hand upon his shoulder. "Brother and prince," said he, "forget thy sorrows; and may our friendship hereafter console thee for reverses against which thou hast contended as a hero and a king; resisting man, but resigned at length to God.”

7. Boabdil did not affect to return this bitter, but unintentional mockery of compliment. He bowed his head, and remained a moment silent; then, motioning to his train, four of his officers approached, and kneeling beside Ferdinand, proffered to him, upon a silver buckler, the keys of the city. king!" then said Boabdil, "accept the keys of the last hold which has resisted the arms of Spain! The empire of the Moslem is no more. Thine are the city and the people of Granada; yielding to thy prowess, they yet confide in thy mercy." "They do well," said the king; "our promises shall not be broken. But since we know the gallantry of Moorish cavaliers, not to us but to gentler hands shall the keys of Granada be surrendered."

8. Thus saying, Ferdinand gave the keys to Isabel, who would have addressed some soothing flatteries to Boabdil, but the emotion and excitement were too much for her compassionate heart, heroine and queen though she was; and when she lifted her eyes upon the calm and pale features of the fallen monarch, the tears gushed from them irresistibly, and her voice died in A faint flush overspread the features of Boabdil, and there was a momentary pause of embarrassment, which the Moor was the first to break.

murmurs.

9. "Fair queen," said he, with mournful and pathetic dignity, "thou canst read the heart that thy generous sympathy touches and subdues; this is my last, but not least glorious conquest. But I detain ye; let not my aspect cloud your triumph. Suffer me to say farewell." "Farewell, my brother," replied

Ferdinand," and may fair fortune go with you! Forget the past!" Boabdil smiled bitterly, saluted the royal pair with profound respect and silent reverence, and rode slowly on, leaving the army below, as he ascended the path that led to his new principality beyond the Alpuxarras. As the trees snatched the Moorish cavalcade from the view of the king, Ferdinand ordered the army to recommence its march, and trumpet and cymbal presently sent their music to the ear of the Moslem.

10. Boabdil spurred on at full speed, till his panting charger halted at the little village where his mother, his slaves, and his faithful wife, Armine (sent on before), awaited him. Joining these, he proceeded without delay upon his melancholy path. They ascended that eminence, which is the pass into the Alpuxarras. From its height, the vale, the rivers, the spires, and the towers of Granada broke gloriously upon the view of the little band. They halted mechanically and abruptly; every eye was turned to the beloved scene. The proud shame of baffled warriors, the tender memories of home, of childhood, of fatherland, swelled every heart and gushed from every eye.

11. Suddenly, the distant boom of artillery broke from the citadel, and rolled along the sunlighted valley and crystal river. An universal wail burst from the exiles; it smote, it overpowered the heart of the ill-starred king, in vain seeking to wrap himself in the Eastern pride, or stoical philosophy. The tears gushed from his eyes, and he covered his face with his hands. The band wound slowly on through the solitary defiles; and that place, where the king wept at the last view of his lost empire, is still called THE LAST Sigh of the Moor.

BULWER.

LXVIII. THE GOLDEN MILESTONE.

In the forum at Rome was erected a golden milestone, regarded as the exact center of the Roman Empire. All the distances on the great highways going out to every quarter of the empire were measured from this golden milestone. Longfellow's use of this for a figure in our lives is a beautiful poetic idea.

1. LEAFLESS are the trees; their purple branches
Spread themselves abroad, like reefs of coral,
Rising silent

In the Red Sea of the winter sunset.

2. From the hundred chimneys of the village,
Like the Afreet in the Arabian story,
Smoky columns

Tower aloft into the air of amber.

3. At the window winks the flickering firelight; Here and there the lamps of evening glimmer, Social watch-fires

Answering one another through the darkness.

4. On the hearth the lighted logs are glowing,
And like Ariel in the cloven pine-tree

For its freedom

Groans and sighs the air imprisoned in them.

5. By the fireside there are old men seated,
Seeing ruined cities in the ashes,

Asking sadly

Of the Past what it can ne'er restore them.

6. By the fireside there are youthful dreamers, Building castles fair, with stately stairways, Asking blindly

Of the Future what it cannot give them.

7. By the fireside tragedies are acted

In whose scenes appear two actors only,
Wife and husband,

And above them God the sole spectator.

8. By the fireside there are peace and comfort, Wives and children, with fair, thoughtful faces, Waiting, watching

For a well-known footstep in the passage.

9. Each man's chimney is his Golden Milestone; Is the central point, from which he measures Every distance

Through the gateways of the world around him.

10. In his farthest wanderings still he sees it; Hears the talking flame, the answering night-wind, As he heard them

When he sat with those who were, but are not.

11. Happy he whom neither wealth nor fashion, Nor the march of the encroaching city, Drives an exile

From the hearth of his ancestral homestead.

LXIX. SILAS FINDS HIS TREASURE.

Silas Marner is described, in the story of the same name, as a weaver who lived alone in a cottage situated in a retired place. He was of a simple nature, and his trust in God and man had been shaken by treachery and wrong. His only delight was in counting over in the evenings his little hoard of gold, the fruits of his earnings. This gold had been stolen from its hiding-place a short time before the occurrence of the event which is here related.

The mother perishes in the snow near Silas's cottage, but the little child creeps in at the open door, and is saved to grow up and become the comfort of his lonely life.

1. In the evening twilight, and later, whenever the night was not dark, Silas looked out on that narrow prospect round the stone-pits, listening and gazing, not with hope, but with mere yearning and unrest. This morning he had been told by some of his neighbors that it was New-Year's eve, and that he must sit up and hear the old year rung out and the new rung in, because that was good luck, and might bring his money back again.

2. Since the on-coming of twilight he had opened his door again and again, though only to shut it immediately at seeing all distance veiled by the falling snow. But the last time he opened it the snow had ceased, and the clouds were parting here and there. He stood and listened, and gazed for a long while;— there was really something on the road coming toward him then, but he caught no sign of it; and the stillness and the wide, trackless snow seemed to narrow his solitude, and touched his yearning with the chill of despair.

3. He went in again, and put his right hand on the latch of the door to close it; but he did not close it; he was arrested, as he had been already since his loss, by the invisible wand of