dren of the sun. Such was the personal appearance of Boabdil
el Chico, the last of the Moorish dynasty in Spain.

"These scrolls of Arabian learning," said Boabdil to himself, "what do
they teach? to despise wealth and power, to hold the heart to be the
true empire. This, then, is wisdom. Yet, if I follow these maxims, am I
wise? alas! the whole world would call me a driveller and a madman. Thus
is it ever; the wisdom of the Intellect fills us with precepts which it
is the wisdom of Action to despise. O Holy Prophet! what fools men would
be, if their knavery did not eclipse their folly!"

The young king listlessly threw himself back on his cushions as he
uttered these words, too philosophical for a king whose crown sate so
loosely on his brow.

After a few moments of thought that appeared to dissatisfy and disquiet
him, Boabdil again turned impatiently round "My soul wants the bath of
music," said he; "these journeys into a pathless realm have wearied it,
and the streams of sound supple and relax the travailed pilgrim."

He clapped his hands, and from one of the arcades a boy, hitherto
invisible, started into sight; at a slight and scarce perceptible sign
from the king the boy again vanished, and in a few moments afterwards,
glancing through the fairy pillars, and by the glittering waterfalls,
came the small and twinkling feet of the maids of Araby. As, with
their transparent tunics and white arms, they gleamed, without an echo,
through that cool and voluptuous chamber, they might well have seemed
the Peris of the eastern magic, summoned to beguile the sated leisure
of a youthful Solomon. With them came a maiden of more exquisite beauty,
though smaller stature, than the rest, bearing the light Moorish lute;
and a faint and languid smile broke over the beautiful face of Boabdil,
as his eyes rested upon her graceful form and the dark yet glowing
lustre of her oriental countenance. She alone approached the king,
timidly kissed his hand, and then, joining her comrades, commenced
the following song, to the air and very words of which the feet of the
dancing-girls kept time, while with the chorus rang the silver bells of
the musical instrument which each of the dancers carried.

AMINE'S SONG.

I.
Softly, oh, softly glide,
Gentle Music, thou silver tide,
Bearing, the lulled air along,
This leaf from the Rose of Song!
To its port in his soul let it float,