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V.

He raised the ring-he scanned it well,
And read upon it “
"Isabelle"-
Then from his trembling hand it fell-
And Peace his bosom bade farewell-
Hope never oped her eyes again-
Joy-consolation came in vain.

VI.

There Valiant Knight and Beauty throng
Gay is the dance-and gay the song,
That flows those sumptuous halls along;
Wine sparkles in the golden bowl-
Joy-mirth from every portal roll-
Each tries the most the fête to grace-
Who most can Gamba's grief efface,
That still defies Love's subtlest plea,
And every sound of revelry.

VII.

Few are the words that Gamba speaks,
Few are the pleasures that he seeks,
Fewer the moments that he lends
To Beauty and attendant friends;
No longer with convivial Lord,
He revels o'er the midnight board,-
No longer courts the festive hall,—
But mutely-coldly shrinks from all;
In darkest night he strides the dell,
Where sleeps the dust of Isabelle-
Paces around-and round her tomb-
Strews it with flowers of freshest bloom-
While every pulse rebounds with pain,
And Madness fires soul, heart and brain.
'Twas sad to see the blush of Youth
Give place to hues of sallow ruth;
'Twas sad to see his sunken eye-
"Twas sad to hear the hollow sigh
Escaping from his heart perforce-
But such is ever thy sure work, Remorse!
And Oh! 'twas sadder still to view
Young Leila's cheek assume the hue
Of flowers beneath the Autumn dew!

VIII.

It is the mellow twilight hour-
And Gamba sits in his cool bower,
His pale cheek resting on his hand-
His thoughts afar in Spirit-Land,
Lingering in eternal spell
Around the soul of Isabelle;
Nor heeds the gentle step of her
Who comes his lonely breast to cheer,
The limpid drops that trickle down
Her olive cheek and snowy gown,
'Till smiling through those sainted tears,
She kneeling at his feet appears.

IX.

If ever angels from their spheres
On mortals gaze with pitying tears,
They now look down and weep to see
Their thwarted love and misery-
Loud waft accordant prayers through Heaven
That Peace may to each breast be given.

X.

"Oh, Gamba! why this inward strife ?"
Weeping, she said, "my light, my life!
Why sternly-coldly shrink from me,
As from a hateful enemy?—

What have I done to grieve thy heart?
To cause thy thoughts from me to rove?
Can I no more inspire thy love?
Flown from me all is Beauty's Art?
Than when Heaven sealed our nuptial vow?
Am I less gentle-loving now,
Less truthful-trustful unto thee?
Less happy in thy company?

I've followed thee along the glade,
Where sleeps the Gipsy minstrel maid-
Have watched thee by the brink and stream,
And heard thee murmur in thy dream
'O Isabelle-O Isabelle!'-

And down before the Virgin fell-
And prayed for power my fears to quell !
Oh! dost thou still refuse to wake

The inward woes thy mien declares ?
Wilt thou leave this fond heart to break

Beneath this weight of wasting cares?
I could bear wrong-disgrace and pain-
Life's direst racks of heart and brain-
All other desperate freaks of Fate-
But never, Gamba, brook thy hate!
I've knelt at the confession chair,

Nor solace gained from Priest nor Prayer-
Here kneeling crave to know thy grief-
Oh break, or give this heart relief!
If this is frenzy-be it so,

I cannot conquer all this wo-
This holy Love, that from the first
Burned with a never-quenching thirst;
Nor will I murmur at my fate-
I may, perchance, deserve thy hate;
Yes! if 'tis guilt to win the heart
Of one so dear by any art-
And still to love so pure and well-
Then guilt is mine more black than hell
And this is but just punishment
By righteous Heaven upon me sent!"

XI.

