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And shouted but once more aloud,


My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound;
The boy,-O, where was he?
Ask of the winds, that far around

With fragments strewed the sea!

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young, faithful heart.


Ar the gate of old Grenada, when all its bolts are barred,

At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling heard ;

There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe.

"What tower is fallen? what star is set? what chief come these bewailing?"

"A tower is fallen! A star is set! - Alas! alas for



Three times they knock, three times they cry, the doors wide open throw;

Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go! In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch,


Each horseman holding in his hand a black and flaming torch.

Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing,

For all have heard the misery,-" Alas! alas for Celin!"

Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerrage's blood; 'T was at the solemn jousting; around the nobles stood; The nobles of the land were there, and the ladies bright and fair

Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share;

But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing, For he was Grenada's darling knight," Alas! alas for Celin !"

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view;

Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale;

When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless wailing,

And all the people, far and near, cry, — "Alas! alas for Celin!"

The Moorish maid at her 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 broidered 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,-"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; It's she who nursed him at her breast, who nursed him long ago;

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

With one loud shriek, she forward breaks, when her ears receive their wailing,

"Let ne kiss my Celin ere I die! - Alas! alas for Celin!"

FLOWERS.-Leigh Hunt.

WE are the sweet flowers,
Born of sunny showers,

(Think, whene'er you see us, what our beauty saith;)
Utterance mute and bright,
Of some unknown delight,

We fill the air with pleasure by our simple breath;
All who see us love us, -
We befit all places;

Unto sorrow we give smiles, and unto graces, graces.


Mark our ways, how noiseless
All, and sweetly voiceless,

Though the March-winds pipe, to make our passage



Not a whisper tells

Where our small seed dwells,

Nor is known the moment green when our tips appear. We thread the earth in silence,

In silence build our bowers,

And leaf by leaf in silence show, till we laugh a-top, sweet flowers.



O, HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire and her people are called to the bier.

Glenara came first, with the mourners and shroud; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud; Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around; They marched all in silence, they looked on the ground.

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In silence they reached, over mountain and moor,
To a heath where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar;
"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn;
Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

"And tell me, I charge ye, ye clan of my spouse,
Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"
So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made,
But each mantle, unfolding, a dagger displayed.



"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"


O, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in


'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn,

"I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief;
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"

In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that lady is borne;
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn.


GREEN little vaulter in the sunny grass,
Catching your heart up at the feel of June,
Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon,
When even the bees lag at the summoning brass;
And you, warm little housekeeper, who class
With those who think the candles come too soon,
Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune
Nick the glad silent moments as they pass.

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