But vainly valiant Gomez cried "Now, by the God above me, sirs, "Yet ye who fear to follow me, "Olea, plant my standard here- "Forget not, as thou hop'st for grace, The last care I shall have Will be to hear thy battle-cry, 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 From the widowed wives of Aragon, 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 his dauntless standard shadowed him; Mace, sword, and axe rang on his mail, As, pierced with countless wounds he fell, 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 duty has been nobly done; "Spare pity, King of Aragon! "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 He hurled the broken hilt, and drew They hewed the hauberk from his breast, They hewed the hands from off his limbs; Clasping the standard to his heart, 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, A dozen engagements I've broken; That waits on the stairs for me yet. And you, sir, are turning your nose up, "And how do I like my position?" 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 papa's picture as taken And yet, just this moment, when sitting 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 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 And swam the North Fork, and all that, But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing! I'm spooning on Joseph,- heigh-ho! Good-night,- here's the end of my paper; That my heart's somewhere there in the ditches, - Bret Harte. THE BUGLE SONG The splendor falls on castle walls |