genius, the brilliant, though stormy and disastrous career of the unfortunate bard.

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The impression produced by it," says an eye-witness, "was of the deepest kind. The attachment we had felt for the deceased poet,sorrow at his melancholy death,—the images of decay and mortality with which we were surrounded, the sepulchre opening at our feet, the starry sky above our heads, — the touching expressions of sympathy and tenderness which had fallen from the lips of the eloquent speaker, - all combined to excite our sensibility to the highest degree. Tears flowed from every eye; and we looked round upon each other in silence, as if we were longing to hear some new voice give utterance, under a still higher inspiration, to our common feelings.

"At this moment there stepped forth from among us, and, as it were, from within the sepulchre before our feet, a young man unknown to us all, and of almost boyish appearance. After glancing at the grave and then at the sky, he turned his pale face to the company and began to read with a trembling voice, which none of us had ever heard before, an elegy in honor of the dead. Scarcely, however, had he commenced, when he was overcome by the excess of his emotion and compelled to stop. The reading of the elegy was finished by the orator, who had just concluded his address. Never, perhaps, was the full effect of fine poetry more distinctly seen or more promptly acknowledged. Our surprise was equal to our enthusiasm. No sooner had we learned the name of the gifted mortal who had framed these charming verses, than we saluted him with a sort of religious reverence, and gave thanks to the Providence which had thus so manifestly interfered to bring forth, as it were from the very grave of our lost bard, a fit successor to his genius and glory. The same procession which had attended the remains of the illustrious Larra to the resting-place of the dead, now sallied forth in triumph to announce to the living the advent of a new poet, and proclaimed with enthusiasm the name of Zorrilla."

The high expectations excited by this interesting scene seem to have been fully realized. Zorrilla has been ever since regarded as the most distinguished of the Spanish living poets. His Elegy on Larra stands at the opening of the collection of his poems, now composing six volumes. The following free imitation will give some imperfect notion of the original, the effect of which, on the first recitation, was probably somewhat heightened by the strange and affecting circumstances under which it was delivered.

On the breeze I hear the knell

Of the solemn, funeral bell,
Marshalling another guest
To the grave's unbroken rest.

He has done his earthly toil,
And cast off his mortal coil,
As a maid, in beauty's bloom,
Seeks the cloister's living tomb.

When he saw the Future rise
To his disenchanted eyes,
Void of Love's celestial light,
It was worthless in his sight;
And he hurried, without warning,
To the night that knows no morning.

He has perish'd in his pride, Like a fountain, summer-dried; Like a flower of odorous breath, Which the tempest scattereth;

But the rich aroma left us,

Shows the sweets that have been reft us,

And the meadow, fresh and green,

What the fountain would have been.

If beyond our mortal sight, In some glorious realm of light, Poets pass their happy hours, Far from this cold world of ours, Oh, how sweet to cast away This frail tenement of clay, And in spirit soar above

To the home of endless Love.

And if in that world of bliss, Thou rememberest aught of this, If not-Being's higher scene Have a glimpse of what has been, Poet! from the seats divine, Let thy spirit answer mine.