A war of horrid parricide, And brother killing brother; Yea, like to "dogs and sons of dogs"

That worry one another.

But let them bite and tear and fight, The more the Kaffers slay, The sooner Hagar's swarming sons Shall make the land a prey!

The sooner shall the Moor behold Th' Alhambra's pile again; And those who pined in Barbary Shall shout for joy in Spain-- The sooner shall the Crescent wave On dear Granada's walls: And proud Mohammed Ali sit Within his fathers halls!

"Alla-il-alla!" tiger-like Up springs the swarthy Moor, And, with a wide and hasty stride, Steps o'er the marble floor; Across the hall, till from the wall, Where such quaint patterns be, With eager hand he snatches down And old and massive Key!

A massive Key of curious shape, And dark with dirt and rust, And well three weary centuries The metal might encrust!

For since the King Boabdil fell Before the native stock, That ancient Key, so quaint to see, Hath never been in lock.

Brought over by the Saracens Who fled accross the main, A token of the secret hope Of going back again; From race to race, from hand to hand, From house to house it pass'd; O will it ever, ever ope The Palace gate at last?

Three hundred years and fifty-two On post and wall it hung-- Three hundred years and fifty-two A dream to old and young; But now a brighter destiny The Prophet's will accords: The time is come to scour the rust, And lubricate the wards.

For should the Moor with sword and lance At Algesiras land, Where is the bold Bernardo now Their progress to withstand?

To Burgos should the Moslem come, Where is the noble Cid Five royal crowns to topple down As gallant Diaz did?

Hath Xeres any Pounder now, When other weapons fail, With club to thrash invaders rash, Like barley with a flail?

Hath Seville any Perez still, To lay his clusters low, And ride with seven turbans green Around his saddle-bow?

No! never more shall Europe see Such Heroes brave and bold, Such Valor, Faith and Loyalty, As used to shine of old!

No longer to one battle cry United Spaniards run, And with their thronging spears uphold The Virgin and her Son!

From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay Internal discord dwells, And Barcelona bears the scars Of Spanish shot and shells.

The fleets decline, the merchants pine For want of foreign trade; And gold is scant; and Alicante Is seal'd by strict blockade!

The loyal fly, and Valor falls, Opposed by court intrigue; But treachery and traitors thrive, Upheld by foreign league; While factions seeking private ends By turns usurping reign-- Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor Exulting point to Spain!

Well may he cleanse the rusty Key With Afric sand and oil, And hope an Andalusian home Shall recompense the toil!

Well may he swear the Moorish spear Through wild Castile shall sweep, And where the Catalonian sowed The Saracen shall reap!

Well may he vow to spurn the Cross Beneath the Arab hoof, And plant the Crescent yet again Above th' Alhambra's roof-- When those from whom St. Jago's name In chorus once arose, Are shouting Faction's battle-cries, And Spain forgets to "Close!"

Well may he swear his ataghan Shall rout the traitor swarm, And carve them into Arabesques That show no human form-- The blame be theirs, whose bloody feuds Invite the savage Moor, And tempt him with the ancient Key To seek the ancient door!

THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK.

AN ALLEGORY.

There's a murmur in the air, And noise in every street-- The murmur of many tongues, The noise of numerous feet-- While round the Workhouse door The Laboring Classes flock, For why? the Overseer of the Poor Is setting the Workhouse Clock.

Who does not hear the tramp Of thousands speeding along Of either sex and various stamp, Sickly, cripple, or strong, Walking, limping, creeping From court and alley, and lane, But all in one direction sweeping Like rivers that seek the main?

Who does not see them sally From mill, and garret, and room, In lane, and court and alley, From homes in poverty's lowest valley, Furnished with shuttle and loom-- Poor slaves of Civilization's galley-- And in the road and footways rally, As if for the Day of Doom?

Some, of hardly human form, Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil; Dingy with smoke and dust and oil, And smirch'd besides with vicious soil, Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm.

Father, mother, and careful child, Looking as if it had never smiled-- The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan, With only the ghosts of garments on--

The Weaver, her sallow neighbor, The grim and sooty Artisan; Every soul--child, woman, or man, Who lives--or dies--by labor.

Stirr'd by an overwhelming zeal, And social impulse, a terrible throng!

Leaving shuttle, and needle, and wheel, Furnace, and grindstone, spindle, and reel, Thread, and yarn, and iron, and steel-- Yea, rest and the yet untasted meal-- Gushing, rushing, crushing along, A very torrent of Man!

Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong, Grown at last to a hurricane strong, Stop its course who can!

Stop who can its onward course And irresistible moral force; O vain and idle dream!

For surely as men are all akin, Whether of fair or sable skin, According to Nature's scheme, That Human Movement contains within A Blood-Power stronger than Steam.

Onward, onward, with hasty feet, They swarm--and westward still-- Masses born to drink and eat, But starving amidst Whitechapel's meat, And famishing down Cornhill!

Through the Poultry--but still unfed-- Christian Charity, hang your head!

Hungry--passing the Street of Bread; Thirsty--the street of Milk; Ragged--beside the Ludgate Mart, So gorgeous, through Mechanic-Art, With cotton, and wool, and silk!

At last, before that door That bears so many a knock Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor, Like sheep they huddle and flock-- And would that all the Good and Wise Could see the Million of hollow eyes, With a gleam deriv'd from Hope and the skies, Upturn'd to the Workhouse Clock!

Oh that the Parish Powers, Who regulate Labor's hours, The daily amount of human trial, Weariness, pain, and self-denial, Would turn from the artificial dial That striketh ten or eleven, And go, for once, by that older one That stands in the light of Nature's sun, And takes its time from Heaven!

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

"Drown'd! drown'd!"--_Hamlet_.

One more Unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.--

Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully, Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her, All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Bash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

Still, for all slips of hers, One of Eve's family-- Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily.

Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!

Oh! it was pitiful!