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from a friend, that “nothingis 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.

I

But yet he felt a solemn thrill,
As he recall'd the doom of ill
Foretold him in that hour of dread
By one arisen from the dead,

The demon of his race :
That spirit of the grave, who came,
With brow of night and eye of flame,
To usher all who bore that name

To the tomb's cold embrace.

Awhile he gazed with flashing eye,
That seem'd the crescent to defy,

And shook his plumed crest ;
He grasp'd the sabre by his side,
His press'd lips quiver'd with the tide

That boild within his breast.
Awhile he gaz'da

Lone murmur broke, While his brow blacken'd as he spoke; Then starting from his troubl’d dream, His dark eye lost its savage gleam, And on he rush'd to bid farewell To her whom he had lov'd so well.

The lady sat within her bower,
And strove to while the passing hour

With music's holy strain.
There, as she, graceful, swept the strings,
The airy gush on echo's wings

Seem'd floating to remain
The splendor of the changing cheek,
The eye's dark lustre seem'd to speak,
And every gesture serv'd to tell
What varying passions rose or fell:
'Twas now that calm and holy fire,

That mildness of the dove,
By which the gods are won from ire,
And soften'd into love.

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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.
Well, be it so; I'll couch my spear

With a bold and fearless soul,
Which, rushing on its bright career,
Shall
spurn

the base control. Then, be it so, when shouts are pour'd,

When ready glaives are flashing high, Then first all be my father's sword,

Then first my father's battle cry.

66

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."
No, Clara, it were vain to tell
What omens urge this sad farewell

To happiness and thee ;
Yet will I snatch the vain relief

Of sympathy and kindred fear; Our joys are made for all, but grief

Is sacred to Affection's tear.

'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 waveHe 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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