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transport of my bosom. That very night I arrayed myself in my most gallant attire, to pay due honor to my bride; and arming myself against any casual attack, issued forth privately from Cartama. You know the rest, and by what sad fortune of war I found myself, instead of a happy bridegroom, in the nuptial bower of Coyn, vanquished, wounded, and a prisoner, within the walls of Allora. The term of absence of the father of Xarisa is nearly expired. Within three days he will return to Coyn, and our meeting will no longer be possible. Judge, then, whether I grieve without cause, and whether I may not well be excused for showing impatience under confinement.'

Don Rodrigo de Narvaez was greatly moved by this recital ; for, though more used to rugged war, than scenes of amorous softness, he was of a kind and generous nature.

* Abendaraez,' said he, 'I did not seek thy confidence to gratify an idle curiosity. It grieves me much that the good fortune which delivered thee into my hands, should have marred so fair an enterprise. Give me thy faith, as a true knight, to return prisoner to my castle, within three days, and I will grant thee permission to accomplish thy nuptials.

The Abencerrage would have thrown himself at his feet, to pour out protestations of eternal gratitude, but the Alcayde prevented him. Calling in his cavaliers, he took the Abencerrage by the right hand, in their presence, exclaiming solemnly, 'You promise, on the faith of a cavalier, to return to my castle of Allora within three days, and render yourself my prisoner ?' And the Abencerrage said, “I promise.'

Then said the Alcayde, 'Go! and may good fortune attend you. If you require any safeguard, I and my cavaliers are ready to be your companions.'

The Abencerrage kissed the hand of the Alcayde, in grateful acknowledgment. "Give me,' said he, my own armor, and my steed, and I require no guard. It is not likely that I shall again meet with so valorous a foe.'

The shades of night had fallen, when the tramp of the dapple gray steed resounded over the draw-bridge, and immediately afterward the light clatter of hoofs along the road, bespoke the fleetness with which the youthful lover hastened to his bride. It was deep night, when the Moor arrived at the castle of Coyn. He silently and cautiously walked his panting steed under its dark walls, and having nearly passed round them, came to the portal denoted by Xarisa. He paused and looked round to see that he was not observed, and then knocked three times with the butt of his lance. In a little while the portal was timidly unclosed by the duenna of Xarisa. •Alas! senor,' said she, 'what has detained you thus long? Every night have I watched for you; and my lady is sick at heart with doubt and anxiety.'

The Abencerrage hung his lance, and shield, and scimitar against the wall, and then followed the duenna, with silent steps, up a winding stair-case, to the apartment of Xarisa. Vain would be the attempt to describe the raptures of that meeting. Time flew too swiftly, and the Abencerrage had nearly forgotten, until too late, his promise to return a prisoner to the Alcayde of Allora. The recollection of it

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came to him with a pang, and suddenly awoke him from his dream of bliss. Xarisa saw his altered looks, and heard with alarm his stified sighs; but her countenance brightened, when she heard the cause. • Let not thy spirit be cast down,' said she, throwing her white arms around him. I have the keys of my father's treasures; send ransom more than enough to satisfy the Christian, and remain with me.'

• No,' said Abendaraez, 'I have given my word to return in person, and like a true knight, must fulfil my promise. After that, fortune must do with me as it pleases.'

• Then,' said Xarisa, ‘I will accompany thee. Never shall you return a prisoner, and I remain at lịberty.'

The Abencerrage was transported with joy at this new proof of devotion in his beautiful bride." All preparations were speedily made for their departure. Xarisa mounted behind the Moor, on his powerful steed; they left the castle walls before day-break, nor did they pause, until they arrived at the gate of the castle of Allora, which was flung wide to receive them.

Alighting in the court, the Abencerrage supported the steps of his trembling bride, who remained closely veiled, into the presence of Rodrigo de Narvaez. “Behold, valiant Alcayde !' said he, the way in which an Abencerrage keeps his word. I promised to return to thee a prisoner, but I deliver two captives into your power. Behold Xarisa, and judge whether I grieved without reason, over the loss of such a treasure. Receive us as your own, for I confide my life and her honor to your hands.'

The Alcayde was lost in admiration of the beauty of the lady, and the noble spirit of the Moor. 'I know not,' said he, 'which of you surpasses the other ; but I know that my castle is graced and honored by your presence. Enter into it, and consider it your own, while you deign to reside with me.'

