Then twilight came, and evening’s shade— And said the old man to the maid: “Sweet Falisava! maiden fair! Our bed beside the stove prepare, And the warm feather-mattress bear”— The maiden heard—the maiden went, And gather’d flowers of sweetest scent— Of sweetest scent and fairest hue, Which on the old man’s bed she threw, And like a strong-wing’d eagle then Flew to her father’s home again. MAHOMMEDAN TALE. WHO is mourning there in Glamotz’s fortress? ’Tis the Vila—’tis an angry serpent? ’Tis no Vila—’tis no angry serpent! ’Tis the maid Emina there lamenting— There lamenting, for her woe is grievous! Lo! the _Ban_ the maiden hath imprison’d— Hath imprison’d her, and will baptize her; But Emina never will be faithless— From the white-wall’d tower will fling her rather. Thus the unbelieving Ban address’d she: “Unbelieving Ban! a moment tarry, While I hasten to the upper story.” And she hasten’d to the upper story; Look’d around her from the white-wall’d fortress: In the distance saw her father’s dwelling— Saw the white school where she pass’d her childhood. “O my father’s home! my poor heart’s sorrow! School of childhood! once that childhood’s terror! Many a day of weariness and sorrow Did thy small-writ lessons give Emina.” Then she wrapp’d her snowy robes around her— Thought not of the band that bound her tresses, And she flung her from the fortress turret. But her hairband caught the open window— From the window, ah! she hung suspended— Hung a week suspended from the window— Then her hair gave way—and then the maiden On the greensward fell. The Christian heard it— He, the Christian Ban, and hasten’d thither; Oft and oft he kiss’d the dead Emina; And he peacefully entomb’d the maiden. O’er her grave a chapel he erected, And with golden apples he adorn’d it. Ere a week had pass’d away, descended On her tomb a beauteous light from heaven; At her head a beauteous light was kindled; At her feet another light shone sweetly; And her aged mother saw and wonder’d. From her chain she took her knife, and plunged it— Plunged it deep within her troubled bosom— Fell, and died—O melancholy mother! LOVE’S DIFFICULTIES.