The Death of the Warrior King.

But on my bier I'll lay

Me down in frozen beauty, pale and wan,
Martyr of love to man,

And, like a broken flower, gently decay.

The Death of the Warrior King.

BY CHARLES SWAIN,

'HERE are noble heads bow'd down and pale,

ΤΗ

Deep sounds of woe arise,

And tears flow fast around the couch

Where a wounded warrior lies;
The hue of death is gathering dark
Upon his lofty brow,

And the arm of might and valour falls
Weak as an infant's now.

I saw him 'mid the battling hosts,
Like a bright and leading star,
Where banner, helm, and falchion gleam'd,
And flew the bolts of war;

When, in his plenitude of power,
He trod the Holy Land,

I saw the routed Saracens

Flee from his blood-dark brand.

I saw him in the banquet hour
Forsake the festive throng,

To seek his favourite minstrel's haunt,
And give his soul to song;

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For dearly as he loved renown,

He loved that spell-wrought strain, Which bade the brave of perish'd days Light Conquest's torch again.

Then seem'd the bard to cope with Time,

And triumph o'er his doom; Another world in freshness burst

Oblivion's mighty tomb.

Again the hardy Britons rush'd

Like lions to the fight,

While horse and foot, helm, shield, and lance, Swept by his vision'd sight.

But battle shout and waving plume,
The drum's heart-stirring beat,
The glittering pomp of prosperous war,
The rush of million feet,

The magic of the minstrel's song,

Which told of victories o'er,

Are sights and sounds the dying king
Shall see-shall hear no more.

It was the hour of deep midnight,

In the dim and quiet sky,

When, with sable cloak and broider'd pall,

A funeral train swept by.

Dull and sad fell the torches' glare

On many a stately crest—

They bore the noble warrior king

To his last dark home of rest.

Verses for an Album.

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Verses for an Album.

BY CHARLES LAMB.

RESH clad from heaven in robes of white,

FRES

A young probationer of light,

Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And friends, and foes, in foul or fair,
Have "written strange defeature" there.

And Time, with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamp'd sad dates, he can't recall.

And Error, gilding worst designs-
Like speckled snake that strays and slimes—
Betrays his path by crooked lines.

And Vice hath left his ugly blot,
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly begun-but finish'd not.

And fruitless, late Remorse doth trace,
Like Hebrew lore, her backward pace,
Her irrecoverable race.

Disjointed members, sense unknit,
Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit,
Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook
Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look,
Go, shut the leaves and clasp the book!

"Los Moros Vienne."

TRANSLATION OF THE CELEBRATED SPANISH ROMANCE.

HERE'S a sound of arrows on the air,

THE

A sound of the thundering atabal,

I see through the trees the banners glare;

This eve they shall hang on the Christian's wall, And the haughty hands that those banners bore, This eve shall be stiff in their own dark gore.

Then leave me, sweet lady, thy starry eyes
Are made for love, and love alone;
Those glowing lips are for passion's sighs;

That form for the silk and the gold of a throne.
Before the dawning sky is red,

Yon plain shall be heap'd with the dying and dead.

Hark! hark! 'tis the Christian's battle-horn,
Behold the red-cross standard wave
Like a fiery stream in the opening morn,
The shout is "glory or the grave."
Unclasp thy hand-no tears-away!
The Saracen shouts his last to-day.

One kiss, sweet love, go-pray for Spain-
Light every taper-pray for him

Whose soul may on that fatal plain

But linger for thy parting hymn.
No! be that idle thought forgiven,
We'll meet in bliss in earth or heaven.

Song.

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Song.

BY JOSIAH CONDER.

'WAS not when early flowers were springing,

'TWA

When skies were sheen,

And wheat was green,

And birds of love were singing,

That first I loved thee, or that thou

Didst first the tender claim allow.

For when the silent woods had faded
From green to yellow,

When fields were fallow,

And the changed skies o'ershaded,
My love might then have shared decay,
Or pass'd with summer songs away.

'Twas winter: cares and clouds were round me, Instead of flowers

And sunny hours,

When Love unguarded found me.
'Mid wintry scenes my passion grew,
And wintry cares have proved it true.

Dear are the hours of summer weather,
When all is bright,

And hearts are light,

And Love and Nature joy together.
But stars from night their lustre borrow,
And hearts are closer twined by sorrow.