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A lion would have crouched to in his lair.
And laid it on his brow, and said, “ Be clean !”
A POETESS'S PICTURE OF A COUNTRY LIFE.
Ev'N now, methinks,
Each little cottage of my native vale
And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls,
Aye, and within it, too, do fairies dwell.
Peep through its wreathed window, if, indeed,
The flowers grow not too close; and there within,
Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk
Those are my mountain elves. Seest thou not
I'll gather round my board
Shall have its suited pastime: even winter
THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.-F. HEMANS.
THEY grew in beauty, side by side,
Their graves are sever'd, far and wide,
The same fond mother bent at night
She had each folded flower in sight-
One 'midst the forests of the west,
The Indian knows his place of rest,
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He was the lov'd of all, yet none
One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd
He wrapt his colors round his breast
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
And parted thus, they rest who play'd
They that with smiles lit up the hall
And cheer'd with song the hearth—
And nought beyond, on earth!
BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.-F. HEMANS.
THE warrior bow'd his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long imprison'd sire;
"I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, I bring thee faith, my liege, my lord!-oh, break my father's chain!"
"Rise, rise! ev'n now thy father comes, a ransom'd man this day, Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way.” Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.
And lo! from far, as on they press'd, there came a glittering band, With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land; "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there in very truth is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn'd so long to see.”
His dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heav'd, his cheek's blood came and went;
He reach'd that grey-hair'd chieftain's side, and there dismount
A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,—
That hand was cold—a frozen thing-it dropp'd from his like lead,
He look'd up to the face above,—the face was of the dead!
Up from the ground he sprung, and gaz'd, but who could paint that gaze?
They hush'd their very hearts that saw its horror and amaze; They might have chain'd him, as before that stony form he stood, For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.
"Father!" at length, he murmur'd low, and wept like childhood then :
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men !— He thought on all his glorious hopes, on all his young renown,― He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.
Then, covering, with his steel-glov'd hands, his darkly mournful brow,
"No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword for, nowMy king is false, my hope betray'd, my father-oh! the worth, The glory, and the loveliness, are pass'd away from earth!
“I thought to stand where banners wav'd, my sire! beside thee yet,
I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met; Thou wouldst have known my spirit then,-for thee my fields
And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as if thou hadst no son."
Then starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein,
Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the courtier train ; And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the raging war-horse led, And sternly set them face to face,—the king before the dead!
"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-give answer, where are they?
If thou wouldst clear thy perjur'd soul, send life through this cold clay!
"Into these glassy eyes put light,-be still! keep down thine ire,— Bid these white lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my sire! Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed,
Thou canst not—and a king?—His dust be mountains on thy head!"
He loos'd the steed; his slack hand fell ;-upon the silent face He cast one long, deep, troubled look,-then turn'd from tha sad place:
His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in martial strain,— His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain!