A virgin scene! A little while I stood, Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, Among the flowers, and with the flowers I And from the gray old trunks that high in played, A tempter known to those, who, after long stones That, fleeced with moss, beneath the shady Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep, And merciless ravage; and the shady nook away Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, ere framed heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once His spirit with the thought of boundless power Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Father, thy hand Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose And shot towards heaven. The century-liv ing crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds he The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with Here is continual worship; nature here, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Wells softly forth, and, wandering, steeps the Makes his own nourishment. For he came roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak, In all that proud old world beyond the deep, My heart is awed within me when I think forth From thine own bosom, and shall have an end. There have been holy men who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave The generation born with them, nor seemed men But let me often to these solitudes The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink And tremble and are still. Oh, God! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill And drowns the villages; when, at thy call, THE ALHAMBRA BY MOONLIGHT. HAVE given a picture of my apartment on my first taking possession of it; a few evenings have produced a thorough change in the scene and in my feelings. The moon, which was then invisible, has gradually gained upon the nights, and now rolls in full splendor above the towers, pouring a flood of tempered light into every court and hall. The garden beneath my window is gently lighted up; the orange and citron trees are tipped with silver; the fountain sparkles in the moonbeams, and even the blush of the rose is faintly visible. I have sat for hours at my window inhaling the sweetness of the garden, and musing on the chequered features of those whose history is dimly shadowed out in the elegant memorials around. Sometimes I have issued forth at midnight when everything was quiet, and have wandered over the whole building. Who can do justice to a moonlight night in such a climate, and in such a place! The temperature of an Andalusian midnight in summer is perfectly ethereal. We seem lifted up into a purer atmosphere; there is a serenity of soul, a buoyancy of spirits, an elasticity of frame that render mere existence enjoyment. The effect of moonlight, too, on the Alhambra has something like enchantment. Every rent and chasm of time, every mouldering tint and weather stain disappears; the marble resumes its original whiteness; the long colonnades brighten in the moonbeams; the halls arc illumined with a softened radiance, until the whole edifice reminds one of the enchanted palace of an Arabian tale. At such time I have ascended to the little pavillion called the Queen's Toilette, to enjoy its varied and extensive prospect. To the right, the snowy summits of the Sierra Nevada would gleam like silver clouds against the darker firmament, and all the outlines of the mountain would be softened, yet delicately defined. My delight, however, would be to lean over the parapet of the tocador, and gaze down upon Granada, spread out like a map before me, alı buried in deep repose, and its white palaces and convents sleeping as it were in the moonshine. Sometimes I would hear the faint sounds of castanets from some party of dancers lingering in the Alameda ; at other times I have heard the dubious tones of a guitar, and the notes of a single voice rising from some solitary street, and have pictured to myself some youthful cavalier serenading his lady's window; a gallant custom of former days, but now sadly on the decline except in the remote towns and villages of Spain. Such are the scenes that have detained me for many an hour loitering about the courts and balconies of the castle, enjoying the mixture of reverie and sensation which steal away existence in a southern climate, and it has been almost morning before I have retired to my bed, and been lulled to sleep by the falling waters of the fountain of Lindaraxa. WASHINGTON IRVING. · ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. "E distant spires! ye antique towers! YE That crown the watery glade, Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's holy shade; And ye that from the stately brow Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver winding way: Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Where once my careless childhood strayed, I feel the gales that from ye blow As waving fresh their gladsome wing, To breathe a second spring. Say, Father Thames-for thou hast seen The paths of pleasure trace- The captive linnet which enthrall? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, While some, on earnest business bent, 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty; Some bold adventurers disdain And unknown regions dare descry; And snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs, by Fancy fed, Theirs buxom Health of rosy hue, And lively Cheer, of Vigor born; Alas! regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see how all around them wait And black Misfortune's baleful train: And Shame, that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, That inly gnaws the secret heart; Ambition this shall tempt to rise, And grinning Infamy; The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' altered eye, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse, by blood defiled, And moody Madness, laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo! in the vale of years beneath, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen; This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every laboring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage; Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, |