Monthly Review of Literature. 323 



"But she, for whom through every scene of glory I have mourned, 

 Reposing on whose love and truth with joy I home returned, 

 The loved one of my bosom what more can life avail ? 

 Death is the only boon that waits the knight of Arkendale ! " 



A few brief days, and that old man the warrior's eyes hath closed, 

 And where he first had tasted love in death the chief reposed : 

 Below his mouldering castle,Mown in that lonely vale, 

 He lies. God rest thy weary soul, poor knight of Arkendale! 



THE MOOR'S LAST SIGH. 



ON yon Sierra's loftiest hill, 



That far and wide surveys, 

 \. haggard crowd there stood and still, 



In melancholy gaze ; 



There had they check'd their flight and stayed 

 To look on all behind them laid. 



It was Granada's outcast race 



That halted on that height, 

 Whence their fair city's minaret-blaze 



Bounded the distant sight ; 

 Silent they stood, nor strove to tell 

 The breakings of their hearts' farewell. 



For when that hill above them lowers. 



When crossed those mountains blue. 

 No more shall old Granada's towers 



Greet the poor exiles' views 

 Their latest look on all so dear. 

 Their latest sojourn must be here. 



They knew it well, they knew it well ; 



And full their bosoms grew. 

 As in that lingering farewell 



Th' embitter'd soul they threw, 

 And mute and motionless stood there 

 With the fond firmness of despair. 



They knew it well .; and long they stood 



In agony of love, 

 Yet from their eyes no tear there flowed, 



Nor word for utterance strove 5 

 For mightiest sorrow e'er appears 



Too full for words, "too deep for tears."^ 



They knew it well. At length they turned, 



Their eyes from gazing tore ; 

 Yet still that wish their bosom burned, 



" One look ! oh, one look more 1" 

 One look they gave ere on they passed 

 One soul-breath'd sigh it was their last! 



O sadly memorable place* 



And melancholy hill ! 

 In pity for that outcast race 



The pilgrim's eyes will fill j 

 And his responsive breast heave high, 

 While gazing on "The Moor's Last Sigh." 

 Y<2 



