prince," said he, "forget thy sorrows; and may our friendship hereafter console thee for reverses, against which thou hast contended as a hero and a king-resisting man, but resigned at length to God."

Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter but unintentional mockery of compliment. He bowed his head, and remained a moment silent; then motioning to his train, four of his officers approached, and, kneeling beside Ferdinand, proffered to him, upon a silver buckler, the keys of the city. "O king!" then said Boabdil, "accept the keys of the last hold which has resisted the arms of Spain! The empire of the Moslem is no more. Thine are the city and the people of Granada; yielding to thy prowess, they yet confide in thy mercy." "They do well,” said the king; "our promises shall not be broken. But since we know the gallantry of Moorish cavaliers, not to us, but to gentler hands, shall the keys of Granada be surrendered."

Thus saying, Ferdinand gave the keys to Isabel, who would have addressed some soothing flatteries to Boabdil, but the emotion and excitement were too much for her compassionate heart, heroine and queen though she was; and when she lifted her eyes upon the calm and pale features of the fallen monarch, the tears gushed from them irresistibly, and her voice died in murmurs. A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil, and there was a momentary pause of embarrassment, which the Moor was the first to break.

"Fair queen," said he, with mournful and pathetic dignity, "thou canst read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues; this is thy last, nor least glorious conquest. But I detain ye; let not my aspect cloud your triumph. Suffer me to say farewell." "Farewell, my brother," replied Ferdinand, "and may fair fortune go with you! Forget the past!" Boabdil smiled bitterly, saluted the royal pair with profound and silent

reverence, and rode slowly on, leaving the army below as he ascended the path that led to his new principality beyond the Alpuxarras. As the trees snatched the Moorish cavalcade from the view of the king, Ferdinand ordered the army to recommence its march; and trumpet and cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslems.

Boabdil spurred on at full speed, till his panting charger halted at the little village where his mother, his slaves, and his faithful wife, Amine-sent on before-awaited him. Joining these, he proceeded without delay upon his melancholy path. They ascended that eminence which is the pass into the Alpuxarras. From its height, the vale, the rivers, the spires, and the towers of Granada broke gloriously upon the view of the little band. They halted mechanically and abruptly; every eye was turned to the beloved scene. The proud shame of baffled warriors, the tender memories of home, of childhood, of fatherland, swelled every heart, and gushed from every eye.

Suddenly the distant boom of artillery broke from the citadel, and rolled along the sunlit valley and crystal river. A universal wail burst from the exiles; it smote, it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred king, in vain seeking to wrap himself in Eastern pride or stoical philosophy. The tears gushed from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands. The band wound slowly on through the solitary defiles; and that place where the king wept is still called The Last Sigh of the Moor.

NOTES.-Granada was the capital of an ancient Moorish kingdom of the same name, in the southeastern part of Spain. The Darro River flows through it, emptying into the Xenil (or Jenil) just outside the city walls. King Ferdinand of Spain drove out the Moors, and captured the city in 1492. Marah. See Exodus xv. 23.

Avila is an episcopal city in Spain, capital of a province of the same name.

The Te Deum is an ancient Christian hymn, composed by St. Ambrose; it is so called from the first Latin words, "Te Deum laudamus," We praise thee, O God.

Mars, in mythology, the god of war.

The Alhambra is the ancient palace of the Moorish kings, at Granada.

Allah is the Mohammedan name for the Supreme Being. Roland was a nephew of Charlemagne, or Charles the Great, emperor of the West and king of France. He was one of the most famous knights of the chivalric romances.

The Alpuxarras is a mountainous region in the old province of Granada, where the Moors were allowed to remain some time after their subjugation by Ferdinand.

XCIV. HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.

To be, or not to be; that is the question:-
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, -to sleep,-
No more: and by a sleep to say we end

The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 't is a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To die, - to sleep:-
To sleep! perchance to dream:-ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns

That patient merit of the unworthy takes,

When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,-
The undiscovered country from whose bourn
No traveler returns, - puzzles the will

And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.

Shakespeare.-Hamlet, Act iii, Scene i.

XCV. GINEVRA.

Samuel Rogers, 1763-1855, was the son of a London banker, and, in company with his father, followed the banking business for some years. He began to write at an early age, and published his "Pleasures of Memory," perhaps his most famous work, in 1792. The next year his father died, leaving him an ample fortune. He now retired from business and established himself in an elegant house in St. James's Place. This house was a place of resort for literary men during fifty years. In 1822 he published his longest poem, "Italy," after which he wrote but little. He wrote with care, spending, as he said, nine years on the "Pleasures of Memory," and sixteen on "Italy." "His writings are remarkable for elegance of diction, purity of taste, and beauty of sentiment." It is said that he was very agreeable in conversation and manners, and benevolent in his disposition; but he was addicted to illnature and satire in some of his criticisms.

IF thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To Modena,-where still religiously

Among her ancient trophies, is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs

Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),

Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,

Will long detain thee; through their arched walks,
Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames such as in old romance,
And lovers such as in heroic song,-

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the springtime, as alone they sate,
Venturing together on a tale of love.
Read only part that day.-A summer sun
Sets ere one half is seen; but, ere thou go,
Enter the house-prithee, forget it not
And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by Zampieri - but by whom I care not.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak,

Her lips half-open, and her finger up,

As though she said, "Beware!" her vest of gold,
Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart,-

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!