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Her infant raised his hands, with glistening eye, Beside the grave stood aged Izdabel, To reach a large and radiant butterfly,

| And broke the spear, and cried, “ Farewell fareThat futter'd near his face; with looks of love,

well !-" And truth and tenderness, Lautaro strove

Lautaro hid his face, and sigh'd “ Adieu !" To calm her wounded heart; the holy sire, As the stone hatchet in the grave he threw, His eyes faint lighted with a transient fire, The little child, that to its mother clung, Hung o'er them, and to Heaven his prayer addrest, With sidelong looks, that on her garment hung, While, with uplifted hands, he wept and blest. Listen'd, half-shrinking, as with awe profound, An Indian came, with feathers crown'd,

And dropt its flowers, unconscious, on the ground. And knelt before Lautaro on the ground.

The alpaca, now grown old, and almost wild, “ What tidings, Indian ?"

Which poor Olola cherish'd, when a child,

Came from the mountains, and with earnest gaze, INDIAN

Seem'd as remembering those departed days, “When I led thy sire, When his tall neck be bent, with aspect bland, Whom late thou saw'st upon his shield expire,

And lick’d, in silence, the caressing hand! Son of our ulmen, didst thou mark no trace,

And now Anselmo, his pale brow inclined, In these sad looks, of a remember'd face?

The warrior's relics, dust to dust, consign'd Dost thou remember Izdabel? Look, here!

With Christian rites, and sung, on bending knee, It is thy father's hatchet and his spear.”

“ Eternam pacem dona, Domine.” “ Friend of my infant days, how I rejoice," Then rising up, he closed the holy book; Lautaro cried, “ once more to hear that voice!

And lifting in the beam his lighted look, Life like a dream, since last we met, has fed (The cross, with meekness, folded on his breast,) 0! my beloved sister, thou art dead !"

“ Here, too,” he cried, “ my bones in peace shall

rest! INDIAN

Few years remain to me, and never more “I come to guide thee, through untrodden ways,

Shall I behold, 0 Spain! thy distant shore ! To the lone valley, where thy father's days

Here lay my bones, that the same tree may wave

O'er the poor Christian's and the Indian's grave. Were pass'd; where every cave, and every tree, From morn to morn, remember'd him of thee !"

| Then may it--(when the sons of future days Lautaro cried, “Here, faithful Indian, stay;

Shall hear our tale, and on the hillock gaze,) I have a last sad duty yet to pay,

Then may it teach, that charity should bind, A little while we part :- Thou here remain :".

Where'er they roam, the brothers of mankind ! He spake, and pass'd like lightning o'er the plain.

The time shall come, when wildest tribes shall hear

| Thy voice, () Christ! and drop the slaughtering * Ah, cease, Castilian maid! thy vain alarms! See where he comes—his father in his arms!”

spear. * Now lead,” he cried. The Indian, sad and still,

* Yet, we condenın not him who bravely stood, Paced on from wood to vale, from vale to hill;

| To seal his country's freedom with his blood; Her infant tired, and hush'd a while to rest,

And if, in after-times, a ruthless band

Of fell in vaders sweep my native land,
Smiled, in a dream, upon its mother's breast;

May she, by Chili's stern example led,
The pensive mother gray Anselmo led :
Bebind, Lautaro bore his father dead.

Hurl back his thunder on th' assailant's head;

Sustain'd by freedom, strike th' avenging blow, Beneath the branching palms they slept at night;

| And learn one virtue from her ancient foe !" The small birds waked them ere the morning

light. Before their path, in distant view, appear'd

EPILOGUE. The mountain smoke, that its dark column rear'd These notes I sung when strove indignant Spain O'er Andes' summits, in the pale blue sky,

To rend th' abhorr'd invader's iron chain ! Lifting their icy pinnacles so bigb.

