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Like evening meteors flit away.
Of 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
row strait; They have hoisted sail, and they are gone,—the last of all the
Moors, Whom bigot zeal hath banish'd from their much-loved SpanThe remnants of those warlike tribes, who trode on Spanish
necks, 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 Mosled
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 dire
And there he watch'd, that aged man, till they had Calpe
past, And saw, with eye of boding gloom, the land receding fast. “ Blow, blow ye winds, and waft us from Xeres' glorious
plain, 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
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; 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
clime; 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
worse, 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 holdest 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
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 But a burning and a bloody sword, shall thy sceptre be o'er
them, Till vengeance meet the murderous bands, from thine ac
cursed shore, And give them of the land they seek,-a grave of clotted
The Guadalquivir's banks shall be divested of their pride,
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 LAY OF A MOUNTAIN SPIRIT.
I HEARD the Spirit of a Mountain
Discoursing with a lowland Fay.
The Monntain Spirit bears a pine,
His locks the rock-moss gray.
And carols he a lay,
"I laugh to think thou wilt compare
Thy crags, where nought but eagles dwell,
Soft secrets when the moonbeams glitter. Seest thou yon curling cloud of mist,
A rural dwelling half concealing ? There lives one, innocently kiss'd
Of lips whose sweets are past revealingA 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, “ Your hills are green, and valleys fair,
Your rivers gently well away;
Seen from the mountains high.
What splendors for your eye!
From eve to morn we nothing do
And wonder at the sky;
“ We have the sunbeams while ye lay
In darkness in the vale below;
Along the deep in paths of snow.
The lightning, and the bow.
Her littleness below.
But we the goodlier show.
“When o'er yon lowland fell disease
Breathes his stern curse, and thousands fall; When with a broken heart ye wreathe
The bridal favor with the pall,
From the green vales ye praise so high,
“We are the keepers of the free,
Who shun the lands which tyrants sway.
To such, should in the mountains stay.
The despot's feet away-