For several days, the lovers remained at Allora, happy in each other's love, and in the friendship of the brave Alcayde. The latter wrote a letter, full of courtesy, to the Moorish king of Granada, relating the whole event, extolling the valor and good faith of the Abencerrage, and craving for him the royal countenance.

The king was moved by the story, and was pleased with an opportunity of showing attention to the wishes of a gallant and chivalrous enemy; for though he had often suffered from the

prowess Don Rodrigo de Narvaez, he admired the heroic character he had gained throughout the land. Calling the Alcayde of Coyn into his presence, he gave him the letter to read. The Alcayde turned pale, and trembled with rage, on the perusal. "Restrain thine anger,' said the king; there is nothing that the Alcayde of Allora could ask, that I would not grant, if in my power. Go thou to Allora; pardon thy children ; take them to thy home. I receive this Abencerrage into my favor, and it will be my delight to beap benefits upon you all.'

The kindling ire of the Alcayde was suddenly appeased. He hastened to Allora; and folded his children to his bosom, who would have fallen at his feet. The gallant Rodrigo de Narvaez gave liberty to his prisoner without ransom, demanding merely a promise of his friendship. He accompanied the youthful couple and their father



to Coyn, where their nuptials were celebrated with great rejoicings. When the festivities were over, Don Rodrigo de Narvaez returned to his fortress of Allora.

After his departure, the Alcayde of Coyn addressed his children: . • To your hands,' said be, 'I confide the disposition of my wealth. One of the first things I charge you, is not to forget the ransom you owe to the Alcayde of Allora. His magnanimity you can never repay, but you can prevent it from wronging him of his just dues. Give him, moreover, your entire friendship, for he merits it fully, though of a different faith.'

The Abencerrage thanked him for his generous proposition, which so truly accorded with his own wishes. He took a large sum of gold, and enclosed it in a rich coffer; and, on his own part, sent six beautiful horses, superbly caparisoned; with six shields and lances, mounted and embossed with gold. The beautiful Xarisa, at the same time, wrote a letter to the Alcayde, filled with expressions of gratitude and friendship, and sent him a box of fragrant cypress wood, containing lipen, of the finest quality, for his person. The valiant Alcayde disposed of the present in a characteristic manner. The horses and armor he shared among the cavaliers who had accompanied him on the night of the skirmish. The box of cypress wood and its contents he retained, for the sake of the beautiful Xarisa; and sent her, by the hands of the messenger, the sum of gold paid as a ransom, entreating her to receive it as a wedding present. This courtesy and magnanimity raised the character of the Alcayde Rodrigo de Narvaez still higher in the estimation of the Moors, who extolled him as a perfect mirror of chivalric virtue ; and from that time forward, there was a continual exchange of good offices between them.

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Ring, ring with a merry peal, the bell, Toll, toll with a solemn peal, the knell!

For the bridal hour hath come; (tell, For a year hath passed away,
The festooned walls and the bright lamps And no echo of gladeome tones may tell
There is joy within that home :

The return of this bridal day!
With flower-crowned head,

Grief's fount is stirred,
And with lightsome tread,

Grief's sigh is heard
Comes the bride from her chamber forth; On the breath of the summer gale,
She lists not the song,

As a cheerless one,
And she heeds not the throng;

By a grave alone,
To her they are little worth!

Pours to heaven her bitter tale!



For the touch of a loving hand she feels, And is it the same, that timorous bride,

And the strength of a guiding arm, Late the boastof a brighter scene! (side, While the blissful smile of her lover steals Who kneels on the turf, by a fresh grave's O'er her spirit, like a charm:

With that sad, that altered mien ?
Yet the glistening tear

'Tis the same young bride!
of a maiden's fear,

0, what ills betide, As a diamond, lights her eye;

In the fight of a single year!
While the nuptial vow

For the widow's name
Iş whispered low,

She, alas! must claim,
And fastened the holy tie.

And her wealth is the widow's tear! Cedar Brook, 1839.


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He might have soared, a miracle of mind,

Above the doubts that dim this shadowy sphere,
And poured from thence, as music on the wind,

Those prophet-tones, which men had turned to lear,
As if an angel's voice had sung of bliss,
In some bright world, beyond the tears of this.


But he betrayed his trust, and lent his gift

Of glorious faculties to blight and mar
The moral universe, and set adrift

The anchored hopes of millions : thus the star
Of his eveniful destiny became
A wild and wandering orb, of fearful flame.


