The International Weekly Miscellany - Volume I, No. 2 | Page 6

flower, Into a blooming hope, murmured "we ne'er will part."
Never to part! alas! the lingering sound Thro' the sad echoes of pale Memory's cave, Startles once more the hope my young soul found, Into bright hues, but, only for the grave ...
Must we then part! ah, till this heavy hour, Fraught with the leaden weight of sorrowing years, I could have stemmed grief's tide like some light shower, Where shows a rainbow hope to quell all idle fears.
But the dim phantoms of o'er shadowed pleasures, Gleaming thro' gathering mists that cloud my heart, Lend but a transient ray, those fragile treasures-- And heavier darkness falls to gloom the thought "We part!"
JUNE 22, 1850.
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ORIGINAL CORRESPONDENCE.
RAMBLES IN THE PENINSULA.
NO. II.
GRENADA, May 26, 1850.
My Dear Friend--My companion, Mr. Ronalds, left this morning in the diligence for Madrid, and I am, therefore, for the first time since I have been in Europe alone--the only citizen of the United States at present in this ancient Moorish city: alone, I may almost say, in the midst of paradise. Yet the beauties of nature will not compensate for the solitude of the heart, which is continually yearning after sympathy; we wish for something beyond the pleasures of the eye, and I would that you were with me. I would take you up to me Alhambra, and descant to you for hours upon its perfections and its romantic history. To me this wondrous pile has become familiar; I have seen it at all hours of the day, and have visited it in the enchantment of moonlight; and never will pass from my memory the pleasant hours I have spent within its sacred precincts; I shall remember them and those who shared them with me--forever. A few days since we made up a party and rode out to the famous town of Santa Fe, in the delightful Vega, about eight miles away. We were all dressed in the gay costume of Andalusia, and presented, as you may imagine, a picturesque appearance; my companions were lively fellows, and we had a great deal of sport on the way. Santa Fe is now a dilapidated place, but its associations make it well deserving a visit. It was built by Ferdinand, during the memorable siege of Grenada; it was here that Boabdil signed the capitulation of his city; and it was from this spot, too, that Columbus was dispatched on his mission of discovering a new world. The rich and fertile Vega, as we rode with the speed of the wind over it, seemed to me like a fairy land--so luxuriant the vegetation--so rich the meadows and fields of waving grain--so exquisite the variety of cottages, and villages, and groves, dotting so vast a plain--so pure and transparent the atmosphere, that the most distant objects are as clearly defined as those nearest us. Imagine so lovely a landscape--thirty miles in length by twenty-five in width, surrounded by tremendous mountains,--those of the Sierra Nevada, rising back of Grenada to the height of thirteen thousand feet above the level of the sea, their summits covered by a dazzling mantle of snow: imagine this, and you will have some faint idea of this beautiful Eden of Spain. It is worth a long pilgrimage to gaze but for one moment upon it, particularly from the Torre de la Vela of the Alhambra, whence I have beheld it, both in the bright, gay sunshine, and through the solemnly beautiful night, illumined by the stars and moon.
The walks and gardens of Grenada are exceedingly beautiful. The principal promenade is called (and very appropriately) El Salon. It is of considerable extent--about eighty feet in width, with regular lines of lofty elms on either side, the bending branches of which nearly meet in an arch overhead. At both extremities of this charming avenue is a large and handsome fountain of ever-flowing water. The ground of the walk is hard--slightly curved; and as smooth and clean as the floor of a ball-room, where convenient seats of stone, tastefully arranged beneath the shade of the spreading trees, seem to invite one to meditation and repose. Outside of this lovely promenade, are blooming gardens, teeming with roses and other flowers, which fill the air with fragrance, while through them on one side runs the river Darre, and on the other the Xenie--gentle streams, whose waters unite their melodious rippling to the chorus of nightingales, ever singing above their pleasant banks. But description is tiresome, especially when one is attempting to present something beyond his power, so I shall not fatigue you with it any longer: besides, a worthy English curate, now my only companion in this wretched hotel, is boring me so incessantly with conversation that I find it difficult to collect any thoughts to put on paper. I