With beating heart, we listen’d from afar Four days they onward held their eastern way: To each faint rumour of the various war ; On the fifth rising morn before them lay

Now trembled, lest her fainting sons should yield; Chillan's lone glen, amid whose windings green Now follow'd thee to the ensanguined field; The warrior's loved and last abode was seen. Thee, most heroic Wellington, and cried, No smoke went up -stillness was all around, When Salamanca's plain in shouts replied, Save where the waters fell with soothing sound, “All is not lost! The scatter'd eagles fly-Save where the thenca sung so loud and clear, All is not lost! England and victory!” And the bright humming-bird was spinning near. Hark! the noise hurtles in the frozen north! Yet here all human tumults seem'd to cease, France pours again her banner'd legions forth, And sunshine rested on the spot of peace ;

With trump, and plumed horsemen! Whence that The myrtles bloom'd as fragrant and as green

cry? As if Lautaro scarce had left the scene,

Lo! ancient Moscow naming to the sky! And in his ear the falling water's spray

Imperial fugitive! back to the gates Seem'd swelling with the sounds of yesterday. Of Paris ! while despair the tale relates,

“ Where yonder rock the aged cedars shade, Of dire discomfiture, and shame, and flight, There shall my father's bones in peace be laid.” And the dead, bleaching on the snows of night

Beneath the cedar's shade they dug the ground; Shout! for the heart ennobling transport fills ! The small and sad communion gather'd round. Conquest's red tanner floats along the hills

That gird the guilty city! Shout amain,

| Mountains of inmost Afric, where no ray For Europe,-England,-for deliver'd Spain ! Hath ever pierced, from Beth’lem's star of day, Shout, for a world avenged !

Savages, fierce with clubs, and shaggy hair,

The toil is o'er, Who woods and thickets with the lion share, Enough wide earth hath reek'd with human gore Hark! the glad echoes of the cliffs repeat, At Waterloo, amidst the countless dead,

“ How beauteous, in the desert, are the feet The war-fiend gave his last loud shriek, and fled. Of them, who bear, o'er wastes and trackless sands, Thou stood'st in front, my country! on that day Tidings of mercy to remotest lands !" Of horrors; thou more awful didst display

Patiently plodding, the Moravian mild Thy long-tried valour, when from rank to rank Sees stealing culture creep along the wild Death hurrying strode, and that vast army shrank And twice ten thousand leagues o'er ocean's roar, Soldiers of England, the dread day is won! And far from friends whom he may see no more, Soldiers of England, on, brave comrades, on! Constructs the warmer but, or delves the sod; Pursue them! Yes, ye did pursue, till night Cheerful, as still beneath the eye of God. Hid the foul rout of their disastrous flight.

Where, muttering spoil, or death, the Caffre prowl'd, Halt on this hill-your wasted strength repair, Or moonlight wolves, a gaunt assembly, howľa, And close your labours, to the well known air, No sounds are heard along the champaign wide, Which e'en your children sing, "O Lord, arise !" But one small chapel bell, at eventide, Peals the long line, " Scatter his enemies !" Whilst notes unwonted linger in the air, Back to the scenes of home, the evening fire, The songs of Sion, or the voice of prayer! Or May-day sunshine on the village spire,

And thou, the light of God's eternal word, The blissful thought by that loved air is led, Record, and Spirit of the living Lord, Here heard amidst the dying and the dead.* Hid and unknown from half the world, at length,

'Twas when affliction with cold shadow hung Rise like the sun, and go forth in thy strength! On half the wasted world, these notes I sung. Already towering o'er old Ganges stream, Thus pass'd the storm, and o’er a night of woes 4 The dark pagoda brightens in thy beam: More beautiful the morn of freedom rose.

And the dim eagles, on the topmost height Now with a sigh, I close, alas ! the strain,

Of Jaggernaut, shine as in morning light! And mourn thy fate, abused, insulted Spain ! Beyond the snows of savage Labrador When, for stern Valour, baring his bold breast, The ray pervades pale Greenland's wintry shoreI see wan Bigotry, in monkish vest,t

The demon spell, that bound the slumbering sense,
Point, scowling, to the dungeon's gloom, and wave Dissolves before its holy influence,
The sword insulting o'er the fallen brave,

As the gray rock of ice, a shapeless heap,
(The sword of him who foreign hate withstood, Thaws in the sunshine of the summer deep.
Whose point yet drops with the invader's blood,) Proceed, auspicious and eventful day!
Then, where yon darkt tribunal shames the day, Banner of Christ, thy ampler folds display!
Hurl it with curses and with scorn away!

