Softly faded into twilight gorgeous gleams of gold and red, Valley, stream, and purple mountain lay in mellow glory spread. And the lemon's snowy blossom dewy odors shed. Homeward through eve's tender shadows speeds Prince Pedro with his band, While with love almost paternal his fond eye drinks in the land, Over which he soon may govern with a kingly hand. Now the mellow horn he soundeth through the leafy olive groves, Far and wide the clear notes echo, but they bring not her he loves-- "Inez? is it thou, sweet Inez, where yon shadow moves?" Never more shall Inez answer to that fond familiar call-- Of the lovely bride left sleeping, bleeding clay is all-- Of a fiendish hate the victim lies she, wrapt in gory pall. Never more from that dread hour was Prince Pedro seen to smile! Never more did chase or revel his still agony beguile-- But he walked in the shadow of dark thoughts the while! With her martyred form forever graven on his memory, He became a scourge and terror from whom all men sought to flee, Tortured were his victims, but he smiled in mockery! Such the change, and such the monarch whose reft hand made discord ring Like a clarion through the country that had gladly hailed him king. Darkly, like the tempest, rode he on the avenger's wing! And when midnight drew her curtain round the land, that hour In her blood-stained chamber did he stand with fearful power, And renew the fatal vow to avenge his martyred flower! A LEGEND OF CLARE. THE TRICKS UPON TRICKS, AND THE TWISTS UPON TWISTS; OR KHUR ENEIN KHUR, AGUS KHAOUN ENEIN KHAOUN. BY J. GERAHTY M'TEAGUE. CHAPTER I. THE GUBBAUN SEARE. One of my own dear countrymen, casting his eye on the above title, may possibly recognize something in it familiar to him, especially should he ever have resided on the classic shores of Galway or of Clare, our own "Far West;" but to others who may chance to honor our legend with a perusal, some few words of introduction are necessary to transport them, "in their mind's eye," from the city of "brotherly love," to the far distant and far different land of the O'Malleys, the Macnamaras,[1] and the Blakes. An Irishman is, in my humble opinion, rather unlike a prophet, for this reason, he is in one sense only, to be honored in his own country--transplant him; and though he may be unimpaired, perhaps, in vigor of body; though he may make an excellent fabricator of rail-roads and canals, yet it has always appeared to me he loses his native _raciness_, except under very peculiar circumstances; he grows _different_; in a word, he gradually becomes--_like the rest of the world_! [Footnote 1: Let me assure my readers that this word is pronounced Macnam_ah_ra.]