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SWEET Richmond! Like a woodland queen
Sweet Richmond ! In thy terraced grove
The Child, in life's sweet opening day,
All sunshine, beauty, light, and love,
And Manhood marks the magic scene
Then, wandering forth at evening hour,
Shall beam on man, and Richmond Hill!
W. H. M.
A DREAM of saddest beauty: one pale smile
Of broken hearts !-Its oracle but words of doom !
L. E. L.
LADY, if you love to hear
Tales of lofty chivalry, Stealing Beauty's sigh or tear;
List not, lady sweet, to me.
But there is a gentle sight,
Roselike, always born with May, Full of arms and glances bright,
'Tis GRANADA's holyday!
Twilight on the west was sleeping,
Stars were sliding down the sky, Morn upon the hills was peeping
With a blue, half-opening eye.
When a silver trumpet sounded,
And, beside the castle wall, Many a ribboned jennet bounded,
Sparkled many a lance-head tall.
In the plain, balconies proud,
Hung with silk and flowery chain, Like a statued temple, shewed,
Rank o'er rank, the dames of Spain.
Soon the tapestried kettle-drums
Through the distant square were pealing ; Soon was seen the toss of plumes
By the Viceroy's palace wheeling.
Then, before the portal arch,
Every horseman checked the rein, Till the rocket for their march,
Flaming up the sky was seen.
Like a wave of steel and gold,
Swept the lovely pageant on; Many a champion young and bold
Bearing lance and gonfalon.
At their sight arose the roar
From the people gazing round ;Proudly came the squadrons four,
Prancing up the tilting ground.
First they gallop where the screen
With its silken tissue hides Fair Valencia's jewelled Queen,
Helmless every horseman rides !
Round the barrier then they wheel,
Troop by troop, and pair by pair ; Bending low the lance of steel
To the bowing ladies there.
Hark! the trumpet long and loud !
'Tis the signal for the charge !Now with hoofs the earth is ploughed,
Now are clashed the lance and targe.
Light as roe-bucks bound the steeds ;
Sunny bright the armour gleams ; Gallant charge to charge succeeds,
Like the rush of mountain streams !
Noon has come,—the warriors rest,
Each dismounting from his barb; Loosening each his feathery crest,
Weighty sword, and steely garb.
Then are shown the lordly form,
Chesnut locks and eagle eyes, Cheeks with tilting crimson warm,
Lips for lover's perjuries !
As they wander round the plain,
Sparkle cross and collar gemmed, Sparkle knightly star and chain,
On their tunics golden-seamed.
Till again the trumpets play,
And the mail again is worn; And the ring is born away,–
And the Moorman's turban torn.
Closes then the tournament ;
And the noble squadrons four, Proudly to the banquet-tent,
March by Turia's flowery shore.
Lovely as the evening sky,
Ere the golden sun is down, March Granada’s chivalry,
Champions of the Church and Crown!
One still lingered, pale and last,
By the lonely gallery's stair, As if there his soul had past,
Vanished with some stately fair.
Who the knight ?_To few was known.
Who his love ? _He ne'er would tell. But her eyes were_like thine own,
And his heart was,–Oh, Farewell! Blackwood's Magasine.
OPHELIA was the maiden's name,
Only her beauty died;
Nor Flattery to hide.