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And saw, with eye of boding gloom, the land reced

ing fast.

“ Blow, blow ye winds, and waft us from Xeres' glo

rious plain, Then be ye calm, while I pronounce a Moor's curse

on Spain.

“Thou did'st bow, Spain, for ages, beneath a Moorish

yoke, And save Asturia's mountain sons, there were none

to strike a stroke; On mountain top and lowland plain, thy fate was still

the same,

Thy soldiers drew dull scymitars, and the crescent

overcame.

" The days, which saw our martial deeds, are fled to

come no more ; A warrior monarch rules thee now, and we give the

battle o'er; Abencarrage wakes not, when the battle trumpets call, And Abderame sleeps in death, beside th’ Alhambra's

wall.

“I leave to thee, my curse, proud Spain! a curse

upon thy clime; Thou shalt be the land of dastard souls, a nursery of

crime; And yet, as if to mock her sons, and make their dark

doom worse,

Noland shall boast more glorious skies, than the lovely

land I curse.

“Thy kings shall wear no royal type, save a diadem

alone, And their sovereignty by cruelty and a withering eye

be known. 'T were waste of time to speak my curse; for, Spain,

thy sons shall see, That magic can invoke no fiend, worse than thy kings

will be.

" And that blind faith, thou holdest from the Prophet

of the Cross, A faith thy children have profaned, and its better

doctrines lost; By the lords that faith shall give thee, not less shalt

thou be gored, Because they grasp a crucifix, instead of spear and

sword.

“Bright eyes are in thy land, Spain, and thy virgins

want no charms, But thou art cursed to know no truth in either heart

or arms ; Their bosoms shall no pillow be, for aught is kind or

brave, But lull in mere illicit love, the sensual priest and slave.

“Thy sway shall reach to distant lands, shall yield

thee gold and gem,

But a burning and a bloody sword, shall thy sceptre

be o'er them, Till vengeance meet the murderous bands, from thine

accursed shore, And give them of the land they seek,

,-a grave of clotted gore.”

The Guadalquiver's banks shall be divested of their

pride, The castles of our valiant race deck no more the

mountain side, And Ruin's mouldering hand shall sweep to Spain's

remotest shore, And all her fertile regions weep the exile of the Moor.

THE SEA DIVER.

My way is on the bright blue sea,

My sleep upon its rocking tide ;
And many an eye has followed me

Where billows clasp the worn sea-side.

My plumage bears the crimson blush,

When ocean by the sun is kissed !
When fades the evening's purple flush,

My dark wing cleaves the silver mist.

Full many a fathom down beneath

The bright arch of the splendid deep, My ear has heard the sea shell breathe

O'er living myriads in their sleep.

They rested by the coral throne,

And by the pearly diadem, Where the pale sea-grape had o'ergrown

The glorious dwellings made for them.

At night upon my storm-drenched wing,

I poised above a helmless bark, And soon I saw the shattered thing

Had passed away and left no mark.

And when the wind and storm had done,

A ship, that had rode out the gale, Sunk down—without a signal gun,

And none was left to tell the tale.

I saw the pomp of day depart,

The cloud resign its golden crown, When to the ocean's beating heart,

The sailor's wasted corse went down.

Peace be to those whose graves are made

Beneath the bright and silver sea ! Peace that their relics there were laid With no vain pride and pageantry.

P

170

SARDANAPALUS AT THE TEMPLE OF BELUS.

This spacious mausoleum holds

Proud dust in many a worshipped shrine ;
Yon massive golden urn enfolds

The Founder of our line.
In gloomy grandeur, here are laid
The gods, our regal race have made.

I never c

To bui I bade th

Watch Through With a h

I bade n

Yes, here are sleeping side by side

The gods, Assyrian queens have borne ;
Warriors of madmen deified,

And tyrants overthrown.
Why, since my sires are all divine,
Am I, their son, without a shrine ?

Throu And bad

A fear Sardana

His gold

I have unto my people been

A father, brother and a friend! Go to the Western Island-men

Go eastward to mine empire's end; If there be one hath

wrong

of

me, Him, fourfold recompense shall see.

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I loved the glittering javelin not

I did not love war's bloody suit ;
I left the field where nations fought,

To listen to the lute;
I passed the prancing war-horse by,
To gaze at beauty's melting eye.

Earth
A blood
His shri

And she Who

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