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13.

Fire flashed from out the old Moor's eyes,
The Monarch's wrath began to rise,—
Because he answered, and because
He spake exceeding well of laws.
Wo is me, Alhama!

14.

"There in no law to say such things
As may disgust the ear of kings:"-
Thus, snorting with his choler, said
The Moorish King, and doomed him dead.
Wo is me, Alhama!

15.

Moor Alfaqui! Moor Alfaqui!

Though thy beard so hoary be,

The king hath sent to have thee seized,

For Albama's loss displeased.

Wo is me, Alhama!

(

16,

And to fix thy head upon

High Alhambra's loftiest stone;

That this for thee should be the law,
And others tremble when they saw.

Wo is me, Alhama!

17.

"Cavalier! and man of worth!

Let these words of mine go forth;
Let the Moorish Monarch know,

That to him I nothing owe.

Wo is me, Alhama!

18.

"But on my soul Alhama weighs,
And on my inmost spirit preys;
And if the King his land hath lost,
Yet others may have lost the most.

Wo is me, Alhama!

19.

"Sires have lost their children, wives Their lords, and valiant men their lives; One what best his love might claim Hath lost, another wealth, or fame.

Wo is me, Alhama!

20,

"I lost a damsel in that hour,
Of all the land the loveliest flower;
Doubloons a hundred I would pay,
And think her ransom cheap that day."
Wo is me, Alhama!

21.

And as these things the old Moor said, They severed from the trunk his head; And to the Alhambra's wall with speed 'Twas carried, as the King decreed. Wo is me, Alhama!

22.

And men and infants therein weep
Their loss, so heavy and so deep;
Granada's ladies, all she rears
Within her walls, burst into tears.
Wo is me, Albama!

23.

And from the windows o'er the walls
The sable web of mourning falls;

The King weeps as a woman o'er

His loss, for it is much and sore.

Wo is me, Alhama!

TRANSLATION FROM VITTORELLI.

ON A NUN.

Sonnet composed in the name of a father whose daughter had recently died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.

Or two fair virgins, modest, though admired,

Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires,

Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,

And gazing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired
Becomes extinguished, soon-too soon-expires:
But thine, within the closing grate retired,
Eternal captive, to her God aspires.

But thou at least from out the jealous door,

Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes,
May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more:
I to the marble, where my daughter lies,

Rush, the swoln flood of bitterness I pour,
And knock, and knock, and knock-but none replies.

MADAME LAVALETTE.

LET Edinburgh critics o'erwhelm with their praises
Their Madame de Stael, and their fam'd L'Epinasse:
Like a meteor at best, proud Philosophy blazes,
And the fame of a Wit is as brittle as glass:

But cheering's the beam, and unfading the splendour

Of thy torch, Wedded Love! and it never has yet Shone with lustre more holy, more pure, or more tender, Than it sheds on the name of the fair Lavalette.

Then fill high the wine cup, e'en Virtue shall bless it, And hallow the goblet which foams to her name; The warm lip of Beauty shall piously press it,

And Hymen shall honour the pledge to her fame: To the health of the Woman, who freedom and life too Has risk'd for her Husband, we'll pay the just debt; And hail with applauses the Heroine and Wife too, The constant, the noble, the fair Lavalette.

Her foes have awarded, in impotent malice,

To their captive a doom, which all Europe abhors, And turns from the stairs of the Priest haunted palace, While those who replaced them there, blush for their

cause:

But, in ages to come, when the blood-tarnish'd glory Of dukes, and of marshals, in darkness hath set, Hearts shall throb, eyes shall glisten, at reading the story Of the fond self-devotion of fair Lavalette.

ODE.

Oн, shame to thee, Land of the Gaul! Oh, shame to thy children and thee! Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, How wretched thy portion shall be! Derision shall strike thee forlorn,

A mockery that never shall die;

The curses of Hate, and the hisses of Scorn
Shall burthen the winds of thy sky;

And, proud o'er thy ruin, for ever be hurl'd
The laughter of Triumph, the jeers of the world!

Oh, where is thy spirit of yore,

The spirit that breathed in thy dead,
When gallantry's star was the beacon before,
And honour the passion that led?
Thy storms have awaken'd their sleep,
They groan from the place of their rest,
And wrathfully murmur, and sullenly weep,
To see the foul stain on thy breast;

For where is the glory they left thee in trust?
'Tis scatter'd in darkness, 'tis trampled in dust!

Go, look through the kingdoms of earth, From Indus, all around to the Pole, And something of goodness, of honour, and worth, Shall brighten the sins of the soul:

But thou art alone in thy shame,

The world cannot liken thee there; Abhorrence and vice have disfigur'd thy name Beyond the low reach of compare;

Stupendous in guilt thou shalt lend us through time A proverb, a by-word, for treachery and crime!

While conquest illumin'd his sword,

While yet in his prowress he stood,
Thy praises still follow'd the steps of thy Lord,
And welcom'd the torrent of blood;

Though tyranny sat on his crown,

And wither'd the nations afar,

Yet bright in thy view was that Despot's renown,
Till fortune deserted his car;

Then, back from the Chieftain thou slunkest away-
The foremost to insult, the first to betray!

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