reach him even here; and again he set forth upon his sandy route into the African province of Barca. Here ingratitude as well as treachery awaited him in the person of Aben-Habib, who had been chiefly indebted to the family of the prince for his own elevation. The life of Abderrahman had been publicly denounced, and the sovereign at whose court he had found a temporary shelter, was but too ready to take advantage of the recognition afforded by his striking form and features. Again the persecuted prince sought the haunts of the hospitable Bedouins, and again he displayed that astonishing firmness and bravery which had rendered him so great a favourite among the free wanderers of the wilderness, yet to this home his steps were tracked, and his person demanded by his implacable foes. But the faithful Arabs, apprehending some unknown danger to their beloved guest, replied, that the young Syrian, of whom the messengers were in quest, was absent hunting wild beasts, and would pass the night under some neighbouring rocks.

Thus the life of Abderrahman was once more preserved; and while he poured forth expressions of the warmest gratitude to his benefactors, they, zealous for his safety, appointed six of the noblest-hearted youths of their tribe to conduct him in safety farther across the desert. Under their protection he arrived at Tahart, the capital of Algarbe; and then, for the first time since he was driven from his pastoral home, did the young prince repose in safety. His mother having sprung from the most honourable family in the land, he no sooner declared his real name, and related the misfortunes he had endured, than the people and their chiefs overwhelmed him with acclamations of joy at his arrival.

In the mean time, by one of those mysterious combinations of events, which sometimes in an instant frustrate the calculations of ambition, and change the fate of nations, an assembly of

eighty-four Moorish chiefs met in secret at Cordova, and unanimously agreed to call the young prince to be their head and leader, in the hope of re-establishing the Moorish power: two of these chiefs were accordingly despatched to Tahart, and had the satisfaction of hearing from their future sovereign the most ardent expressions of love to Spain, and to the Arab children. who had grown up on its soil. The Zenates, his mother's people, rejoicing even more in the prospect of distinction thus opened to their prince, provided him with an escort of seven hundred and fifty horsemen, and sent him to win a throne for himself, and glory for his family.

At the moment when Abderrahman arrived on the shores of Spain, Youseef, a conqueror and usurper, who had deluged the country with blood, had begun his march towards Cordova, where his approach was awaited with terror and indignation; and the two warriors, the prince with his little band of faithful followers, and the usurper with a conquering army of four times the number, threatened to reach the city at the same time. After several preparatory skirmishes, they joined battle in the open plain, where, it is said, Youseef looking scornfully upon the little army of the prince, repeated the following lines of an old poet.

Our thousands thirst with a burning thirst,

And rivers of blood we need;

How shall we quench this burning thirst?
Oh! where are the hosts to bleed?

Before night, however, the city of Cordova had opened its gates to receive the victorious prince, and the few who remained of the army of the usurper lay in breathless silence on the plain. Nor was it to his dauntless fortitude, his valour, or his nobility of soul alone, that Abderrahman owed his celebrity;

but also to the natural tenderness and simplicity by which his character was distinguished. It is said that he planted with his own hands a palm-tree in the gardens of his palace, and that this palm was the parent of the spreading groves, which afterwards gave to the neighbourhood of Cordova its Oriental magnificence of shade. From the cares of state, and the splendour of his throne, he was wont to retire, for the few brief moments he could call his own, to contemplate the beauty of his favourite tree, and to weep over the scenes of his childhood, of which nothing else in his court or his kingdom could so forcibly remind him.

TO THE QUEEN.

FAR climes of Earth, islands that gem

In torrid, temperate and arctic zone,

the Sea,

Shores 'mid the polar icebergs dim and lone,
Spice-bearing lands, whose tribes once bowed the knee
In giant caves of dark idolatry,

New world, not to the "Tuscan artist" known,
Isles which the sea laves with pacific tone,

The classic haunts of old mythology,

With Britain's soil, yield homage to thy crown. Pearl from the wave, gold gems from the dark mine, "Kings of the East," an offering prepare! From realms, on which the sun goes never down,

Thrice Royal Daughter of a Royal Line!

In thousand tongues, for thee ascends one prayer.

F. R. C.

THE RULER'S FAITH.

BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.

COME, LAY THY HAND UPON HER, AND SHE SHALL LIVE."-Matt. ix. 18.

DEATH Cometh to the chamber of the sick.

The ruler's daughter, like the peasant's child,
Turns pale as marble. Hark! that hollow moan,
Which none may soothe, and then the last faint breath
Subsiding, with a shudder.

Deep the wail

That speaks an idol fallen from the shrine
Of a fond parent's heart. A withered flower
Is there, oh mother, where thy proudest hope
Solaced itself with garlands, and beheld

New buddings every morn.

Father, 'tis o'er!

That voice is silent which had been thy harp,

Quickening thy footsteps nightly toward thy home,

Mingling, perchance, an echo all too deep

Even with thy temple worship, when the soul

Should deal with God alone.

Breaketh the trance of grief?

What stranger-step

Whose radiant brow

In meekness and in majesty doth bend
Beside the bed of death?

"She doth but sleep,

The damsel is not dead."

A smoothered hiss,

Contemptuous, rises from that wondering band,

Who beat the breast, and raise the licensed wail

Of Judah's mourning.

Look upon the dead!

Heaves not the winding-sheet? Those trembling lids,
What peers between their fringes, like the tint
Of dewy violet? The blanched lips dispart,
And what a quivering long-drawn sigh restores
Their rose-leaf beauty. Lo, that clay-cold hand
Doth clasp the Master's, and with sudden spring
That shrouded sleeper, like a timid fawn,
Hides in her mother's bosom. Faith's strong root
Was in the parent's spirit, and its fruit

How beautiful!

O mother! who dost gaze

Upon thy daughter, in that deeper sleep

Which threats the soul's salvation, breathe her name
To thy Redeemer's ear, both when she smiles

In all her glowing beauty on the morn,
Or when at night her clustering tresses sweep
Her downy pillow, in the trance of dreams,
Or when at pleasure's beckoning she goes forth,
Or to the meshes of an earthly love

Yields her young heart, be eloquent for her,
Take no denial, till the gracious hand

Which raised the ruler's dead, give life to her,

That better life, whose power surmounts the tomb.

Hartford, Connecticut.