timid vows

Murmur soft, like my
Or the secret sighs my bosom heaves,—
Gently sweeping the grassy ground,

Bearing delight where'er ye blow,
Make in the elms a lulling sound,
While my lady sleeps in the shade below.

THE ALCAYDE OF MOLINA.

FROM THE SPANISH.

To the town of Atienza, Molina's brave Alcayde,

The courteous and the valorous, led forth his bold brigade. The Moor came back in triumph, he came without a wound, With many a Christian standard, and Christian captive bound. He passed the city portals, with swelling heart and vain, And towards his lady's dwelling he rode with slackened rein; Two circuits on his charger he took, and at the third, From the door of her balcony Zelinda's voice was heard. “Now if thou wert not shameless," said the lady to the Moor, "Thou wouldst neither pass my dwelling, nor stop before my door.

Alas for poor Zelinda, and for her wayward mood,
That one in love with peace should have loved a man of blood'
Since not that thou wert noble I chose thee for my knight,
But that thy sword was dreaded in tournay and in fight.
Ah, thoughtless and unhappy! that I should fail to see
How ill the stubborn flint and the yielding wax agree.
Boast not thy love for me, while the shrieking of the fife
Can change thy mood of mildness to fury and to strife.

Say not my voice is magic-thy pleasure is to hear
The bursting of the carbine, and shivering of the spear.
Well, follow thou thy choice-to the battle-field away,
To thy triumphs and thy trophies, since I am less than they.
Thrust thy arm into thy buckler, gird on thy crooked brand,
And call upon thy trusty squire to bring thy spears in hand.
Lead forth thy band to skirmish, by mountain and by mead,
On thy dappled Moorish barb, or thy fleeter border steed.
Go, waste the Christian hamlets, and sweep away their flocks,
From Almazan's broad meadows to Siguenza's rocks.
Leave Zelinda altogether, whom thou leavest oft and long,
And in the life thou lovest forget whom thou dost wrong.
These eyes shall not recall thee, though they meet no more thine

own,

Though they weep that thou art absent, and that I am all alone." She ceased, and turning from him her flushed and angry cheek, Shut the door of her balcony before the Moor could speak.

THE DEATH OF ALIATAR.

FROM THE SPANISH.

'Tis not with gilded sabres

That gleam in baldricks blue,
Nor nodding plumes in caps of Fez,
Of gay and gaudy hue-

But, habited in mourning weeds,
Come marching from afar,
By four and four, the valiant men
Who fought with Aliatar.
All mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

The banner of the Phenix,
The flag that loved the sky,

That scarce the wind dared wanton with,
It flew so proud and high—
Now leaves its place in battle-field,
And sweeps the ground in grief,

The bearer drags its glorious folds
Behind the fallen chief,

As mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come,
To the deep wail of the trumpet,
And beat of muffled drum.

Brave Aliatar led forward

A hundred Moors to go
To where his brother held Motril

Against the leaguering foe.

On horseback went the gallant Moor, That gallant band to lead;

And now his bier is at the gate,

From whence he pricked his steed.

While mournfully and slowly

The afflicted warriors come, To the deep wail of the trumpet, And beat of muffled drum.

The knights of the Grand Master
In crowded ambush lay;

They rushed upon him where the reeds
Were thick beside the way;
They sinote the valiant Aliatar,
They smote the warrior dead,