K.

FRAGMENT OF AN UNFINISHED TRAGEDY.

Scene—An Orange Grove.

Enter Muza.
Muza, solus.

Hark! heard I not her step, or was it nought

But Fancy’s wild creation? Ah! tis gone,

And still she’s absent. Ye odor-breathing groves,

Aslant whose dewy bloom the virgin moon

Pours her mild radiance, what though ye are fair,

And rich in all the fragrance nature yields?

Ye bring no balm to soothe my anxious mind—

But soft! she comes—my Isabel—

Enter Isabel.
Isabel.

Oh, Muza! Muza! pardon, I beseech you,

This rash, misguided step, that unbecomes

My virgin modesty and maiden pride.

Muza, I’ve erred. Oh let me now depart;

’Tis not a fitting time.

Muza.

Say why not, dear maid? This is the hour

I’ve longed, I’ve prayed for; and thank Allah now

’Tis come at last.

(Kneeling.)

Sweet Isabel, my heart is wholly thine.

I love thee more than life. Nay, do not turn

Those lovely eyes away; still let them beam

With gentleness on me. List, dear one, list—

Isabel.

Cease, Muza, cease. These glowing words of love

Savor too much of thine own sunny clime,

That makes the tenderest passions of the heart

Burn with a fiercer flame. But ’tis not meet

That we should hold such converse at this hour;

And death awaits thee, Muza, if thou’rt found

Within these groves.

Muza.

Isabel,

Is then my safety of concern to thee?

And does the pang of fear thrill through thy breast

For Muza’s sake?

Isabel.

Oh yes.

Thinkest thou that Isabel can look with coldness

Upon the brave preserver of her honor?

Thy welfare, trust me,

Shall ever be the object of my care;

And still the tender tie of gratitude

Shall bind my heart to thee.

Muza.

Say, dear one, say the tender tie of love.

Isabel.

Urge me not, Muza, urge me not too far.

But come, I claim a promise: wilt thou not

Fulfil it now? I long to hear thee tell

The wild, romantic history of thy life;—

For such it must be, if I can surmise

Aught from the hints which thou hast thrown around thee.

Muza.

I will obey thee, Isabel,

Though I would rather pour into thine ear

The breathings of my soul, than now recount

A dull detail of cold and lifeless facts.

Know, then, I spring not from the Moorish race,

But Christian blood bounds freely through these veins.

No more I know; the secret of my birth

Is wrapt in mystery;

But yet within my mind faint traces live,

When the paternal hand upon this head

Rested with fondness, and a mother’s eye,

Radiant with love, beamed brightly on my heart;

But then, there comes a blank in memory’s page:

And next, dark visions flit before my mind

Of bloodshed, death and slaughter, while to view

The swarth and fiery visage of the Moor

Starts up, attended with appalling horrors.

A truce to memory. What I am I know;

Thou askest, and shalt know. A warrior bold

I dwell upon the banks of fair Xenil,

Where that bright river, with its winding stream,

Laves proud Granada’s walls. Ask Muza’s name

Within Alhambra’s towers. ’Tis he whose heart

Is boldest in the fight, whose daring valor

Oft sweeps the plains of fertile Andalusia.

Isabel.

Oh, boast not of these actions, where the cross,

The sacred symbol of my holy faith,

Bows down before the crescent. Tell me, Muza,

Does not thy heart reproach thee when this sword

Is stained with Christian blood—perhaps the blood

Of friends and kindred, who would gladly lose

Their lives to rescue thee?

Muza.

No, Isabel. The ties of blood are severed;

The tie of gratitude alone can bind

My heart to others. Shall I not live for those

Who’ve fostered in this breast the spark of honor,

And roused my soul to deeds of noble daring?

Aye, the Moor!

Though your proud chivalry may curl the lip

In haughty scorn, claims gratitude from me,

And shall this be uncancelled? No, by Allah!

His cause is mine, his holy faith is mine—

But did I say the ties of gratitude

Alone could bind my heart? Ah! there I erred.

There is another bond still closer, dearer,

Entwining with the very strings of life,

A bond I would not break to gain the world—

Canst thou not guess it, Isabel? Ah, yes;

That timid, down-cast eye, that tell-tale glance

Unfolds the mystery. Strange, indeed, ’twould be,

If the bright maid that twined the silken bonds,

Knew not her captive. Would to heaven I knew

What noble parents, happy in their love,

Possess so fair a daughter!

Isabel.

Muza,

I know not what to say; my fearful heart

Is full of dread forebodings for the future.

I see thee now in arms against my country,—

A scoffer and despiser of my faith;

And with thy hand yet stained in Christian blood,

Thou com’st to woo me! Alas! what can I do?

I cannot hate thee; gratitude forbids it.

Heaven aid me in the conflict!

But seek not, Muza, I beseech thee, seek not

The knowledge of my rank. ’Twould only widen

The breach of separation. Will’t not suffice

To know that in the breast of Isabel

The cherished name of Muza ne’er shall die?

Farewell!

(Going.)

Muza.

One moment stay; we ne’er may meet again.

(Exit Isabel.)

She’s gone, and nought but solitude remains.

Angel of hope! come on thy downy wings,

Descend and be my comforter and guide!

(Enter a Moorish guard.)
Guard.

My lord!

The torches of a Spanish band are flashing

Upon the westward of the orange grove!

Muza.

Away, then! follow me!

(Exeunt omnes.)

THE COFFEE CLUB.

No. 1.

“Of all the several ways of beginning a book which, are now in practice throughout the known world, I am confident my own way of doing it is the best;—I’m sure it is the most religious—for I begin with writing the first sentence, and trust to Almighty God for the second.”—Tristram Shandy.

Reader,

Should you, on any one of these gloomy spring evenings, chance to traverse the college yard, between the hours of nine and ten, among the many glowing windows, with which the sombre buildings are then radiant, you may notice two, shining with transcendent brilliancy. Of the situation of these windows, and the occasion of so intense a glow, as to distinguish them from the dull light diffused by the solitary study-lamp, it suits not with our purpose to tell thee more than this: 1st, that they occupy a central position in that building, which, in college mythos, holds the rank of the third heaven; (to south middle we can assign no gentler appellative than purgatory;) 2nd, that, in the day-time, they admit the light to, and in the night season emit it from, one of the most literary, best furnished, and withall best peopled rooms, which our well stocked University can boast; and 3d, that at the hour above specified, within this room are assembled four as merry, yet thoughtful fellows, as your eye (especially if you be a little cynical) would desire to look upon. But to speak of them in the high terms which they deserve, would expose me to the charge of base flattery in the case of three, and arrant egotism for the fourth. Further than this, curious reader, except so far as may serve to elucidate the characters of these Dii superi, we shall never communicate.

But, stop—my better judgment whispers me, that ’twould be safer to satiate thy curiosity, at once, than have thee continually peering about and asking troublesome questions. Enter, then, this mysterious room—erect thy crest—quicken thy memory, for it must serve thee in good stead. Thou hast free permission,