, and yet ye feel,
Scourge, dungeon, halter, axe, and wheel.
Go, hearts of sin and heads of trifling,
From your vile streets, so foul and stifling,
They sweep the dirt--no useless trade!
But when, their robes with ordure staining,
Altar and sacrifice disdaining,
Did e'er your _priests_ ply broom and spade?
'Twas not for life's base agitation
That _we_ were born--for gain nor care--
No--we were born for inspiration,
For love, for music, and for prayer!

* * * * *

The ballad entitled "The Black Shawl" has obtained a degree of
popularity among the author's countrymen, for which the slightness of
the composition renders it in some measure difficult to account. It may,
perhaps, be explained by the circumstance, that the verses are in the
original exceedingly well adapted to be sung--one of the highest merits
of this class of poetry--for all ancient ballads, in every language
throughout the world, were specifically intended to be sung or chanted;
and all modern productions, therefore, written in imitation of these
ancient compositions--the first lispings of the Muse--can only be
successful in proportion as they possess the essential and
characteristic quality of being capable of being sung. Independently of
the highly musical arrangement of the rhythm, which, in the original,
distinguishes "The Black Shawl," the following verses cannot be denied
the merit of relating, in a few rapid and energetic measures, a simple
and striking story of Oriental love, vengeance, and remorse:--

THE BLACK SHAWL.

Like a madman I gaze on a raven-black shawl;
Remorse, fear, and anguish--this heart knows them all.

When believing and fond, in the spring-time of youth,
I loved a Greek maiden with tenderest truth.

That fair one caress'd me--my life! oh, 'twas bright,
But it set--that fair day--in a hurricane night.

One day I had bidden young guests, a gay crew,
When sudden there knock'd at my gate a vile Jew.

"With guests thou art feasting," he whisperingly said,
"And _she_ hath betray'd thee--thy young Grecian maid."

I cursed him, and gave him good guerdon of gold,
And call'd me a slave that was trusty and bold.

"Ho! my charger--my charger!" we mount, we depart,
And soft pity whisper'd in vain at my heart.

On the Greek maiden's threshold in frenzy I