But vainly valiant Gomez cried
Across the waning fray:
Pale Lara and his craven band
To Burgos scoured away."

"Now, by the God above me, sirs,
Better we all were dead,
Than a single knight among ye all
Should ride where Lara led!

"Yet ye who fear to follow me,
As yon traitor, turn and fly;
For I lead ye not to win a field;
I lead ye forth to die.

"Olea, plant my standard here-
Here on this little mound;
Here raise the war-cry of thy house,
Make this our rallying ground.

"Forget not, as thou hop'st for grace, The last care I shall have

Will be to hear thy battle-cry,
And see that standard wave."
Down on the ranks of Aragon
The bold Gonzalez drove,
And Olea raised his battle-cry,
And waved the flag above.

Slowly Gonzalez' little band

Gave ground before the foe; But not an inch of the field was won Without a deadly blow;

And not an inch of the field was won
That did not draw a tear

From the widowed wives of Aragon,
That fatal news to hear.

Backward and backward Gomez fought,

And high o'er the clashing steel,

Plainer and plainer rose the cry,

"Olea for Castile!"

Backward fought Gomez, step by step,
Till the cry was close at hand,

Till his dauntless standard shadowed him;
And there he made his stand.

Mace, sword, and axe rang on his mail,
Yet he moved not where he stood,
Though each gaping joint of armor ran
A stream of purple blood.

As, pierced with countless wounds he fell,
The standard caught his eye,

And he smiled like an infant hushed asleep, To hear the battle-cry.

Now, one by one the wearied knights

Have fallen, or basely flown;

And on the mound where his post was fixed Olea stood alone.

"Yield up thy banner, gallant knight!
Thy lord lies on the plain;

Thy duty has been nobly done;
I would not see thee slain."

"Spare pity, King of Aragon!
I would not hear thee lie:
My lord is looking down from heaven
To see his standard fly."

"Yield, madman, yield! thy horse is down, Thou hast nor lance nor shield;

Fly! I will grant thee time." "This flag Can neither fly nor yield!"

They girt the standard round about,

A wall of flashing steel;

But still they heard the battle-cry,

"Olea for Castile!”

And there, against all Aragon,

Full armed with lance and brand,

Olea fought until the sword

Snapped in his sturdy hand.

Among the foe with that high scorn
Which laughs at earthly fears,

He hurled the broken hilt, and drew
His dagger on the spears.

They hewed the hauberk from his breast,
The helmet from his head;

They hewed the hands from off his limbs;
From every vein he bled.

Clasping the standard to his heart,
He raised one dying peal,

That rang as if a trumpet blew,

"Olea for Castile!"

-George H. Boker.

HER LETTER

I'm sitting alone by the fire,

Dressed just as I came from the dance,
In a robe even you would admire,—
It cost a cool thousand in France;
I'm be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:
In short, sir," the belle of the season
Is wasting an hour on you.

A dozen engagements I've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;
Likewise a proposal, half spoken,

That waits on the stairs for me yet.
They say he'll be rich,- when he grows up,—
And then he adores me indeed.

And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.

"And how do I like my position?"
"And what do I think of New York?"
"And now, in my higher ambition,

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?"

"And is n't it nice to have riches,

And diamonds, and silks, and all that?" "And are n't it a change to the ditches And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"

Each day in the park four-in-hand,-
If you saw poor, dear mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand,—

If you saw papa's picture as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that,-
You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier,—
In the bustle and glitter befitting

The "finest soirée of the year,"

In the mists of a gauze de Chambéry,

And the hum of the smallest of talk,Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry," And the dance that we had on "The Fork;"

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster

Of flags festooned over the wall;

Of the candles that shed their soft luster
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;
Of the steps that we took to one fiddle;
Of the dress of my queer vis-à-vis;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee;

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping

On the hill, when the time came to go; Of the few baby peaks that were peeping From under their bedclothes of snow; Of that ride, that to me was the rarest; Of the something you said at the gate,Ah, Joe, then I was n't an heiress

To "the best paying lead in the State."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion, and beauty, and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,
Of someone who breasted highwater,

And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!
(Mamma says my taste still is low,)
Instead of my triumphs reciting,

I'm spooning on Joseph,- heigh-ho!
And I'm to be "finished" by travel,-
Whatever's the meaning of that,-
Oh! why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat.

Good-night,- here's the end of my paper;
Good-night, if the longitude please,—
For maybe while wasting my taper,
Your sun's climbing over the trees.
But know if you have n't got riches,
And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,

That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches,
'And you've struck it, on Poverty Flat.

- Bret Harte.

THE BUGLE SONG

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!