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Along the wild wood ringing clear.
Whose evening shadows o'er it rest;
Their varying hues of beauty twine,
And who was he, that hermit gray,
Why did he stray thus far away,
His look-his form-his speech-his mien
That mark so well the common mind.
Like evening meteors flit away.
JAMES A. JONES,
Or New Bedford, Massachusetts. He has been the editor of a paper in Philadelphia.
A MOOR'S CURSE ON SPAIN.
WITH tearful eyes and swelling hearts they leave Granada's gate,
And the wind blows fair to waft their barks across the nar
They have hoisted sail, and they are gone,—the last of all the
Whom bigot zeal hath banish'd from their much-loved Spanish shores.
The remnants of those warlike tribes, who trode on Spanish
Whom, name you to Castilian ears, if you delight to vex; Now broken, not by sword and spear, but papal racks alone, They go, to found, where Dido reign'd, another Moslem
There stood upon the deck, a Moor, who had to Mecca been, Whose hoary hair proclaim'd his years beyond three score and ten.
He had tasted of the water of Zemzeim's holy well,
And could read the monarch's magic ring, and speak the direful spell.
And there he watch'd, that aged man, till they had Calpe
And saw, with eye of boding gloom, the land receding fast. Blow, blow ye winds, and waft us from Xeres' glorious
Then be ye calm, while I pronounce a Moor's curse on Spain.
"Thou didst 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
Thy soldiers drew dull scymitars, and the crescent overcame.
"The days, which saw our martial deeds, are fled to come no
A warrior monarch rules thee now, and we give the battle
Abencerrage 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
Thou shalt be the land of dastard souls, a nursery of crime; And yet, as if to mock her sons, and nake their dark doom
No land shall boast more glorious skies, than the lovely land I
"Thy kings shall wear no royal type, save a diadem alone, And their sovereignty by cruelty and a withering eye be
'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 holdcst from the Prophet of the Cross,
A faith thy children have profaned, and its better doctrines
By the lords that faith shall give thee, not less shalt thou be
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
Till vengeance meet the murderous bands, from thine accursed shore,
And give them of the land they seek,-a grave of clotted
The Guadalquivir's banks shall be divested of their pride,
The castles of our valiant race deck no more the mountain
And Ruin's mouldering hand shall sweep to Spain's remotest shore,
And all her fertile regions weep the exile of the Moor.
THE LAY OF A MOUNTAIN SPIRIT.
I HEARD the Spirit of a Mountain
His locks the rock-moss gray.
Which bids his mountain listeners note
"I laugh to think thou wilt compare
Thy crags, where nought but eagles dwell,
Of lips whose sweets are past revealing— A gentle girl who gave her hand To a poor youth, and ne'er repines For the proud palace, and broad land, But finds love richer than the mines.
Thou canst not have the warbling rill,
I heard the Spirit of mid air
Say to this little lowland Fay,
From eve to morn we nothing do