Imatges de pÓgina
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Pero Bermuez heard the word,

but he could not refrain,

He held the banner in his hand,

he gave his horse the rein; "You see yon foremost squadron there, the thickest of the foes,

Noble Cid, God be your aid,

for there your banner goes! Let him that serves and honours it, show the duty that he owes." Earnestly the Cid call'd out,

"For heaven's sake be still!" Bermuez cried, "I cannot hold,"

so eager was his will.

He spurr'd his horse, and drove him on amid the Moorish rout:

They strove to win the banner,

and compass'd him about. Had not his armour been so true,

he had lost either life or limb;

The Cid call'd out again,

"For heaven's sake succour him!" Their shields before their breasts, forth at once they go,

Their lances in the rest

levell'd fair and low;

Their banners and their crests waving in a row, Their heads all stooping down

towards the saddle bow.

The Cid was in the midst,

his shout was heard afar,

"I am Rui Diaz,

the champion of Bivar; Strike amongst them, gentlemen, for sweet mercies' sake! There where Bermuez fought

amidst the foe they brake; Three hundred banner'd knights, it was a gallant show;

Three hundred Moors they kill'd, a man at every blow:

When they wheel'd and turn'd,

as many more lay slain, You might see them raise their lances, and level them again.

There you might see the breastplates, how they were cleft in twain, And many a Moorish shield

lie scatter'd on the plain. The pennons that were white

mark'd with a crimson stain,

The horses running wild

whose riders had been slain.

J. H. Frere.-Born 1769, Died 1846.

1297. HOPE TRIUMPHANT IN

DEATH.

Unfading Hope! when life's last embers burn,

When soul to soul, and dust to dust return;

Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour!

Oh! then thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power!

What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly

The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye!

Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal dayThen, then, the triumph and the trance begin!

And all the Phoenix spirit burns within!

Oh! deep-enchanting prelude to repose, The dawn of bliss, the twilight of our woes ! Yet half I hear the parting spirit sigh, It is a dread and awful thing to die! Mysterious worlds, untravell'd by the sun! Where Time's far-wandering tide has never

run,

From your unfathom'd shades, and viewless spheres,

A warning comes, unheard by other ears. 'Tis Heaven's commanding trumpet, long and

loud,

Like Sinai's thunder, pealing from the cloud! While Nature hears, with terror-mingled

trust,

The shock that hurls her fabric to the dust; And, like the trembling Hebrew, when he trod

The roaring waves, and call'd upon his God, With mortal terrors clouds immortal bliss, And shrieks, and hovers o'er the dark abyss!

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume
The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb!
Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that
roll

Cimmerian darkness on the parting soul!
Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of dismay,
Chased on his night-steed by the star of day!
The strife is o'er-the pangs of Nature close,
And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her

woes.

Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze,
The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze,
On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky,
Float the sweet tones of star-born melody;
Wild as that hallow'd anthem sent to hail
Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale,
When Jordan hush'd his waves, and midnight
still

Watch'd on the holy towers of Zion hill!

Soul of the just! companion of the dead! Where is thy home, and whither art thou

fled?

Back to its heavenly source thy being goes, Swift as the comet wheels to whence he

rose;

Doom'd on his airy path awhile to burn,
And doom'd, like thee, to travel, and

return.

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Hark! from the world's exploding centre driven,

With sounds that shook the firmament of Heaven,

Careers the fiery giant, fast and far,

On bickering wheels, and adamantine car; From planet whirl'd to planet more remote, He visits realms beyond the reach of thought; But, wheeling homeward, when his course is

run,

Curbs the red yoke, and mingles with the sun!

So hath the traveller of earth unfurl'd

Her trembling wings, emerging from the world;

And o'er the path by mortal never trod, Sprung to her source, the bosom of her God! Thomas Campbell.-Born 1777, Died 1844.

1298.-DOMESTIC LOVE.

Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought
Some cottage-home, from towns and toil

remote,

Where love and lore may claim alternate hours,

With peace embosom'd in Idalian bowers!
Remote from busy life's bewildered way,
O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty

sway;

Free on the sunny slope or winding shore, With hermit-steps to wander and adore! There shall he love, when genial morn

appears,

Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears,
To watch the brightening roses of the sky,
And muse on nature with a poet's eye!
And when the sun's last splendour lights the
deep,

The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep,

When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail,
And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale,
His path shall be where streamy mountains
swell

Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell;

Where mouldering piles and forests inter

vene,

Mingling with darker tints the living green;
No circling hills his ravished eye to bound,
Heaven, earth, and ocean blazing all around!
The moon is up-the watch-tower dimly
burns-

And down the vale his sober step returns;
But pauses oft as winding rocks convey
The still sweet fall of music far away;
And oft he lingers from his home awhile,
To watch the dying notes, and start, and
smile!

