With helm on head, and blade in hand,
The knights the circle break,
And back the lordlings 'gan to stand,
And the false king to quake.
"Ha! Bernard!" quoth Alphonso,
"What means this warlike guise?
Ye know full well I jested ;—
Ye know your worth I prize!"
But Bernard turned upon his heel,
And, smiling, passed away.
Long rued Alphonso and Castile
The jesting of that day!
49. THE TAKING OF WARSAW.
WHEN leagued Oppression poured to northern wars
Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars,
Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn;
Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
Presaging wrath to Poland-and to man !
Warsaw's last champion, from her height surveyed
Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,—
Oh! Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save:
Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
Yet, though destruction sweep these lovely plains,
Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,
And swear for her to live!-with her to die!
He said, and on the rampart-heights arrayed
His trusty warriors few, but undismayed!
Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm ;
Low, murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
Revenge or death, the watchword and reply;
Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm !—
In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few,
From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew :-
Oh! bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe!
Dropped from her nerveless the shattered spear,
Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career :—
Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
And Freedom shrieked-as Kosciusko fell.
The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage
Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air-
On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,
His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below:
The storm prevails, the ramparts yield away,
Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay;
Hark! as the smouldering piles with thunder fall,
A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call!
Earth shook-red meteors flashed along the sky,
And conscious nature shuddered at the cry!
Departed spirits of the mighty dead!
Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!
Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,
Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
And make her arm puissant as your own !
Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return
The patriot Tell--the Bruce of Bannockburn!
50. THE SONG OF MARION'S MEN.
OUR band is few, but true and tried,-
Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good green wood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.
Woe to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light, at midnight,
A strange and sudden fear:
When, waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,
And hear the tramp of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads-
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
"Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp-
A moment-and away,
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs;
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band,
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more,
Till we have driven the Briton
Forever from our shore.
51. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree,
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week out, week in, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the old kirk chimes,
When the evening sun is low.
And children, coming home from school,
Look in at the open door:
They love to see a flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks, that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes, on Sunday, to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard rough hand he wipes A tear from out his eyes.
Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes:
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus, at the flaming forge of Life,
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus, on its sounding anvil shaped,
Each burning deed, and thought.
Alaric stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted from its course that the body might be interred.
WHEN I am dead, no pageant train
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Nor worthless pomp of homage vain
Stain it with hypocritic tear;
For I will die as I did live,
Nor take the boon I cannot give.
Ye shall not pile, with servile toil,
Your monuments upon my breast,
Nor yet within the common soil
Lay down the wreck of power to rest;
Where man can boast that he has trod
the scourge of God.”
But ye the mountain stream shall turn,
And lay its secret channel bare,
And hollow, for your sovereign's urn,
A resting-place forever there:
Then bid its everlasting springs
Flow back upon the king of kings;
And never be the secret said,
Until the deep give up his dead.
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