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from a friend, that "nothing" is without an end; but on second thoughts, I find myself the more strongly confirmed in my opinion, that my letter is "better than nothing," since, as you will see, I have already come to a conclusion. L. L.

THE PREDICTION.

'Tis night-in Guadalquiver's stream
The stars reflected wildly gleam ;

'Tis night-beneath the moon's pale ray,
So silent glide the hours away,
That the soft waters seem to grow
Louder and louder as they flow;

You would not deem, to gaze on bowers

Of myrtle and the orange flowers;
You would not deem that, by the side
Of Guadalquiver's gentle tide,

Scarce waiting till the day drew nigh,
Two mighty hosts were met to die;
The sacred banner of Castile,
The very crescent seemed to feel,
As they floated idly there;
How ill agreed that lovely night,
How ill those distant isles of light
With the war-shriek of despair,
So Roland felt, while all around
Lay hush'd in slumber so profound,

That he could not bear to know

That those who drew the careless breath
Must yield to Sleep's stern brother, Death,

'Ere another sun was low.

The youth was brave as ever knight

Who couch'd in rest his spear;
He waited for the morrow's fight,
He waited with a fierce delight,

To run his first career.

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Yet, when the voice of glory spoke

In music's lofty swell,

A nobler spirit then awoke

And kindled like a spell,

Till her young heart had caught the flame,
And felt the echoing thrill for fame.

And Roland, as he stood beneath
The foliage of the waving trees,
And caught the music's floating breath,
Upon the light wing of the breeze,
Mus'd deeply as he stood alone

On joys which might have been his own;
But yesterday, with flashing eye,
And heart where glory's thrill beat high,
While his blood rush'd in buoyant tide,
He thought upon his promis'd bride;
He thought in victory to feel
His father's spirit guide his steel:
But the dark form had come between
The triumphs of the fancied scene,
While on the battle-field stood Death,
To crown him with the victor wreath,
Awhile he gaz'd in mute despair,
While recreant nature trembled there.
Till his proud spirit rose, at length,
And struggled with convulsive strength,
And wrestled down each vain regret,
And bade him every tie forget,

It bade him, bound by honour's laws,

To perish in his country's cause.

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He gained the bower-" Now, Clara, now
I come to claim thy parting vow;

When those green trees, which soon will wave,
In sorrow, o'er the young and brave;
When those green trees in rapture fling
Their odours to the breeze of Spring,
Forget not thou the lonely tomb,
Which wakes not with returning bloom,
And drop a tear upon the wreath
You weave for him who sleeps beneath."
The lady shriek'd: "Oh, say not so:
To-morrow, ere the sun is low,

The laurel-crown shall gird thy brow.
My Roland, live for me.'

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"'Twas yesterday, that fearful form,
Which marshals us to death,
Came riding on the midnight storm,
To claim my forfeit breath :

I saw him raise that phantom brand,

In attitude of high command,

And point to where those green trees wave

He pointed to a warrior's grave.

I saw then, as I see thee now,

The dark smile wreathe his pallid brow.

Yet, still in battle's angry flood

I will not fall alone;

And vengeance waits my father's blood,

Though purchas'd by my own."

The lady rose-no tears would flow;

The warm blood gush'd across her brow,
E'en as she gather'd strength;

Convuls'd in agony, yet still

She bow'd her torture to her will,

And calmly spoke at length:

While the red flush, which gather'd there,

Fast faded into pale despair,

And the wan lips, and swollen eye,
Remain'd the signs of agony.

"Go, then," she said, in noble pride,

"I would not be a craven's bride; I'd give my bosom to the steel

To save the pang which I shall feel;

Those lips scarce ting'd with hovering breath,

That soaring spirit chill'd in death!

Yet I would rather see thee dead

Than hide in infamy thy head;

And blush in shame, when glory's voice

Had call'd the nation to rejoice.;

Yes, when those trees for ever wave

In silence o'er my hero's grave;
Still, still, shall live that soaring name,
Embalmed in a nation's fame.

Where better can those limbs repose?
'Twas here he broke his country's foes.
I'll see, with a sublime delight,
His grave the trophy of the fight,
And there lay down, in tranquil rest,
The relics of a bleeding breast."

"Clara, farewell! the only tie
Which binds me yet to life,
Clara, farewell! I thus defy
The danger of the strife.
I may not hope to quit the field,
Unless borne back upon my shield.

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