still as she could be;
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing,
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to
the rock

Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away,
He scour'd the seas for many a day,
And now, grown rich with plunder'd store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

shock

The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The Abbot of Aberbrothok

They cannot see the sun on high; The wind hath blown a gale all day, At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand; So dark it is they see no land.

Rock;

On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung.

When the rock was hid by the surges' swell,

The mariners heard the warning bell,
And then they knew the perilous rock,
And bless'd the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd
round,

And there was joyaunce in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.

For there is the dawn of the rising moon."

"Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar?

For methinks we should be near the shore."
"Now, where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape
Bell."

They hear no sound, the swell is strong, Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering

shock,

"O Death! it is the Inchcape Rock."

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He cursed himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.