Year after year, however, elapsed and nothing was heard of Don Roderick; yet, like Sebastian of Portugal, and Arthur of England, his name continued to be a rallying point for popular faith, and the mystery of his end to give rise to romantic fables. At length, when generation after generation had sunk into the grave, and near two centuries had passed and gone, traces were said to be discovered that threw a light on the final fortunes of the unfortunate Roderick. At that time, Don Alphonso the Great, King of Leon, had wrested the city of Viseo in Lusitania from the hands of the Moslems. As his soldiers were ranging about the city and its environs, one of them discovered in a field, outside of the walls, a small chapel or hermitage, with a sepulchre in front, on which was inscribed this epitaph in Gothic characters: HIC REQUIESCIT RUDERICUS, ULTIMUS REX GOTHORUM. HERE LIES RODERICK, THE LAST KING OF THE GOTHS. It has been believed by many that this was the veritable tomb of the monarch, and that in this hermitage he had finished his days in solitary penance. The warrior, as he contemplated the supposed tomb of the once haughty Roderick, forgot all his faults and errors, and shed a soldier's tear over his memory; but when his thoughts turned to Count Julian, his patriotic indignation broke forth, and with his dagger he inscribed a rude malediction on the stone. 'Accursed,' said he, 'be the impious and headlong vengeance of the traitor Julian. He was a murderer of his king; a destroyer of his kindred; a betrayer of his country. May his name be bitter in every mouth, and his memory infamous to all generations.' Here ends the legend of Don Roderick. LINES WRITTEN UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JUPITER AND DANAE. Fair maid of Argos! dry thy tears, nor shun The bright embrace of Saturn's amorous son. Pour'd from high Heaven athwart thy brazen tower, Jove bends propitious in a glittering shower: Take, gladly take, the boon the Fates impart; Press the gilt treasure to thy panting heart: And to thy venal sex this truth unfold, How few, like Danae, grasp both god and gold. J. SMITH. THE DOG-STAR SPIRIT. SUGGESTED BY CERTAIN PAPERS ENTITLED 'MIND AND INSTINCT,' IN THE KNICKERBOCKER. Calm be thy slumbers, faithful TRAY, Calm in thy bed Low-gathered underneath the clay, Where they have laid thy bones away, And left thee--dead! No common dog, dear TRAY, wert thou In life's short age; For _instinct_ shone upon thy brow, And something in thy deep bow-wow Proclaimed the sage. When ugly curs at evening made Their hideous wail, Mutely thy musing eye surveyed Bright themes for thought around displayed, Perched on thy tail. Oft have I seen thy vision turned Up to the skies, Where thy intelligence discerned In all the little stars that burned, Strange mysteries.