The embassy had returned the preceding day, but it was the Spanish embassy: and it had returned, not to Mequiñez, but to Cordova. And ere his master’s mandate had stricken terror to the soul of the Hadj Abdallah, the Spanish bells were chiming for the wedding of a Moorish maiden, now a Christian bride; and the Leila Ayesha, of Mequiñez, was the wife of the noble Conde De Alarcos: nor have I ever heard that she rued either of the changes. Again Muley Abderrahman tore his beard, and this time from the very roots. But his wonted philosophy still consoled him, and after a little while he muttered— “Allah, assist me, that I thought myself so wise—yet know not the heart of a woman! How should I?” * * * * * WRITE THOU UPON LIFE’S PAGE. BY GRENVILLE GREY. Leave thou some light behind thee, Some mark upon thine age; Let not a false fate bind thee— Write thou upon life’s page, Some word of earnest meaning, Some thought, or else some deed, On which thy brother leaning, Unto better may succeed. For none may tell what beauty, What endless good there lies, In some little nameless duty, Whose remembrance never dies. Leave thou some light behind thee, Some token of thy way; Let not a false ease bind thee— Thou art not wholly clay. There is something noble in thee, Let it speak and not be mute; There is something that should win thee From a kindred with the brute. Thou art not, oh! my brother, Wholly impotent for good; Thou may’st win or warn another From the wrongs thou hast withstood. Leave thou some trace behind thee— In life’s warfare, go, engage; Let no more a false fate bind thee— Write thou upon life’s page. * * * * * LINES ON A VASE OF FLOWERS, (FOUND UPON MY DESK.) BY ESTELLE ANNA LEWIS. I came upon these simple flowers As something I revere; They grew in Love’s enchanted bowers— And love hath placed them here. I kiss their cheeks of virgin bloom, I press their dewy lips, While my wrapt soul of their perfume, Inebriated sips. I look into their violet eyes, And feel my heart grow calm, And fancy I’m in Paradise, Inhaling Eden’s balm. There in ecstatic dreams I rove Among celestial bowers, Weaving a garland for my Love, Of beatific flowers. * * * * * DEATH.[7] BY SAMUEL HENRY DICKSON, M. D.; PROFESSOR IN THE MEDICAL COLLEGE OF SOUTH CAROLINA.