I cannot see her beaming eyes, Nor her clear brow above, Nor her face with its rosy dyes, Nor yet her smile of love: I cannot see the virgin flush That heightens her cheek’s glow, The enchantments of that maiden blush, She is but fifteen now. Nor can my searching eyes behold Her form scarce wrapp’d about; Nor from the flowing garment’s fold Her white foot peeping out; As on some gentle river’s spring, To glide the foam between, Spread forth her snowy floatsome wing, The stately swan is seen. Nor can I see her white neck shine, Or shoulders as they part; Nor from her face can I divine Her restlessness of heart; While like a guard, too watchful o’er, The grated bars I find; Audacious love is there before, Poor virtue is behind. But in despite of that thick grate, And shades that round us twine, I have, my dove, to compensate, My soul embathed in thine: My lips of fire I hold impress’d On thine of roses free; And well I feel there’s in that breast A heart that beats for me. But see along the East arise The unwelcome god of day, Enveloped in the humid skies, The darkness drive away. And when a maid has watch’d the night, With gallant by her side, The bright red dawn has too much light Its coming to abide! * * * * * The smiling morn is shedding round Its harmony and hues, And fragrant odours o’er the ground The breezes soft diffuse: Robbing the rose, the lily fair, And cherish’d pinks they fly, And leave upon the laurels there A murmur moaning by. Murmurs the fountain’s freshening spring, Beneath its crystal veil, And the angelic turtles sing Their tender mournful tale; The love-sick dove the morning light Drinks with enraptured throat, Mixing the balmy air so bright With her unequal note. Paces the while the noble youth The garden’s paths along, And lowly sings, his soul to soothe, His love-inspiring song; “O! soundless midnight hour, again Come with thy kindly shade, When rest thy old from cares, and when Duenna’s voice is stay’d; For then, while they in slumber meet, We two are waking nigh, She on the grated window’s seat, And at its foot am I.” ORIENTAL ROMANCE,--BOABDIL. Lady of the dark head-dress, And monkish vest of purple hue, Gladly would Boabdil give Granada for a kiss of you. He would give the best adventure Of the bravest horseman tried, And with all its verdant freshness A whole bank of Darro’s tide. He would give rich carpets, perfumes, Armours of rare price and force, And so much he values you, A troop, ay, of his favourite horse.