"Leila, my dear-devoted friend,
Being in whom all Virtues blend,
Pardon the pangs thy breast I've given-
For me, Oh! waft thy prayers to Heaven!
I need them much-the peace-the rest
That never more may seek this breast-
This gnawing grief-this deep distress
Is not from any act of thine-
Neither because I prize thee less

Than when Heaven linked thy fate to mine

But Oh! forgive the guilt I'd smother-
This heart was plighted to another
For whom I deemed affection flown,
Before I made thee all mine own-
But I have learned by suffering long
And anguish all for words too strong,
And my sad spirit's ceaseless moan
That we can love, but once-and one-
All other is reflected light-
Such as illumes the Queen of Night.

The minstrel maid whose melody

Three weary years entranced this dell, Was my affianced Isabelle

A daughter of the Tuscan sky-
The fairest maid beneath the sun,
Whose hand I early sought and won-
Upon it placed this glittering token
Of vows that I have basely broken;-
She hither came, poor girl to sigh
Her heart away-near me to die
Unknown to all save the old Friar,
Who bore this ring to me by her desire-
Tidings that brain-heart-soul did fire!

She might have been to Kings allied-
But this forebore to be my bride—
She might have been beloved and cher-
ished-

But for my sake, she pined and perished-
A minstrel poor-on India's shore
Singing for bread from door to door.

Whilom along the Arno's side,
We wandered oft at eventide,
She gazing on the glowing skies,
And I into her laughing eyes;

And there when angels watched above,
I told to her my burning love.
I have no power-no words to tell
How much I loved young Isabelle.
She was the angel of my youth-
The paragon of Love and Truth-
The child of art and minstrelsy--
All light-all loveliness to me.

And Ob! that she should dare the surf-
Repose upon the chilling turf-

Three weary years
In pain and tears

For me, who could betray her trust-
O God! O God! thy wrath is just!

I know not why
Tears filled mine eye,
Whene'er for me she woke her lyre-
Its every tone was fraught with fire,
That made life's sluggish current start,
And boil along my every vein,
Up to the caverns of the brain,
Then left it freezing round my heart.
Ever upon its mournful swell
Came thoughts to me of Isabelle-
Beauty and Love-and Italy-
And of my hideous perfidy.
Mine eyes have hung upon her form,
As held by some unearthly charm;
I've stood beneath the burning sky
And drank her matchless minstrelsy-
Have lain at noon of night and wept,
While through my lattice lone it swept-
Lone as some fallen Spirit's chime-
Sad as the funeral dirge of Time.

Five summers since I sought this land
Despite my Isabelle's command-
Here yielded to thy wealth and beauty
My plighted heart and sacred duty-
And well hath Heaven avenged my sin;
My babes like Autumn flowers have faded,
And passed from earth-my heart hath been
By Hell's consuming fires invaded-

Peace-Pleasure driven from my breast-
And from my haunted pillow Rest.
The flowers she loved and tended much,
Shrink coldly shivering from my touch;
The stars look down upbraidingly;
Even reptiles curse my perfidy-
And all that now, dear Leila, I can crave
Of thee, is prayer, and pardon, and a grave-
Let no one write my history-
Indite no epitaph for me-

My country, name, or wo to tell-
I only crave to rest by Isabelle."

XII.

Pale as a marble statue there
Still Leila knelt with vacant stare;
'Twas as some unexpected dart,
The grave had opened at her feet-
Had instantly transfixed her heart-
From its cold clasp left no retreat.
She passed her hand before her eyes,
Her soul's emotions to disguise,
And to conceal the tears that slid
In silence from each burning lid-
Then faintly said-" in thy despair
Thou hast my pardon-and my prayer;
Arouse thee from this lethargy-
What is the World-Life-Light to me-
Youth, Beauty, Wealth-unshared by thee!
I had a dream in my sweet youth
Of nuptial bliss untouched by ruth,
Such as our own seemed-but 'tis passed-
It was too pure-too heavenly bright to
last!"

XIII.

Little can prayer avail on high,

For those who will and crave to die.
Still day and night he strode the dale-
Still day and night became more pale-
More solemn in his mien and mood-
More wed to grief and solitude;
And ere the leaves of Autumn fell,
They laid him down by Isabelle.

