“Ah, within the grave ’tis well! “Though indeed ’tis far more cheery “In the glowing realms of heaven,-- “Miserere! Miserere! “Jesus sweet, forgive at length “Our transgression sad and weary; “Let us feel the warmth of heaven,-- “Miserere! Miserere!” Thus the troop of nuns sing on, And a long-dead clerk is playing On the organ. Hands of spirits O’er the keys are wildly straying. PALSGRAVINE JUTTA. The Palsgravine Jutta, in bark so light, Is crossing the Rhine in the moonlight bright; The Countess speaks, while rows the maid: “Hast thou yon seven corpses survey’d “That, seeking to find us, “Are floating behind us?-- “So sadly are floating the corpses! “Seven knights were they, who their love confess’d, “And tenderly sank on my heaving breast, “And swore to be faithful; so, certain to make “That they their oaths should never break, “I seized and bound them, “And straightway drown’d them,-- “So sadly are floating the corpses!” The Countess laughs, while the maiden rows, Through the air her laughter scornfully goes; From the water the corpses rise high as the thigh, And point with their fingers towards the sky, In token of swearing, With glassy eyes staring-- So sadly are floating the corpses! THE MOORISH KING. To the Alpuxarres’ exile Went the youthful Moorish monarch; Silent and with heart full mournful Heading the procession rode he. And behind, on lofty palfreys Or in golden litters riding, Sat the women of his household; Swarthy maids on mules were sitting. And a hundred trusty followers Rode on noble Arab horses; Haughty steeds, and yet the riders Carelessly bestrode the saddles. Not a drum and not a cymbal, Not a single song resounded; Silver bells upon the mules, though, Echoed sadly in the silence. On the height, from whence the glances Sweep across the Duero valley, And Granada’s battlements For the last time rise before one, There the mournful king dismounted, And he gazed upon the city Glittering in the light of evening, As though deck’d with gold and purple. But, great Allah! what a sight ’twas! In the place of that dear crescent Gleam’d the Spaniard’s cross and standard On the tow’rs of the Alhambra. Ah! deep sighs at this discov’ry Broke from out the monarch’s bosom; Suddenly the tears ’gan falling Like a torrent down his cheeks. Sadly from her lofty palfrey Downward gazed the monarch’s mother, Looking on her son’s affliction; Proudly, bitterly, she chided: “Boabdil el Chico,” said she, “Like a woman thou bewailest “Yonder town, which thou neglectedst “To defend with manly courage.”