He dar'd not meet her innocent fond look,
His only one, whom he had lov'd so well-
And still how dear she was, the pang that shook
His aged bosom, to his child could tell.-
O'er the doom'd girl he hung in agony,
And strove the fatal secret to unfold;
Turn'd the pale victim from his pitying eye,
'Ere half the tale of misery could be told;
Enough to know that she must learn to bear,
The ever-changing torments of despair.
The morning came-the last eventful morn;
The Priests stood ready for the sacrifice;
Which from all earthly feelings must be torn,
Of superstition's vow to pay the price-
They call'd her from her couch her cheek was wet
With recent tears-she turn'd and knelt a while
In earnest prayer-and then her handmaids met
With a clear brow, and, her triumphant smile
Show'd strange, for a young heart so rudely crost;
Had she the mem'ry of her sorrow lost,
Won by the glittering vanities around?-
So deem'd her maidens, and with joyful haste
The costly ornaments upon her bound;-
And added to her beauty gems and gold.
The cestus that enclos'd her slender waist
Was a King's gift, and th' Abencerrage old
Had left it as a dower to a fair bride,
Who once within these halls had kept her state;
And many a lovely one in nuptial pride
Had worn it since that day. Alas, her fate
Who wears it now! the lost!-the desolate !
Vow'd to a living tomb!-her sweeping hair,
As darkly lustrous as the raven's wing,
Was woven in with gems-the diamond there
Shone like a star from heaven wandering,
Lur'd by a face so fair;-the ruby flung
Its flood of crimson light, and richly hung
The gleaming amethyst, with wanton twine,
Like ripen'd clusters of the purple vine.
Then o'er her form fell the white shadowy veil,
Light as a floating mist-but, oh! more pale
Was the soft cheek its snowy foldings hid:
Still, statue-like, became her lovely face;
And in her silent eye there was no trace
Of suffering, when she rais'd its drooping lid.
Before the holy shrine at last she stood,
'Mid flowers, and incense, and rich minstrelsy;
The white-rob'd priest flung the bright censers high,
And melody swell'd round them like a flood:
Around were rang'd the beautiful, the young,
And a deep silence chain'd up ev'ry tongue :
The rites began when echoing thro' the aisle
A sudden tumult spread, till the old pile
Was ringing with the tread of armed men :
On to the altar sprang the daring chief,
And seiz'd the bride of heav'n-desp'rate and brief
The struggle-sank she in his arms-and, then,
He bore her thro' the horror-stricken throng.-
Tumultuously his followers broke along
Through the thick crowd that his retreat oppose,
A passage for their chief:-around them close
The saintly numbers-but it was in vain :
Unarm'd, defenceless, how might they restrain
The daring sacrilege?—an instant more
And the fierce band bore their fair prize away;
Clos'd were the glories of that solemn day;---
The pageant, and the melody were o'er.
That spoiler was Guevara: when he saw
His only hope, by a remorseless law,
Wrested from his fond arms-he hied away
To the old mountain fastnesses, and there
His burning tale of outrage and despair
Wrought on the wild Guerillas:-'twas the time
When France was ravaging the fated clime,
The mountaineers, active, and brave, and free,
A leader needed; one whose mind should be
Prompt to direct, and steadfast in command-
One, whose already well-instructed hand
Would strike for Liberty no useless blow,
And lay the spoilers of his country low:
That leader seem'd Guevara-his high name
Was foremost on the blazon'd scroll of fame;
Were he their chief, Freedom were their's again:
He vow'd him to the band-their present aid,
From worse than death to snatch his own lov'd maid,
Should be his guerdon-over hill and plain
Swift as the wind he led the willing train,-
But one hour more their haste had been in vain.
Fled they unto the mountains: hot pursuit
Allow'd them not an instant to recruit
Their toil-worn frames ;-nor could they rashly hope
With the offended church's power to cope.-
They gain'd at last a shelter-forc'd their way
Through the thick masses of entangling weed,
To a dim cavern, where the noontide ray
Hath never reach'd, nor living creatures feed;
A meagre bat clung to the marble wall
That died of famine-a tired vulture there
Uprear'd his flagging wing and soar'd away,
And a gaunt wolf rushed fiercely from his lair;
'Twas like a place accursed; shunn'd of all;
But stooping through the dark and narrow porch
Each mountaineer kindled his pine-wood torch,
Then burst at once upon the startled sense,
Such whelming glory and magnificence,
That jewell'd palaces in Eastern land,
Founded by Genii, or Enchanter's wand,
Were nought to the great work of nature's hand
In this vast mountain-palace: the strain'd sight
Essay'd in vain to reach the vaulted height
Of the far-arching roof: the quiv'ring light
Played gloriously on gemmed stalactite;
And human voices swell'd like the full tone
Of deep cathedral organ-rolling round
An echoing continuity of sound.
Nor wanted gorgeous shrine, nor kingly throne,
Column, nor sculptur'd frieze, nor capital;
Nor crystal lustres, nor adornment small,
Of leaf and flower, wrought in rich tracery
Along the marble walls; and far away,
Far as the eye could stretch, a river lay
Rolling its sullen flood eternally-
There amid blazing torches flashing high,
Young Inez plighted her eternal vow;
Their fears, their perils all forgotten now,
Why did they not in that blest moment die?—
A wand'ring life was theirs-hunted, pursued,
Driven 'mong savage things their lives to spend ;
Yet seem'd each wild and desart solitude
A lov'd retreat, where their rapt souls could blend,
And the whole world to their delighted eyes,
Glow'd with the fadeless hues of Paradise.
