"The very walls your bounty rear'd, for the stranger's homeless head,

Shall find a murmur to record your tale, my glorious dead!

Tho' the grass be where ye feasted once, where lute and cittern rung,

And the serpent in your palaces lie coil'd amidst

its young.

"It is enough! mine eye no more of joy or splendour

sees,

I leave your name in lofty faith, to the skies and

I

to the breeze!

go, since earth her flower hath lost, to join the bright and fair,

And call the grave a kingly house, for ye, my chiefs, are there!"

But while the old man sang, a mist of tears

O'er Haroun's eyes had gathered, and a thoughtOh! 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!"

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 profan'd what was born for the skies.
MOORE.

Į 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 " Recol-. lections 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,

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!