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" I lost a damsel in that hour, 6 Of all the land the loveliest flower ; “ Doubloons a hundred I would pay, “ And think her ransom cheap that day."

Wo is me, Alhama !

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And as these things the old Moor said,
They severed from the trunk his head,
And to the Alhambra's wall with speed
'Twas carried, as the King decreed.

Wo is me, Alhama!


miss And men and infants therein weep

andard Their loss, so heavy and so deep ; Granada's ladies, all she rears Within her walls, burst into tears.?

Wo is me, Alhama !


And from the windows o'er the walls
The sable web of mourning falls ;
The King weeps as a woman o'er
His loss, for it is much and sore.

Wo is me, Alhama !



Sonetto composto in nome di un genitore, a cui era morta poco innanz

una figlia appena maritata ; è diretto al genitore della sacra sposa.

Di due vaghe donzelle, oneste, accorte

Lieti e miseri padri il ciel ne feo,
Il ciel, che degne di più nobil sorte

L'una e l'altra veggendo, ambo chiedeo.
La mia fu tolta da veloce morte

A le fumanti tede d'imeneo :
La tua, Francesco, in sugellate porte
Eterna prigioniera or si rendeo.
Ma tu almeno potrai da la gelosa

Irremeabil soglia, ove s'asconde,

La sua tenera udir voce pietosa.
so verso un fiume d'amarissim'onda,

Corro a quel marmo, in cui la figlia or posa,
Batto, e ribatto, ma nessun risponde.



Soonet composed in the name of a father whose daughter bad recently

died shortly after her marriage; and addressed to the father of her who had lately taken the veil.

Of two fair virgins, modest, though admired,

Heaven made us happy; and now, wretched sires,

Heaven for a nobler doom their worth desires,
And gazing upon either, both required.
Mine, while the torch of Hymen newly fired

Becomes extinguished, soon—too soon-expires :
But thine, within the closing grate retired,

Eternal captive, to her God aspires.
But thou at least from out the jealous door,

Which shuts between your never-meeting eyes,

May'st hear her sweet and pious voice once more : I to the marble, where my daughter lies,

Rush,—the swoln flood of bitterness I pour,
And knock, and knock, and knock-but none replies.

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Slow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run,
Along Morea's hills the setting sun;
Not, as in the northern climes, obscurely bright,
But one unclouded blaze of living light;
O’er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws,
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows;
On old Ægina's rock and Idra's isle,
The God of gladness sheds his parting smile.
O'er his own regions lingering loves to shine,
Though there his altars are no more divine.
Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss
Thy glorious gulf, unconquered Salamis !
Their azure arches, through the long expanse,
More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance,
And tenderest tints along their summits driven
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of Heaven!
Till darkly shaded from the land and deep,
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.
On such an eve, his palest beam he cast
When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last!
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray
That clos'd their murder'd sage's latest day!
Not yet-not yet-Sol pauses on the hill,
The precious hour of parting lingers still;
But sad his light to agonizing eyes,
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes.

Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour,
The land where Phæbus never frown'd before;
But ere he sunk beneath Cithæron's head,
The cup of wo was quaff’dthe spirit fled;
The soul of him who scorn'd to fear or fly,
Who liv'd and died as none can live or die.

But lo! from high Hymettus to the plain
The Queen of Night asserts her silent reign ;**
No murky vapour, herald of the storm,
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing form:
With cornice glimmering as the moon beams play--
There the white column greets her grateful ray,
And bright around with quivering beams beset,
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret.

groves of olive, scatter'd dark and wide,
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide,
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque;
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk,t
And sad and sombre 'mid the holy calm,
Near Theseus' fame, yon solitary palm;
All ting'd with varied hues arrest the eye,
And dull were his that pass’d them heedless by.
Again the Ægean, heard no more afar,
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war;

*The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country The days in winter are longer, but in summer of less duration.

| The kiosk is a Turkish summer-bouse--the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes---Cephisus's stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all.

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