THE ASTROLOGER.

A TALE OF GRENADA.

"TANGLED the web which fate is weaving, Perplexing still and still deceiving,

Who can the future know?

Scarce from the past a ray is given,

Scarce through its clouds a beam has striven, To light the path we go.

"Seek we to pierce what lies before us, Alas, no art can then restore us

To hours devoid of strife;

Vain shadows, from the future, blending

With scenes our present path attending,
Start into fearful life.

"Then give to us the present pleasure,
We prize it as a richer treasure
Than wisdom from the past;
Brighter the halo that surrounds it,
Fairer the flow'ry wreath that bounds it,
Than shadows forward cast."

Then turned he, and the taper's ray
Fell not on locks now thin and gray;
And though the lines of thought were
traced,

Age on his brow no signet placed;
In his full veins the tide was rushing
From a strong heart in fullness gushing;
And Osmail's form a model seemed
Of what the ancient sculptors dreamed.
No prouder name than his was placed
'Mid those who chivalry had graced,
His lance the foremost in the field,
His banner last the ground to yield.
In peace no gentler look was bent
On those whose breasts misfortune rent,
And the dark eyes of ladies fair
In glances said "is Osmail there?"
Yet oft apart from all he drew,

And none his cause of absence knew,
None deemed that he, the young, the
gay,

The wand of power could freely sway;
That he from glance of maiden's eye
To this lone tower would gladly hie,
And read the cabalistic lore

With meteor brightness fiercely glowed,
Scarce Osmail's eye could brook the sight
Of the dread future clothed in light.
To black despair that heart was given
Which long in agony had striven;
For Osmail saw the coming woes
In deepest night round Moslem close.
He saw Grenada's dreaded fall,
The cross upon her bloody wall,
Then came long years of pain and an-
guish,

When reft of hope the faithful languish,
Slaves on the self-same holy soil
Their sires had won with blood and toil.
O God! now gleams the baleful fire
Lit up by priests' accursed ire,
Grenada's sons to dungeons driven,
No more behold the light of heaven,
Her daughters weep their kindred's fall,
Yet wish it were the lot of all.
The feeble remnants that remain,
Hunted from every verdant plain,
Find in the mountain's deepest caves
Destruction's banner o'er them waves.
They're past-no more in silver light

That erst such wondrous influence bore. Shall crescent gleam on Vega bright,

His last sad glance the Moor has taken,
The dearest spot on earth forsaken.

Still Osmail looked with burning hate
For vengeance which on Spain should
wait;

But wider yet her banner flew ;
A new world bursts upon her view,
Where bleeding hearts in millions told
The Spaniard's cruel thirst of gold.
Cortez he saw with scornful pride,
Exulting o'er an empire ride;
Pizarro in a lordly hall,
The meanest, vilest Christian slave
While at his feet its princes fall;
Higher than those who sceptres wave.
Still, still in distant east and west
Fortune seemed bound to Spain's behest,
Gonsalvo's arms with glory crowned,
And vict'ry to his chariot bound,
Till Spain the highest place had gained,
Before scarce 'mid the nations named.
O blanched was Osmail's lip of pride,
Gone was that firm and haughty stride,
E'en in despair with hatred burning,

See him from that bright pageant turning, The wasted bones from charnel rise,

When lo! a maiden's plaintive wail

The flowing robe, the life-like air,

Is borne upon the midnight gale.

All that is outward passing fair,
But of the thin disguise bereft,

"They are gone, they are gone; the light|Nothing save loathsome death is left.

The portents of that coming fate,

of to-morrow Will dawn on Grenada in sadness and Might satisfy a Moslem's hate, And Osmail gloated on the sight

gloom, But alas who can know the depth of my Of Spanish glory sunk in night. sorrow, Back from each conquest she had made, The last whom I loved is now sunk in In their own blood her soldiers wade, the tomb. The riches that her coffers prest Are turned to canker in her breast,

My brother! in hope but this morning we Or wasted with her blood in toils,
parted,
Where others reaped the victor's spoils.
Thine eye was unquenched, and thy Her people once so free and proud,

step it was firm,

Though the unbidden tear from its recess was started,

I dreamed not but thou wouldst in glory return.

Now to the papal crosier bowed,
The light on other nations breaking.
Seems more and more her land forsaking,
Religion, science, freedom, law,

Their last faint glim'ring rays withdraw,
Or gleam with a malignant light,

And O, though I feared, yet the thought Worse than the deepest gloom of night.

of thy dying,

The pageant ceased; nor more the spell

My Hamet, scarce entered one moment Could of the distant future tell.

my breast,

But I saw o'er the plain thy comrades

were flying,

"Enough! enough!" was Osmail's cry,
Avenged, I care not now to die.
Nobly within these ruined walls

And thy undaunted valor it told me the We'll battle till Grenada falls;

rest.

The cold damps of death on your fore

heads are resting,

As on the red ground together ye lie, Around you a part of that tide ye were breasting,

And never shall our fated state
In suppliant guise on Spaniard wait-
With our own swords we'll dig her grave,
When these no more have power to save."

But hark! beyond the castle walls
Grenada's trump on Osmail calls;

For ye cared not to live and ye feared No more with its exulting pride
not to die.

That sound shall Christian hosts deride;
No more shall call to warlike deed,

O Allah, give ear to the prayer that is Declare no more the victor's meed. swelling In sadness Osmail heard the blast, From a heart in its anguish now ceas- For well he knew it was the last; ing to beat, Yet following at the herald's call, Let a full tide of woe thy red vengeance Full soon he reached Alhambra's hall. telling, O where was now that lordly crowdAge after age on our enemies sweep." Where was the welcome clear and loud,

O how did Osmail's throbbing breast
Second the maiden's last request;
Lo! as in answer to the prayer,
Changed was the gorgeous vision there.
It seemed as when in beauty's guise

The greeting, such as chieftains give?
Alas! but few, how few now live!