One evening found them in a lonely dell,
The circling mountains, with a gradual swell,
To hide it, rear'd their dark heads to the sky,
And many a rill came flowing silently
Down from the summits, where the cedars stood
With outspread plumes the monarchs of the wood-
And then the white rills met, and gently took
Their pleasant way along the grassy vale,
Scattering freshness-while the light winds shook
Rich fragrance from the lemon blossoms pale.
And song of bird was there-and fruit and flowers,
In rich profusion, as if vernal showers
Had started into life-or heaven's proud bow
Had pour'd its many colour'd hues below.
The eve was soft and balmy-but the day
Had been a blaze of sunshine-'neath its ray
Inez was drooping like a languid flower.
Guevara mark'd with anguish ev'ry hour
How the quick lustre of her eye grew dim;
Ne'er brighten'd it, save when it glanc'd on him.
Her cheek grew purer white--her step more weak---
Yet, when of her declining he would speak,
She smil'd to bid his anxious fears depart,-
But could not still the bodings of his heart.
She knelt down meekly in the soft moonlight,
As beautiful as is the sculptur'd stone,
One of those sweet creations fair and bright,
That give an immortality alone
To the proud land in which they have their birth.
She knelt so calmly there, all grief or mirth
Seem'd faded from her heart: she was too blest,
Too happy in this soft and quiet nest
To have a thought of joy--breathings of prayer
Were murm'ring on her lips-but still his name
Mix'd with each liquid accent as it came,
As if to love him were her only care.-
And now, she bade him bless her--and her eye
Sparkled again with light, and life, and love;
And he could mark, by the pure light above,
The crimson tints that just would come and die,
Upon her lovely cheek--and with new hope,
He drew his only treasure to his breast,
And with soft whispers hush'd her into rest.
Yet, ere she slept, she utter'd some fond word-
His name it might be---but he scarcely heard
The faint low breath: great weariness had chain'd
His ev'ry sense, and he for hours remain'd
In heavy slumber when he did awake
He started at the cold and icy chill
Of the dear lips, to which his own he prest---
There was no heaving of the snowy breast;
The heart that lov'd so well was dead and still--
Gone sweetly in his cradling arms to rest,
His own pale beauty lay :--he dar'd not think,
He was so very lost-oh! on the brink
Of desolation, how we pause, and shrink
From the full perfect knowledge of our woe,
And try to cheat the soul that 'tis not so--
And labour like a troubled dream to chase
The frightful truth--but the sad pallid face,
The melancholy eyes half-opened,
The parted lips that have lost all their red,
The waxen hand, rigid, and still, and cold,
The shrine that did the living spirit hold,
Turning to loathsomeness and dull decay,--
Oh! these are truths we may not gaze away!
He was alone---weary and spent with grief--
Yet sought he not for his worn frame relief:
And the sun rose and set, and rose again,
But there he kept, albeit he knew 'twas vain:
True to the last-holding the quiet dead
Close to his heart in fond and firm embrace.
And, if a sunbeam touch'd her changing face,
He started suddenly, and then would place
With tender care his mantle o'er her head:
And often would he lift her raven curls
And kiss them fondly--or on her dim cheek
Press his hot lips---and then would softly speak
In griefs worst madness :---but this pass'd away:
And then it grew a terror and a fear
To look upon the late so lovely clay.-
He shriek'd aloud---but there were none to hear, Save the small creatures of the solitude,
And they fled frighted by his dreary mood.
Now felt he his despair's impiety,
Wronging the dead of its sole claim---a tomb;
A hiding place, even from love's fond eye,
Where the dire change shall pass in awful gloom.
Oh! that drear change--beauty, and youth, and bloom,
We dare not muse upon your fearful doom---
We dare not trace ye to the silent grave,
And think, how all we love day after day
Is losing its distinctness---soon to be,
The common parent of the flower and tree.
Sadly and silently he turn'd away,
With shudd'ring chill from the dim look of death---
What felt he, when he saw with shorten'd breath
A vulture hov'ring in the middle air!
God! how he rais'd him from his heart's despair---
And with his bleeding hands tore up the soil,
While his veins curdled as the foul bird flew
In less'ning circles, and still nearer drew.
At length, 'twas done and with a dizzy brain,
He paus'd an instant from his madd'ning toil--
Yawn'd the dark grave-he dar'd not look again,
Nor pause--nor think---he groan'd one anguish'd pray'r,
Sever'd a ringlet of the glossy hair,
And--all was past--the fresh green sod was spread---
His bride-his beautiful was with the dead!
SKETCHES OF THE IRISH COURTS.
"DOES the Chief sit at Nisi Prius to-day?" is anxiously asked by every lover of judicial drollery, and dry sarcastic humour. The appearance of his lordship's fashionable register, Mr. Carew O'Grady, is hailed as a favourable omen; and the invariable consequence of his official announcement of the Lord Chief Baron, is a crowded court. This cannot be considered surprising, when it is remembered, that the merriment of the Common Pleas, long the powerful rival of the Exchequer, has been for ever silenced by the removal of the punning Norbury, and the appointment of the grave Lord Plunkett as his successor. Chief Baron O'Grady exhibits a striking contrast to each of these noble peers; and yet, in some measure, combines in his person the distinguishing peculiarities of both: he possesses the masculine understanding of Lord Plunkett, the humour of Lord Norbury, joined with an ironical turn of disposition, and bitterness of wit, entirely his own. A person, but indifferently skilled in the art of physiognomy, might, from his countenance, form a tolerably accurate judgment as to his temper and character: there is nothing pleasing or graceful in his appearance; a sardonic sneer generally plays about his lips, indicative of a scornful disposition; and, while expressing his opinion, which he does in a churlish strain, the tone of his voice, dry and measured, and somewhat tinctured with the
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