XIV.

Leila had youth and beauty left,
But sudden grief her heart had cleft;
Forth from that melancholy hour,
She Gamba sought in twilight bower,
And heard his trembling lips recite
The tale that turned her heart to night.
She never woke to him her pain,
Or craved to know his grief again;
She never told to friend or foe
Whence came, or how this wasting wo-
None knew the death-chill at her heart,
Save him who planted there the dart-
They only heard her constant sighs,
And miss'd the lustre from her eyes,
And saw her cheek fade hue by hue
As flowers beneath the Autumn dew;
Her words to Gamba still were kind,
And soothing to his ruined mind-
Even in his latest dying hour,
They held o'er him a magic power-
But from that mournful eve they laid
Him down beside the Gipsey maid,

They never saw young Leila more. She could not brook their holy rest While secret sorrow rent her breastShe could not brook the cold world's

sneer

Pride's heartless taunt-and envy's jeer. Time-tide no tidings of her bore, Though her they sought afar and near, O'er sea, and land, and mountain drear, But all who passed those graves at night Saw, by the pale stars' glimmering light, A Lady with long raven hair,

And sea-drenched garments weeping there.

xv.'

There mouldering still their Castle stands,
Like some proud wreck of feudal lands,
To greet the eye of all who stray,
Along the Nieva's blooming way,
Where every vassal in the vale
Can tell its melancholy tale.

The winds are sighing through the halls,
The lizard glistens on the walls-

From roof and rafter spiders dangle,
And weave their webs in every angle-
The ivy through the lattice creeps,
The owl from porch to gallery sweeps―
For ages no less mournful voice
Has bade these lonely walls rejoice.
Who strove to tarry there at night
Fled ere the morning with affright;
Soon as the tapers they withdrew,
The bolts and bars asunder flew,
And pallid spectres glided in,
Their nightly revellings to begin.
The mournful Gipsy Maiden's song,
Beneath the casement flowed along,
The solemn warblings of her lute,
While all to catch its notes were mute.
Then rose upon the trembling air
The broken-hearted Leila's prayer-
The sounds of Gamba's feet as he
Paced to and fro the gallery-
And still 'tis shunned by Lord and vassal-
And called by all the haunted Castle.

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CHALCAHUAL.

IT was evening.-The moon swept in glorious beauty through the clouds in her path, and looked down with an earnest gaze upon the valley of Mexico, as if she, too, loved it—she too, I say-for all elements and kindly influences of Nature seemed to delight in decking it with the rarest beauty and grandeur. Man, also, did his best to enrich it; and from grand old groves of trees and gardens went up toward heaven many a gorgeous structure, while the cities and towns which were set like jewels in its broad expanse, now in the evening hour seemed like glad things with their thousand eyes of light; and upon its waters light canoes glanced along in and out of the wide paths left by the stately floating gardens and innumerable tiny islands, which one might call beautiful freaks of nature, so strangely formed and exquisitely decked with flowers were they. Nor were there wanting things to remind one of the dim, shadowy past; for upon many a high hill were gigantic ruins of massive structures, once the pride of the Soltees, a nation who preceded the Aztecs, and who by famine, pestilence and war, had melted like mist from the land, to give place to the superior race from the north-the Aztecs, who, at the time that I speak of, held sway far and wide, and whose good taste taught them that those old ruins were ornaments to their land.

Upon an eminence which overlooked the city of Mexico, and over which went a cross-road leading from the great southern causeway to the capitol, might have been seen, at the hour I speak of, two litters or palanquins resting upon the shoulders of slaves, while the number of slaves who surrounded them told of the wealth and consequence of their owners. The bodies of the slaves were almost naked, excepting a tunic of white cloth, and bracelets of silver about their arms and ankles, which contrasted well with their dark skins. Thus far their costume was alike, but the different livery worn by them attested to the different households they belonged to, as well as the fact that the many banners they bore displayed two separate designs.