That orb hath set ; yet still its lurid light

Flashes above the broad horizon's verge,
As if some comet, plunging from its height,

Should pause upon the ocean's boiling surge ;
And, in defiance of its darksome doom,

Lighi for itself a fierce volcanic tomb!
Philadelphia, May, 13, 1839.

W. C.






London, August 24th, 1768. I left this city early yesterday morning, accompanied by Murphy, the dramatist, on a visit to the country seat of Mr. Garick, where I have passed one of the happiest days of my life.

It was a most voluptuous summer morning. A light transparent vapor, such as we see in the landscapes of Claude, trembled over the fields, and the face of nature was improved by the veil. I felt as if I were borne upon ether. Every thing around me was smiling in delight. Such joyful feelings of existence are enough to banish all the sophisms touching the predominance of ill in this good world.

The dwelling of Garrick is a little palace, of beautiful proportions. It stands upon the bank of the Thames, which here winds through richly-settled and elaborately-ornamented grounds. His garden, as it is called, is but a plat of clean and verdant turf, scattered about which, without regard to symmetry, is a variety of shrubbery and trees. Near the water, stands that British sanctuary, the Temple of Shakspeare. The statue of the Immortal is of white marble, in life size. In the expression which the artist has given him, he seems transported among the scenes he has himself created, and to be listening to the song of Ariel.

There is little style or pretension in the interior of Garrick's dwelling; but a serene, noble simplicity pervades the apartments.



Here and there are to be seen objects which mark the peculiar genius, and sometimes the humor, of the possessor. The tapestry is all of light, soft, and agreeable colors, hung with excellent pictures of the most renowned actors and actresses, taken en rôle. Here are the four celebrated originals, by Hogarth, entitled • The Election. A fifth, by the same master, is yet more remarkable. It was intended as the first of a series of four paintings, to represent. The Happy Marriage,' which was to have been a counterpart 10 his renowned • Marriage à la mode ;' but whether nature was deficient in models for this subject, or the artist in invention, I do not know. Only one of the pictures is commenced, and in this, the head of the bride is alone completed. Hogarth here shows himself to be a skilful painter of beauty. A more soft, lovely, and altogether attractive countenance, has seldom been produced. I also saw Garrick’s portrait, by our country-woman, Angelica Kaufmann, painted in gray; and another on China, copied from Reynolds, in which Garrick appears as a disguised Chinese. While among the productions of art, I must not neglect to speak of a small box, made from the sacred mulberry tree, in the shade of which Shakspeare was wont to repose. This relic is exhibited with the most devout emotion. But you

desire to hear something of the man and of the actor. I shall not speak to day, and perhaps never; for Professor Lichtenberg has said all that can be said on this subject. You are already aware that Garrick is a handsome man. It is true, he is not a demi-god in person, being a little below medium size; and he wants about a pied du Roi, to realize the ideal forms of the Greek and Roman heroes, or what the French term, the high tragic stature.' Yet his figure is neat and comely ; full, without being fat; firm and nervous. When he speaks, his whole body is animated, and every play of his muscles, every external movement, accords admirably with the inward emotions. I think I have never seen so expressive a face, or limbs which seemed more fully and gracefully to participate in his theme. While Previllon was once enacting the part of a drunkard, to an admiring audience, Garrick cried out to him, · Your feet are sober!'

You observe, at first sight, that gayety, raillery, and hence comedy, are natural to Garrick. A keen humor, a satirical Hudibrastic arch

rom his eyes; yet as always united with great hilarity of feeling, it rather attracts than repels. You may imagine what entire contro], and what creative power, he must possess over his physiognomy, to hide so completely such original stamps of nature, when in his great tragic characters; and still you must fall short in your conceptions, unless you know the man, and then see him as Lear, in the storm-scene, or his hell-visage in the battle scene of Richard.

Garrick associates with the first of the land, and is much honored and beloved by them. Fortunately for his friends, he has not contracted that tone of the haut société which fetters, by conventional laws, the freedom and the glad impulses of nature. This noble tree could not be transformed into a clipped garden hedge. He allows free play to his humor, and believes that mirth and heart-felt laughter form the grand elixir of life. The character of his wit is shown in his epilogues and prologues, which abound in facetious contrasts, pleasing equivoques, jeu-de-mots, and apt quotations from the ancient and modern dramatists, or from his favorite poet, Horace. The


ness, flashes

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