W. H. AINSWORTH.

Through the marble court of Lions-through the stately Tocador-
To Lindaraxa's bowers he goes-the Queen he stands before;
Her maidens round his mother group-but not a word she speaks.
In vain amid that lovely throng, one lovelier form he seeks;
In vain he tries 'mid orient eyes, orbs darker far to meet;
No form so light, no eyes so bright, as hers his vision greet.
"Zorayda mine-Zorayda mine! ah! whither art thou fled?"
A low, low wail returns his cry-a wail as for the dead.

No answer made his mother, but her hand gave to her son-
To the garden of the Generalif together are they gone;
Where gushing fountains cool the air-where scents the citron pale,
Where nightingales in concert fond rehearse their love-lorn tale,
Where roses linked with myrtles make green woof against the sky,
Half hidden by their verdant screen a sepulchre doth lie;
"Zorayda mine-Zorayda mine!-ah! wherefore art thou flown,
To gather flowers in Yemen's bowers while I am left alone!"

Upon the ground kneels Yusef-his heart is like to break;
In vain the Queen would comfort him-no comfort will he take,
His blinded gaze he turns upon that sculptured marble fair,
Embossed with gems, and glistening with coloured pebbles rare;
Red stones of Ind--black, vermeil, green, their mingled hues combine.
With jacinth, sapphire, amethyst, and diamond of the mine.
"Zorayda mine-Zorayda mine!"-thus ran sad Yusef's cry,
"Zorayda mine, within this tomb, ah! sweet one! dost thou lie?"

Upon that costly sepulchre, two radiant forms are seen;
In sparkling alabaster carved like crystal in its sheen;
The one as Yusef fashioned, a golden crescent bears,
The other, as Zorayda wrought, a silver crosslet wears,
And ever, as soft zephyr sighs, the pair his breath obey,
And meet within each other's arms like infants in their play.
“Zorayda fair-Zorayda fair”-thus golden letters tell

"A Christian maid lies buried here-by Moslem loved too well."

YUSEF AND ZORAYDA.

Three times those golden letters with grief sad Yusef reads,
To tears and frantic agony a fearful calm succeeds-

"Ah! woe is me; Zorayda mine-ah! would the self-same blow
That laid thee 'neath this mocking tomb, had laid thy lover low;
Two faithful hearts like ours in vain stern death may strive to sever-
A moment more the pang is o'er, the grave unites us ever.
Zorayda mine--Zorayda mine-this dagger sets me free--
Zorayda mine-look down-look down-thus-thus I come to thee!"

"Hold! Yusef, hold!" a voice exclaims, "thy loved Zorayda lives-
Thy constancy is well approved-thy sire his son forgives;
Thine ardent passion doubting long-thy truth I thus have tried,
Behold her whom thy faith hath won-receive her as thy bride!"
In Yusef's arms-to Yusef's heart, Zorayda close is pressed,
Half stifled by a flood of joy, these words escape his breast:-
"Zorayda mine-Zorayda mine!-ah! doubly dear thou art;
Uninterrupted bliss be ours, whom death has failed to part!"

I LOVE! and Love hath given me
Sweet thoughts to heaven akin,

And oped a living Paradise

My heart of hearts within:
O from this Eden of my life
God keep the Serpent Sin!

THE LADY LAURA.

I love! and into Angel-land

With starry glimpses peer!

I drink in beauty like heaven-wine,
When One is smiling near!

And there's a Rainbow round my soul
For every falling tear.

Dear God in heaven! keep without stain
My bosom's brooding Dove:

O clothe it meet for angel-arms,

And give it place above!

For there is nothing from the world
I yearn to take, but Love.

THE LADY LAURA.

IN a grand old Gothic Palace,
The Lady Laura dwells:

It crowns the warm green valleys,
High as the surge of summer swells.

She is the Lily of the land;

Born neither to spin nor toil:

She can rest her fair cheek on her dainty white hand, While the human honey-bees moil.

O the world of rich visions that peer in her eyes! Around her what fantasies dance!

As she leans in her air of paradise,

And the bower of dalliance:

GERALD MASSEY.

But her earnest life is sorrowfully
O'ershadowed from above:

She feels the ache of Life's mystery,
And she feels the hurt of Love.

The Lady Laura's soul is sad

For the suffering under the sun:

She looks on the world, and is only glad
For the duties to be done.

She might have moved by in the pageant grand,
Sweet slip of a lordly line!

Nor soiled the glory of her white hand,

And fairy fingers fine;

And swam in this world's wine and oil,

With those who sink for the next,

Faint with delight and plundered Toil
With no strange thought perplext.

O the burnished stream would have bravely borne
Her, dancing down in its whirl;

And the dark wreck-kingdom have proudly worn.
On its bosom the pure queen-pearl.

But Sorrow hath touched her young, young years,
When their rose-light was smiling and fair;
And her eyes have wept the sharp, sharp tears,
That pierce through all mirage of air,

Ah, the Poor! with her finer sense she hears
How they moan in their cloud of care.
They will tell you down in the valleys
What the Orphan Heiress hath done;

How the grand old Gothic Palace

With Love's new wine doth run.

She is Dawn on the cold hill-tops that divide
The poor from their neighbour Rank;

The first bright wave of a sluggish tide
Hath overleapt its bank.