It would have been a strange sight to us of the democratic nation, had we seen the attitude of the slaves as they listened to the commands of their masters, who stood a little apart from them. With arms folded upon their breast, and eyes and head bent toward the ground, they heard their orders, and with faces turned toward them retreated some distance, and then turning, went quickly out of sight. Alpasson's attendants disappeared first, and were followed by those of Chalcahual, with whom we are the most interested. The bright livery of his slaves-the bands of red cotton, embroidered with yellow eagles and white herons, about the neck, the arms, and the tunic, as well as his banners with their golden decorations, and their embroidered device of an eagle bearing an ocelot in his talons, while below this device was one of a white heron, told one acquainted with the Aztecs in their day of pride and power, that he to whom that banner belonged was allied by marriage to the house of Montezuma, as the eagle bearing the ocelot in his talons were the arms of the emperor himself, and used only upon his banner, or, as in this

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instance, coupled with the device of the house of those whom his children had married.

Seeing the proud banner makes us look at its master, and ask if there is aught of the eagle about him? Yes, Chalcahual might well have the eagle for his crest; one could read nobility of heart and soul in his eye; and all the fault we could find in his face was that there might be perhaps a shade too much of sternness about the mouth, that index of character, as the eye is of talent and nobility of soul. The shade was as yet but slight; still one could imagine that as age crept on-if his life-history was not one in which some continuing gentle influence was blent— the shade might deepen and the glory of that soul be dimmed. His dress was that of the every-day costume of the Aztec noble of the time, a tight-fitting mail of quilted white cotton, confined about the neck with a rich collar of jewels, while chains of gold depended from its principal ornaments, and were gathered into the clasp of jewels which confined the wide-spreading sash, keeping in its place the embroidered tunic; upon his shoulders hung a mantle of the far-famed featherwork; about his head was a coronal of gold, while from its left side towered the heron's plume with one eagle feather in their midst, the sign again of connection with the family of Montezuma.

"Well, Chalcahual," said his companion, "you have curbed your impatience finely, and given up your ease and a swift footed progress toward one who waits your coming, that you might heed the wishes of your old uncle, and have a long talk as well as walk before we are lost in yonder great and glorious city. Nay, no need to be ashamed of your blush," he continued, looking smilingly upon the younger man, "no need to be ashamed to long to see the smile of your Lesa. Time was when I should not have heeded the dearest uncle in my haste to show my Minua that she was my heart's love-but she died-she died-and” -he added sadly, "you have been all I have had to love since then, excepting thy memory, Minna! Well-well"-he continued, after a pause, "I shall go to her soon; for these fatigues of war will wear out the old servant of the empire, and the future is full of dread evils which bring war in their train." Leaning upon his spear, the old man looked with gloom in his eye toward the city, while in Chalcahual's face there burned a bright red spot of excitement; but he disturbed not his uncle's meditations, who at last broke the silence with-" How beautiful thou art, Mexico! sitting as thou dost like a queen upon the waters, rejoicing in thy flowers and gardens, thy temples and palaces, thy young men and maidens! My heart burns with love for thee. How often have I welcomed the sight of thy glory, of thy forts and temples afar off, as, returning from some distant campaign, I have looked at thee from the stern rocks which surround the valley of which thou art the jewel of great price. An eagle told our forefathers where thy site should be, and proud and glorious hast thou been; but now thy day of majesty is changing into evening; the splendor of our race must fade as the morning mist; the new and strange race so long predicted have come, and already thy gates have opened to receive them-already the white man is in thy heart to eat it away. Thou hast, alas! but yielded to thy inevitable fate, and gone is the day of the Aztecs! Well is it for the old man that his hair is silver and his strength but weakness: I may be allowed to die, and not see the Aztecs the slaves of these strange and powerful beings."

"Alpasson! Alpasson!" interrupted Chalcahual, whose customary deference yielded to the intensity of his feelings'-' Is it Alpasson, the great

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