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' Say not my voice is magic-thy pleasure is to hear 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, Come marching from afar, 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, 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, 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, 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, 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, FATIMA AND RADUAN. FROM THE SPANISH. Diamante falso y fingido, Engastado en pedernal, &c. "FALSE diamond set in flint! the caverns of the mine Are warmer than the breast that holds that faithless heart of thine; "Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Grenada's maids, |