Again the moments shall she bring,

When youth was in its freshest prime; We'll pluck the roses that shall spring

Upon the grave of buried Time. There's magic in the olden song ;

Yea, e'en ecstatic are the tears Which steal adown our smiles among, Roused by the sounds of other years.

And as the mariner can find
Wild pleasure in the voiced roar,
Even in the often-dreaded wind,

That wrecked his every hope before ;
If there's a pang that lurks beneath-

For youth had pangs-oh! let it rise! 'Tis sweet to feel the poet breathe

The spirit of our former sighs. ;

We'll hear the strains we heard so oft,

In life's first, warm, impassioned hours, That fell on our young hearts as oft

As summer dews on summer flowers! And as the stream where'er it hies,

Steals something in its purest flow,' Those strains shall taste of ecstasies O'er which they floated long ago.

Even in our morn, when fancy's eye

Glanc'd, sparkling o'er a world of bliss, When joy was young and hope was high,

We could not feel much more than this; Howe'er, then, time our day devours,

Why should our smiles be overcast? Why should we grieve for fleeting hours? We find a future in the past.

THE DEATH OF KING SEBASTIAN.

THE following historical extract is translated from the very rare Portuguese chronicles of Hieronimo Meudoça, an eye-witness of the events, and in substance is confirmed by the author.

Sebastian, king of Portugal, possessed a mind full of ardour and enthusiasm. The African war was one of religion and chivalry, but at that period, a po litical excuse was necessary to render it more inviting; nevertheless, we find Sebastian determined to enter upon the war, contrary to the wise councils of Osorio, and other of his ministers, who clearly predicted the fatal result of such an unequal contest.

Muley Mahommed, king of Morocco, was a tyrant, abhorred by his subjects, by whom he had been dethroned, or rather by his uncle, Muley Moluch, who disputed its possession. The young Christian king took the latter's part, in consideration of a considerable tribute to be paid him in the event of success. Sebastian departed for Africa in 1578, with twelve thousand Portuguese and Spanish troops, four thousand foreign allies, about one thousand adventurers of every country, and a numerous suite of followers whose only object was plunder.

Muley Moluch encountered the Christians at the head of eighty thousand horse, and twenty thousand infantry. This immense army was drawn up in the form of a crescent, in the neighbourhood of Alcaçar Kebir, not far from the river Lucos. Notwithstanding the immense disparity of force, the Portuguese at the onset obtained a considerable advantage, but in the midst of this dawning success, a shout was raised-" All is lost!-Retreat-Fly !”

"Fly!" exclaimed Rodriguez de Sa, "Fly! my horse does not know how to back." Springing into the enemies' ranks, his death animated the courage of his countrymen.

Muley Moluch, seeing the disadvantage of the strategy, and being mortally wounded, died in the arms of a Portuguese renegade, named Hamet Zaba, who secretly conveyed the body to his litter, transmitting the orders he appeared to receive from thence to the army. Soon the valiant captain Perez de Zavora fell dead in the midst of his soldiers, and the rout of the Christians commenced; at this moment prodigies of individual valour were performed, but in vain. The king seeing the day lost, and his hopes blighted, determined npon seeking death on the field of battle, in spite of the wishes of his captains who surrounded him, and urged him, while in time, to seek safety in flight. But Sebastian, pointing out the banner of Portugal, exclaimed, "Let us surround it, and fall with it "

Oct. 1845.

Z

After the fatal result of the battle of Acaçar Kebir, at which the glory of the Portuguese army was tarnished, the disaster appeared so great at Lisbon, that for some time it was not credited by a people hitherto only accustomed to victory. The poet Camoens, while dying in a hospital, forgot his own sufferings, and blended them in his generous feelings for those of his country, which he was no longer able to defend by his sword, or mourn over with his pen. "At least I die with her," were the last words Camoens uttered before his death. We will, after this slight sketch of the facts, proceed in the literal words of our ancient author:

On the very day of the battle of Alcaçar, Sebastian de Resendo, page of the chamber of the king, passing into slavery through this multitude to the dead bodies of friends and foes, lying naked,--for they were stripped by their conquerors,-beheld of the number the body of the king, whose servant he had been. He was then forced to shed an abundance of tears, for he could not avoid it; and he fixed well in his remembrance the spot of this sorrowful scene. The next day morning, having rendered an account of what he had seen to other gentlemen, it appeared to them that they should tell the scherif not to let the royal body remain without sepulture. At the same time they sent a message to that prince, and he ordered two Moors, accompanied by Resende, to seek the dead body. It was found in the place indicated. Resende then contemplated the royal body, so full of beauty; he bathed it with his tears, then taking off his shirt, covered it, and having found on the field of battle, the king's drawers, which the conquerors had disdained carrying away, he also put them on the body. He then placed it on a horse, and it was conducted to the scheriff's tent.

Oh, wretched life! fading hopes! The picture of human presumption ! Those who the previous day had seen a young king, both so much loved and so much feared,-the lord of an opulent kingdom, mounted on a superb horse, trampling under foot an enemy's soil, in full security in the midst of his vassals, entirely surrounded by sparkling arms, and pure love,-those behold now him fastened to a bad horse, by a cord-covered with blood and earth;-the face, deformed by the agony of death, above all, on account of a wound he had received on the head; another beneath the right arm was to be seen, which appeared to have been made by a zagay, (barbed dart.)

Certes, there is great need of the help of heaven, that a poor human understanding should be humiliated before the incomprehensible decrees of Divine Providence, on beholding in a single moment the honour of the Portuguese arms, the hopes of a valorous king, the protector of so many other menthus grovelling in the dust.

When the body arrived before the gentlemen who were present at the