If of the Boa species, couldst thou clasp
Within thy fold, and suffocate, a whale?
How long art thou?-Some sixty feet, they say,
And more-but how much more they do not know:
I fancy thou couldst reach across a bay
From head to head, a dozen miles or so.
Scales hast thou got, of course-but what's thy weight?
On either side 'tis said thou hast a fin,
A crest, too, on thy neck, deponents state,
A saw-shaped ridge of flabby, dabby skin.
If I could clutch thee-in a giant's grip-
Could I retain thee in that grasp sublime?
Wouldst thou not quickly through my fingers slip,
Being all over glazed with fishy slime?
Hast thou a forked tongue-and dost thou hiss
If ever thou art bored with Ocean's play?
And is it the correct hypothesis
That thou of gills or lungs dost breathe by way?
What spines, or spikes, or claws, or nails, or fin,
Or paddle, Ocean-Serpent, dost thou bear?
What kind of teeth show'st thou when thou dost grin ?—
A set that probably would make one stare.
What is thy diet? Canst thou gulp a shoal
Of herrings? Or hast thou the gorge and room
To bolt fat porpoises and dolphins, whole,
By dozens, e'en as oysters we consume ?
As a dead whale, but as a whale, though dead,
Thy floating bulk a British crew did strike;
And, so far, none will question what they said,
That thou unto a whale wast very like.
A flock of birds a record, rather loose,
Describes as hovering o'er thy lengthy hull;
Among them, doubtless, there was many a Goose,
And also several of the genus Gull.
THE feast is o'er! Now brimming wine
In lordly cup is seen to shine
Before each eager guest;
And silence fills the crowded hall,
As deep as when the herald's call,
Thrills in the loyal breast.
Then up arose the noble host,
And smiling cried: "A toast! a toast!
To all our ladies fair!
Here, before all, I pledge the name
Of Staunton's proud and beauteous dame,-
The Ladye Gundamere!"
Then to his feet each gallant sprung,
And joyous was the shout that rung,
As Stanley gave the word;
And every cup was raised on high,
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry,
Till Stanley's voice was heard.
"Enough, enough," he smiling said,
And lowly bent his haughty head;
"That all may have their due,
Now each, in turn, must play his part,
And pledge the lady of his heart,
Like gallant knight and true!"
Then, one by one, each guest sprang up,
And drained in turn the brimming cup,
And named the loved one's name;
And each, as hand on high he raised,
His lady's grace or beauty praised,
Her constancy and fame.
'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise;
On him are fixed those countless eyes;→
A gallant knight is he;
Envied by some, admired by all,
Far famed in lady's bower, and hall,-
The flower of chivalry.
St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
And lifts the sparkling cup on high:
"I drink to one," he said,
"Whose image never may depart,
Deep graven on this grateful heart,
Till memory be dead.
To one whose love for me shall last
When lighter passions long have past,-
So holy 'tis and true;
To one whose love hath longer dwelt,
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt,
Than any pledged by you."
Each guest upstarted at the word,
And laid a hand upon his sword,
With fury-flashing eye;
And Stanley said: "We crave the name,
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame,
Whose love you count so high."
St. Leon paused, as if he would
Not breathe her name in careless mood,
Thus lightly, to another;
Then bent his noble head, as though
To give that word the reverence duc,
And gently said: "My Mother!"
Ex. CXXXIV.-DEATH OF DE ARGENTINE.
The scene is that of the battle of Bannockburn, in which Robert Bruce king of Scotland, defeated the English army under king Edward.
ALREADY Scattered o'er the plain,—
Reproof, command, and counsel, vain,-
The rearward squadrons fled amain,
Or made but doubtful stay :-
In vain the royal Edward threw
His person inid the spears,
And forced him from the fatal plain.
With them rode Argentine, until
They gained the summit of the hill,
But quitted there the train :-
"In yonder field a gage I left,-
I must not live, of fame bereft;
I needs must turn again.
Speed hence, my liege, for on your trace,
The fiery Douglas takes the chase,
I know his banner well.
God send my sovereign joy and bliss,
And many a happier field than this:-
Once more, my liege, farewell!”
Again he faced the battle-field,-
Wildly they fly, are slain, or yield.
"Now then," he said, and couched his spear,
"My course is run,-the goal is near:
One effort more, one brave career,
Must close this race of mine!"
Then in his stirrups rising high,
He shouted loud his battle-cry,
"Saint James for Argentine !"
And, of the bold pursuers, four
The gallant knight from saddle bore;
But not unharmed;-a lance's point
Has found his breast-plate's loosened joint,
An axe has razed his crest;
But still on Colonsay's fierce lord,
Who pressed the chase with gory sword,
He rode with spear in rest,
And through his bloody tartans bored,
And through his gallant breast.
Nailed to the earth, the mountaineer
Yet writhed him up against the spear,
And swung his broadsword round!
-Stirrup, steel-boot, and cuish gave way
Beneath that blow's tremendous sway,—
The blood gushed from the wound;
And the grim lord of Colonsay
Had turned him on the ground,
And laughed in death-pang, that his blade
The mortal thrust so well repaid.
Now toiled the Bruce, the battle done,
To use his conquest boldly won;
And gave command for horse and spear
Το press the southron's scattered rear,
Nor let his broken force combine,
-When the war-cry of Argentine
Fell faintly on his ear!
Save, save his life," he cried, "Oh! save
The kind, the noble, and the brave!"
The squadrons round free passage gave;
The wounded knight drew near.
He raised his red-cross shield no more;
Helm, cuish, and breast-plate, streamed with gore;
Yet, as he saw the king advance,
He strove, even then, to couch his lance:
The effort was in vain!
The spur-stroke failed to rouse the horse;
Wounded and weary, in mid course
He stumbled on the plain.
Then foremost was the generous Bruce,
To raise his head, his helm to loose.
Lord, carl, the day is thine!
My sovereign's charge, and adverse fate,
Have made our meeting all too late:
Yet this may Argentine,
As boon from ancient comrade, crave,-
A Christian's mass, a soldier's grave."-
Bruce pressed his dying hand-its grasp
Kindly replied; but, in his clasp,
It stiffened and grew cold;
And, "O! farewell!" the victor cried,
"Of chivalry the flower and pride,
The arm in battle bold,
The courteous mien, the noble race,
The stainless faith, the manly face!-
Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine,
For late-wake of De Argentine.
O'er better knight, on death-bier laid,
Torch never gleamed, nor mass was said!"
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