in passionate embrace,
But clang of armor bids them flee;
Within a nightly refuge place
They nurse the new-found ecstasy.
In covert timidly they stay,
Affrighted by the monarch's ire;
And wake with every dawning day
At once to grief and glad desire.

Hope is the minstrel's soft refrain,
To quell the youthful mother's tears;
When lo, attracted by the strain,
The king within the cave appears.
The daughter holds in mute appeal
The grandson with his golden hair;
Sorrowed and terrified they kneel,
And melts his stern resolve to air.

And yieldeth too upon the throne
To love and song a Father's breast;
With sweet constraint he changes soon
To ceaseless joy the deep unrest.
With rich requital love returns
The peace it lately would destroy,
And mid atoning kisses burns
And blossoms an Elysian joy.

Spirit of Song! oh, hither come,
And league with love again to bring
The exiled daughter to her home,
To find a father in the king!
To willing bosom may he press
The mother and her pleading one,
And yielding all to tenderness,
Embrace the minstrel as his son.

The young man, on uttering these words, which softly swelled through
the dark paths, raised with trembling hand the veil. The princess, her
eyes streaming with tears, fell at the feet of the king, and reached to
him the beauteous child. The minstrel knelt with bowed head at her
side. An anxious silence seemed to hold the breath of every one
suspended. For a few moments the king remained grave and speechless;
then he took the princess to his bosom, pressed her to himself with a
warm embrace, and wept aloud. He also raised the young man, and
embraced him with heart-felt tenderness. Exulting joy flew through the
assembly, which began to crowd eagerly around them. Taking the child,
the king raised it towards Heaven with touching devotion; and then
kindly greeted the old man. Countless tears of joy were shed. The poets
burst forth in song, and the night became a sacred festive eve of
promise to the whole land, where life henceforth was but one delightful
jubilee. No one can tell whither that land has fled. Tradition only
whispers us that mighty floods have snatched Atlantis from our eyes.

CHAPTER IV.

Several days' journey was accomplished without the least interruption.
The road was hard and dry, the weather refreshing and serene, an