Let winter come! let polar spirits sweep The darkening world, and tempest-troubled

deep;

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And say, when summon'd from the world and thee,

I lay my head beneath the willow tree;
Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone

appear,

And soothe my parted spirit lingering near? Oh, wilt thou come, at evening hour, to shed

The tears of Memory o'er my narrow bed; With aching temples on thy hand reclined, Muse on the last farewell I leave behind, Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,

And think on all my love, and all my woe?"

So speaks affection, ere the infant eye
Can look regard, or brighten in reply;
But when the cherub lip hath learnt to
claim

A mother's ear by that endearing name;
Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity, or a smile of love,

Or cons his murmuring task beneath her

care,

Or lisps with holy look his evening prayer,
Or gazing, mutely pensive, sits to hear
The mournful ballad warbled in his ear;
How fondly looks admiring Hope the while,
At every artless tear, and every smile!
How glows the joyous parent to descry
A guileless bosom, true to sympathy!

Thomas Campbell.-Born 1777, Died 1844.

1300.-BATTLE OF WYOMING, AND DEATH OF GERTRUDE.

Heaven's verge extreme Reverberates the bomb's descending starAnd sounds that mingled laugh, and shout,

and scream,

To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar, Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. Whoop after whoop with rack the ear

assail'd,

As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar; While rapidly the marksman's shot prevail'd: And ay, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed.

Then look'd they to the hills, where fire o'erhung

The bandit groups in one Vesuvian glare;
Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock

unrung,

Told legible that midnight of despair.
She faints-she falters not-the heroic fair,
As he the sword and plume in haste array'd.
One short embrace-he clasp'd his dearest

care;

But hark! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade!

Joy, joy! Columbia's friends are trampling through the shade!

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Then mournfully the parting bugle bid

Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth;

Prone to the dust afflicted Waldegrave hid His face on earth; him watch'd, in gloomy ruth,

His woodland guide: but words had none to soothe

The grief that knew not consolation's name; Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth,

He watch'd, beneath its folds, each burst that

came,

Convulsive, ague-like, across his shuddering frame !

"And I could weep," the Oneyda chief
His descant wildly thus begun ;
"But that I may not stain with grief
The death-song of my father's son,
Or bow this head in wo!

For, by my wrongs, and by my wrath,
To-morrow Areouski's breath,

That fires yon heaven with storms of death,
Shall light us to the foe:

And we shall share, my Christian boy,
The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy!

But thee, my flower, whose breath was given
By milder genii o'er the deep,

The spirits of the white man's heaven
Forbid not thee to weep:

Nor will the Christian host,

Nor will thy father's spirit grieve,
To see thee, on the battle's eve,
Lamenting, take a mournful leave
Of her who loved thee most:
She was the rainbow to thy sight!
Thy sun-thy heaven-of lost delight!

To-morrow let us do or die.

But when the bolt of death is hurl'd,
Ah! whither then with thee to fly,
Shall Outalissi roam the world?
Seek we thy once-loved home?
The hand is gone that cropt its flowers;
Unheard their clock repeats its hours;
Cold is the hearth within their bowers:
And should we thither roam,
Its echoes and its empty tread
Would sound like voices from the dead!

Or shall we cross yon mountains blue,
Whose streams my kindred nation quaff'd,
And by my side, in battle true,

A thousand warriors drew the shaft ?

Ah! there, in desolation cold,

The desert serpent dwells alone,

Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown,

Like me, are death-like old.

Then seek we not their camp; for there
The silence dwells of my despair!

But hark, the trump! to-morrow thou
In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears:
Even from the land of shadows now
My father's awful ghost appears
Amidst the clouds that round us roll;
He bids my soul for battle thirst-
He bids me dry the last-the first-
The only tears that ever burst
From Outalissi's soul;

Because I may not stain with grief
The death-song of an Indian chief!"

Thomas Campbell.-Born 1777, Died 1844.

1301.-TO THE EVENING STAR.

Star that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary laborer free!
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou,'

That send'st it from above,

Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow
Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,
Whilst the landscape's odours rise,
Whilst, far off, lowing herds are heard,
And songs when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr'd
Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews,
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in Heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven,

By absence from the heart.
Thomas Campbell.-Born 1777, Died 1844.

1302.-SONG.

How delicious is the winning
Of a kiss at Love's beginning,
When two mutual hearts are sighing
For the knot there's no untying!

Yet, remember, 'midst your wooing,
Love has bliss, but Love has rueing;
Other smiles may make you fickle;
Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries ;
Longest stays when sorest chidden;
Laughs and flies when press'd and bidden.

Bind the sea to slumber stilly;

Bind its odor to the lily;
Bind the aspen ne'er to quiver;
Then bind Love to last for ever!

Thomas Campbell.-Born 1777, Died 1844.

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