VIII.

"Decayed our old traditionary lore,

Save where the lingering fays renew their ring, By milk-maid seen beneath the hawthorn hoar, Or round the marge of Minchmore's haunted spring;

Save where their legends gray-haired shepherds sing,

That now scarce win a listening ear but thine, Of feuds obscure, and border ravaging,

And rugged deeds recount in rugged line,

Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, Tweed, or Tyne.

IX.

"No! search romantic lands, where the near sun
Gives with unstinted boon ethereal flame,
Where the rude villager, his labour done,
In verse spontaneous chants some favoured

name;

Whether Olalia's charms his tribute claim,
Her eye of diamond, and her locks of jet;
Or whether, kindling at the deeds of Graeme,
He sing, to wild Morisco measure set,
Old Albin's red claymore, green Erin's bayonet!

X.

"Explore those regions, where the flinty crest
Of wild Nevada ever gleams with snows,
Where in the proud Alhambra's ruined breast
Barbaric monuments of pomp repose;

Or where the banners of more ruthless foes

Than the fierce Moor, float o'er Toledo's fane, From whose tall towers even now the patriot throws

An anxious glance, to spy upon the plain The blended ranks of England, Portugal, and Spain.

XI.

"There, of Numantian fire a swarthy spark
Still lightens in the sun-burnt native's eye;
The stately port, slow step, and visage dark,
Still mark enduring pride and constancy.
And, if the glow of feudal chivalry

Beam not, as once, thy nobles' dearest pride,
Iberia! oft thy crestless peasantry

Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit their side, Have seen, yet dauntless stood-'gainst fortune fought and died.

XII.

"And cherished still by that unchanging race,
Are themes for minstrelsy more high than thine;
Of strange tradition many a mystic trace,
Legend and vision, prophecy and sign;
Where wonders wild of Arabesque combine
With Gothic imagery of darker shade,
Forming a model meet for minstrel line.

Go, seek such theme!"-The Mountain Spirit

said:

With filial awe I heard-I heard, and I obeyed.

THE

VISION

OF

DON RODERICK.

I.

REARING their crests amid the cloudless skies, And darkly clustering in the pale moonlight, Toledo's holy towers and spires arise,

As from a trembling lake of silver white; Their mingled shadows intercept the sight Of the broad burial-ground outstretched below, And nought disturbs the silence of the night; All sleeps in sullen shade, or silver glow, All save the heavy swell of Teio's ceaseless flow.

II.

All save the rushing swell of Teio's tide,

Or, distant heard, a courser's neigh or tramp; Their changing rounds as watchful horsemen ride, To guard the limits of King Roderick's camp.

For, through the river's night fog rolling damp, Was many a proud pavilion dimly seen,

Which glimmered back, against the moon's fair lamp,

Tissues of silk and silver twisted sheen,

And standards proudly pitched, and warders armed between.

III.

But of their Monarch's person keeping ward, Since last the deep-mouthed bell of vespers

tolled,

The chosen soldiers of the royal guard

Their post beneath the proud Cathedral hold: A band unlike their Gothic sires of old,

Who, for the cap of steel and iron mace,

Bear slender darts, and casques bedecked with gold,

While silver-studded belts their shoulders grace, Where ivory quivers ring in the broad falchion's

place.

IV.

In the light language of an idle court,

They murmured at their master's long delay, And held his lengthened orisons in sport:"What! will Don Roderick here till morning stay,

To wear in shrift and prayer the night away?

And are his hours in such dull penance past