Granada by its winding stream,
The city of the Moor!

And there the Alhambra still recalls
Aladdin's palace of delight:

Allah il Allah! through its halls
Whispers the fountain as it falls,
The Darro darts beneath its walls,
The hills with snow are white.

Ah yes, the hills are white with snow,
And cold with blasts that bite and freeze,

But in the happy vale below

The orange and pomegranate grow,

And wafts of air toss to and fro

The blossoming almond trees.

The Vega cleft by the Xenil,

The fascination and allure

Of the sweet landscape chains the will;
The traveller lingers on the hill,
His parted lips are breathing still
The last sigh of the Moor.

How like a ruin overgrown

With flowers that hide the rents of time,
Stands now the Past that I have known,
Castles in Spain, not built of stone
But of white summer clouds, and blown
Into this little mist of rhyme !

VITTORIA COLONNA

VITTORIA COLONNA, on the death of her husband, the Marchese di Pescara, retired to her castle at Ischia (Inarimné), and there wrote the Ode upon his death, which gained her the title of Divine.

NCE more, once more, Inarimé

ON

I see thy purple hills!— once more I hear the billows of the bay

Wash the white pebbles on thy shore.

High o'er the sea-surge and the sands,
Like a great galleon wrecked and cast
Ashore by storms, thy castle stands,
A mouldering landmark of the Past.

Upon its terrace-walk I see

A phantom gliding to and fro; It is Colonna - it is she

Who lived and loved so long ago.

Pescara's beautiful young wife,

The type of perfect womanhood,

Whose life was love, the life of life,

That time and change and death withstood.

For death, that breaks the marriage band

In others, only closer pressed The wedding-ring upon her hand

And closer locked and barred her breast.

She knew the life-long martyrdom,
The weariness, the endless pain
Of waiting for some one to come
Who nevermore would come again.

The shadows of the chestnut trees,
The odor of the orange blooms,

The song of birds, and, more than these,
The silence of deserted rooms;

The respiration of the sea,

The soft caresses of the air,
All things in nature seemed to be
But ministers of her despair;

Till the o'erburdened heart, so long
Imprisoned in itself, found vent
And voice in one impassioned song

Of inconsolable lament.

Then as the sun, though hidden from sight, Transmutes to gold the leaden mist,

Her life was interfused with light,

From realms that, though unseen, exist.

Thy castle on the crags above
In dust shall crumble and decay,
But not the memory of her love.

THE REVENGE OF RAIN-IN-THE-FACE

'N and lone,

IN that desolate, and an and Yellowstone

Roar down their mountain path,
By their fires the Sioux Chiefs
Muttered their woes and griefs

And the menace of their wrath.

"Revenge!" cried Rain-in-the-Face,
"Revenge upon all the race

Of the White Chief with yellow hair!"

And the mountains dark and high

From their crags reëchoed the cry
Of his anger and despair.

In the meadow, spreading wide
By woodland and riverside

The Indian village stood;

All was silent as a dream,
Save the rushing of the stream

And the blue-jay in the wood.

In his war paint and his beads,
Like a bison among the reeds,
In ambush the Sitting Bull
Lay with three thousand braves
Crouched in the clefts and caves,
Savage, unmerciful!

Into the fatal snare

The White Chief with yellow hair
And his three hundred men
Dashed headlong, sword in hand;
But of that gallant band

Not one returned again.

The sudden darkness of death
Overwhelmed them like the breath

And smoke of a furnace fire:
By the river's bank, and between
The rocks of the ravine,

They lay in their bloody attire.

But the foemen fled in the night,
And Rain-in-the-Face, in his flight,
Uplifted high in air

As a ghastly trophy, bore

The brave heart, that beat no more,
Of the White Chief with yellow hair.

Whose was the right and the wrong? Sing it, O funeral song,