Let Atlas shout with Andes, and proclaim
Turn from the thought: and if one generous heart To earth, and sea, and skies, a Saviour's name,
In these fictitious scenes has borne a part,

Till angel voices in the sound shall blend,
For the poor Indian in remotest lands,

And one hosanna from all worlds ascend!
The sable slave, that lifts his bleeding hands,
For wretchedness, and ignorance, and need,
0! let the aged missionary plead!

The tale is told—a tale of days of yore,
The soldier—the gray father-are no more ;

The Cid is sitting, in martial state,
And the brief shades, that pleased a while the eye

Within Valentia's wall; Are faded, like the landscapes of the sky.

And chiefs of high renown attend Yet may the moral still remain impress'd

The knightly festival. To warm the patriot, or the pious breast.

Brave Alvar Fanez, and a troop Where'er aggression marches, may the brave

Of gallant men, were there; Rush unappall’d their father's land to save!

And there came Donna Ximena, Where sounds of glad salvation are gone out

His wife and daughters fair.
Unto all lands, as with an angel's shout,

When the foot-page bent on his knee,
May holy zeal its energies employ!
Rocks of Saldanna, break forth into joy!

What tidings brought he then ??

“Morocco's king is on the seas, Isles, o'er the waste of desert ocean strown,

With fifty thousand men.” Rivers, that sweep through shades and sands unknown,

“ Now God be praised !" the Cid he cried,

* Let every hold be stored :

Let fly the holy gonfalon, * Alluding to a most interesting fact in the history of

And give 'St. James,' the word.” that eventful struggle, closed by the national air of God save the King.

† Alluding to the unjust treatment of those brave men * Referred to in p. 505. who saved the life and the throne of a bigoted and un-' + Compare with Southey's admirable translation of the grateful prince.

Cid. The Inquisition.

Banner consecrated by the pope.

And ambush with three hundred men,

Ere the first cock does crow : “ And when against the Moorish men

The Cid leads up his powers,-
We, rushing from the hollow glen,

Will fall on them with ours."
This counsel pleased the chieftain well:

He said, it should be so;
And the good bishop should sing mass,

Ere the first cock did crow.
The day is gone, the night is come ;

At cock-crow all appear
In Pedro's church to shrive themselves,

And holy mass to hear :
On Santiago there they callid,

To hear them and to save;
And that good bishop, at the mass,

Great absolution gave. “Fear not,” he cried, “ when thousands bleed,

When horse on man shall roll! Whoever dies, I take his sips,

And God shall save his soul.

And now, upon the turret high,

Was heard the signal drum;
And loud the watchman blew his trump,

And cried, “ They come! they come !"
The Cid then raised his sword on high,

And by God's mother swore,
These walls, hard-gotten, he would keep,

Or bathe their base in gore.
“My wife, my daughter, what, in tears!

Nay, hang not thus your head;
For you shall see how well we fight;

How soldiers earn their bread.
“ We will go out against the Moors,

And crush them in your sight;" And all the Christians shouted loud,

“May God defend the right !”
He took his wife and daughter's hand,

So resolute was he,
And led them to the highest tower

That overlooks the sea.
They saw how vast a pagan power

Came sailing o'er the brine;
They saw, beneath the morning light,

The Moorish crescents shine.
These ladies then grew deadly pale,

As heart-struck with dismay;
And when they heard the tambours beat,

They turn’d their head away.
The thronged streamers glittering flew,

The sun was shining bright,
“Now cheer,” the valiant Cid he cried;