Around he glanced on visage pale-
He listened to the stifled wail;
"What do we here," was Osmail's cry,

"Have ye resolved to do or die?
Say, does the blood of brothers slain
Quicken afresh each throbbing vein?
Feel ye that now it rests on you,
Weak though ye be, a wasted few,
Vengeance for fallen sons to take,
And your own hate in blood to slake?
Needs there my voice to fire your zeal
For glory and your country's weal?"
None answered; and with downcast look
Not one would Osmail's fire glance brook.
Then as in death there burst from all,
"Allah has willed Grenada's fall!
Long have we with the Christian striven,
Our blood and treasure freely given;
But who can stop the swelling tide
Of Ocean in his power and pride?
Who the red lightning can restrain?
Who cap the mountain's bursting flame?
As well do this, as save the name
The fates have doomed to wo and shame.
Osmail, seek thou the Spaniard's tent-
Tell him thy king by thee has sent
To own him as his sovereign lord-
Add thou each well befitting word."
"And think ye me a recreant knave,
Or take me for a coward slave?
By Allah, no! my knee ne'er bends,
Nor e'er by me Grenada sends
Submission to our haughty foe:
Better to drink the dregs of woe-
Better that on us now should fall
The dome of this ancestral hall.
Deem ye their hearts in danger feared,
Who this proud palace for us reared?
What! dare ye with their ghosts around,
To yield this spot of sacred ground?
Think on that superhuman power,
That instant may our foemen cower;
Think on the strength of desperate men,
O, for your country strike again."

Silent they sat all sad and stern,
Hopeless and to their purpose firm.
As well the maiden's breath might melt
The frosts by hoary Atlas felt,
As man, with words of empty air,
Rouse from this utter, black despair.

This Osmail saw-"I go," said he,

"I

go, as I have lived, the free;
My message to the Spaniard given
Shall be my lance through corslet driven.
The only words that I shall bring,
My falchion on his helm shall ring.
Seek other messengers to bear
The diadem your king should wear;
Others to say we e'er shall yield,
Except in death on battle field.
Yet know, in vain ye turn aside
A moment more the sweeping tide,
'Twill come at last with deadlier power,
Nor wilt avail ye meanly cower.
Ye have your choice, your loved to mourn,
From
your fond bosoms fiercely torn;
Ye have your choice, to waste away
By slow and torturing decay;
Yes, ye may choose to die like slaves,-—
Or fill up honored, patriot graves."

He turned, and soon was heard the sound
Of charger speeding o'er the ground.
Grenada's gates were open thrown,
The draw-bridge fell with clanging tone,
But onward, onward, still he flew,
And never bridle rein he drew-
Onward, but lo! yon serried band
By Zenel's banks call loudly, stand!
The moon's pale light around is stream-
ing,

On polished helm and breastplate gleam-
ing;

He marks the foremost foeman's breast,
His lance is settled in its rest-
A moment, and with spouting gore
That foeman to the ground he bore.
Then gleamed aloft his falchion bright,
Then closed around the deadly fight;
He shunned not one of thousand blows,
And fiercer from each wound arose;
While round him slaughtered foemen lie,
Deathless his hate, he scarce could die.
At length he fell-yet e'en in death
Not 'neath his foes sped Osmail's breath ;
For Zenel's darkly flowing tide
Closed o'er the warrior of her pride.

H.

DULL PAPERS FROM THE DULL PORTFOLIO OF A DULL MAN.

No. 1.

ON THE READING O F BOOKS.

THERE is not a more miserable habit among young men, than that of reading many books. There is often a vanity on this subject, and persons will forego the real treasures of a worthy volume for the foolish distinction of knowing many books by

name.

If the true object of reading were to see how many pages, no matter as to the quality, a man could run over in so many hours, perhaps it would be well to give up all thought in the making of books, since in this way such readers might find themselves relieved of a burden. Thought, with such, is merely secondary, or of no account; and its presence might occasion them, in their hurry, sometimes a serious inconvenience.

We are of opinion, now, that there is a much higher object to be gained in the reading of books, than any acquaintance with their prefaces and title-pages. There is a method, as we think, whereby the mind is fed; where what is read becomes, by an assimilating process, ours; and we are made to feel that each successive book that passes our hands has perhaps blessed usblessed us by opening new ranges of thought, giving us glimpses of fair fields of truth hitherto unknown to us, and setting us higher in the scale of being. There is a pleasure in such reading, that which does not debase while it gratifies, and we feel ourselves won away by it from the coarser allurements of life.

We think a man should read a book with some feeling of re-. sponsibility. Why it is that responsibility should be attached to other equally unimportant (so esteemed) acts, and yet there be none here, we cannot understand. If the results of an act were the test of its quality, we know of few things that would sooner rise into importance, than the way in which men think best to run through a volume. Here is that which is forming the soul! This stream, which is running through the mind, will either wear into it, or it will deposit something in its course! It cannot leave the mind in the condition in which it finds it! Now if this is so, ought not a man to feel he is doing something else than just "giving time a shove," when he reads a book? Would not such a feeling, truly pervading the mind, have some beneficial influence on our choice of books? Would it not, if held as a truth, sweep a mighty current of trash from the shelves of booksellers, and leave us a little more of that which smacks of the "wells of English undefiled?"