SPANISH ROMANCE.

Los Moros Vienen.

BY THE REV. GEORGE CROLY.

THERE'S a sound of arrows on the air,-
A sound of the thundering atabal;

I see through the trees the banners glare,——

This eve they shall hang on the christian's wall; And the haughty hands that those banners bore, This eve shall be stiff in their own dark gore.

Then leave me, sweet lady! thy starry eyes
Are made for love, and love alone;
Those glowing lips-are for passion's sighs,

That form!—for the silk and the gold of a throne.— Before the dawning sky is red,

Yon plain shall be heaped with the dying and dead.

Hark! Hark !-'Tis the christian's battle horn!

Behold the red-cross standard wave,

Like a fiery gleam in the opening morn!
The shout is 'glory or the grave!'
Unclasp my hand;-no tears-away!
The Saracen shouts his last to-day.

One kiss, sweet love ;-go pray for Spain—
Light every taper;-pray for him,

Whose soul may on that fatal plain,

But linger for thy parting hymn !—
No.-Be that idle thought forgiven !—
We'll meet in bliss, in earth-or Heaven!
New Times.

THE VISION.

I CALL upon thee in the night,
When none alive are near;
I dream about thee with delight,
And then thou dost appear
Fair as the day-star o'er the hill,
When skies are blue, and all is still.

Thou stand'st before me silently,
The spectre of the past;
The trembling azure of thine eye,
Without a cloud o'ercast,

Calm as the broad and silent deep,

When winds are hushed and waves asleep.

Thou gazest on me!-But thy look

Of angel tenderness,

So pierces, that I less can brook,
Than if it spoke distress;
Or came in anguish here to me,
To tell of evil boding thee!

Around thee robes of snowy white,

With virgin taste, are thrown;
And at thy breast a lily bright,
In beauty scarcely blown;
Calmly thou gazest,-like the moon,
Upon the leafy woods of June.

It is a dream-and thou art gone,
The midnight breezes sigh;
And downcast, sorrowful, alone,
With sinking heart I lie,

To muse on days when thou to me
Wert more than all on earth can be.

O lonely is the lot of him

Whose path is on the earth,

And when his thoughts are dark and dim
Hears only vacant mirth;

A swallow left when all his kind

Have crossed the seas and winged the wind.

The auburn hair is braided soft,

Upon thy snowy brow :

Why dost thou gaze on me so oft?

I cannot follow now !

It would be crime,-a double death-
To follow thy forbidden path.

But let me press that hand again,
I oft have pressed in love,

When sauntering through the grassy plain,

Or summer's evening grove;

Or pausing as we marked afar

The twinkling of the evening star,

Blackwood's Magazine.

THE MICHAELMAS DAISY.

LAST Smile of the departing year,
Thy sister sweets are flown!
Thy pensive wreath is far more dear
From blooming thus alone!

Thy tender blush, thy simple frame,
Unnoticed might have passed;

But now thou com'st, with softer claim,
The loveliest and the last.

Sweet are the charms in thee we find,-
Emblem of Hope's gay wing;

"Tis thine to call past bloom to mind,

To promise future spring.

Literary Gazette.

A

L.

STANZAS

WRITTEN BENEATH A PICTURE.

NAY, reproach me not, sweet one! I still am thine own,
Though the world in its toils hath detained me awhile!
The deep vision that spelled my lone bosom is flown,
And a truant to love-I return to thy smile!
It hath ever been thus,-when condemned or deceived
By the many I scorned-or the few that I loved,-
Whilst I breathed my contempt, or in silentness grieved,
It was bliss to remember whose truth I had proved;
And the falsehood of friends,-the crowd's hollow decree-
Served to bind me more fondly and firmly to thee.

Yes, I still am thine own,-though I sometimes may mingle-
In lightness of spirit-with fools I despise ;

In my heart—my dark heart-dwelling silent and single-
Is the thought of all others, it soothes me to prize.

If I join the loud throng in its madness of mirth,

I but think how much purer our pleasures have been ;— If I gaze on the fair-bosomed daughters of earth,

"Tis to turn to thy beauties-of beauty the Queen! And if from man's dwelling to Nature I flee, Glen-mountain-and ocean-seem breathing of thee.

When a soft soothing glance from the eye of affection
Breaks my midnight of gloom with its halo divine,
How surpassingly sweet is the bright recollection

Of the passionate love ever beaming from thine !— "Twill beam on me no more!-Yet though death has bereft me Of a form such as Seraphs from heaven might adore,

In this image thy features of beauty are left me,
And the lines of thy soul in my heart's core of core'

Then reproach me not, sweet one! for time shall not see
The hour that estranges one deep thought of thee.
Literary Gazette.

A. A. W.