“ This is a glorious sight!"
Whilst thus, with shuddering look aghast,

These fearful ladies stood,
The Cid he raised his sword, and cried,

* All this is for your good.
“ Ere fifteen days are gone and past,

If God assist the right,
Those tambours that now sound to scare,

Shall sound for your delight.”
The Moors who press'd beneath the towers

Now “ Allah! Allah !" sung; Each Christian knight his broad-sword drew,

And loud the trumpets rung. Then up, the noble Cid bespoke

“Let each brave warrior go, And arm himself, in dusk of morn,

Ere chanticleer shall crow;
“And in the lofty minster church,

On Santiago call, -
That good Bishoppe Hieronymo,*

Shall there absolve you all.
“ But let us prudent counsel take,

In this eventful hour :
For yon proud infidels, I ween,

They are a mighty power.”
Then Alvar Fanez counsellid well,

“We will deceive the foe,

“ A boon! a boon !” the bishop cried,

“ I have sung mass to-day; Let me be foremost in the fight,

And lead the bloody fray." Now Alvar Fanez and his men

Had gain’d the thicket's shade; And, with hush'd breath and anxious eye,

Had there their ambush laid.
Four thousand men, with trump, and shout,

Forth issued from the gate;
Where my brave Cid, in harness bright,

On Baviéca sate.
They pass’d the ambush on the left,

And march'd o'er dale and down,
Till soon they saw the Moorish camp

Betwixt them and the town.
My Cid then spurr'd his horse, and set

The battle in array.
The first beam on his standard shone

Which Pero bore that day
When this the Moors astonied saw,

“Allah !” began their cry:
The tambours beat, the cymbals rung,

As they would rend the sky.

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• The common phraseology of the old metrical nallad

| That laves the pebbled shore : and now the beam

Of evening smiles on the gray battlement,

And yon forsaken tower* that time has rent:
The lifted oar far off with silver gleam
Is touch'd, and hush'd is all the billowy deep!

Soothed by the scene, thus on tired nature's breast

A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest; While sea-sounds lull her, as she sinks to sleep, Like melodies which mourn upon the lyre, Waked by the breeze, and, as they mourn, expire !



Now Alvar Fanez, and his men,

Who crouch'd in thickets low,
Leap'd up, and, with the lightning glance,

Rush'd on the wavering foe.
The Moors, who saw their pennons gay

All waving in the wind,
Fled in despair, for still they fear'd

A greater host behind.
The crescent sinks “Pursue! pursue !

Haste-spur along the plain!
See where they fall-see where they lie,

Never to rise again.”
Of fifty thousand who, at morn,

Came forth in armour bright,
Scarce fifteen thousand souls were left,

To tell the tale at night.
My Cid then wiped his bloody brow,

And thus was heard to say,
“Well, Baviéca,* hast thou sped,

My noble horse! to-day.”
If thousands then escaped the sword,

Let none my Cid condemn;
For they were swept into the sea,

And the surge went over them.
There's many a maid of Tetuan

All day shall sit and weep;
But never see her lover's sail

Shine on the northern deep.
There's many a mother, with her babe,

Shall pace the sounding shore,
And think upon its father's smile,

Whom she shall see no more.
Rock, hoary ocean, mournfully,

Upon thy billowy bed;
For, dark and deep, thy surges sweep

O'er thousands of the dead.

Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep,

Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,

Though hurrying silent by, relentless time Assail you, and the winter whirlwind's sweep! For far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls,

Here Charity hath fix'd her chosen seat,

Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat With hollow bodings round your ancient walls; And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour

Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower,

And turns her ear to each expiring cry;
Blest if her aid some sainting wretch might save,
And snatch him cold and speechless from the




WHILE slowly wanders thy sequester'd stream,

Wensbeck! the mossy-scatter'd rocks among,

In fancy's ear still making plaintive song
To the dark woods above, that waving seem

* Tynemouth priory and castle, Northumberland. - The

remains of this monastery are sitnated on a high rocky SONNETS WRITTEN CHIEFLY DU- point, on the north side of the entrance into the river

Tyne, about a mile and a half below North-Shields. The RING VARIOUS JOURNEYS.*

exalted rock on which the monastery stood rendered it

visible at sea a long way off, in every direction, whence IN TWO PARTS.

it presented itself as if exhorting the seamen in danger to

make their vows, and promise masses and presents to the Cantantes, licet usque, minus via lædet, eamus.

Virgin Mary and St. Oswin for their deliverance.

† This very ancient castle, with its extensive domains,

Virgil Still let us soothe our travel with a strain.

heretofore the property of the family of Forster, whose Warton.

heiress married Lord Crewe, bishop of Durham, is appropriated by the will of that pious prelate to many benero.

lent purposes; particularly that of ministering instant PART 1.

relief to such shipwrecked mariners as may happen to be

cast on this dangerous coast, for whose preservation, and SONNET

that of their vessels, every possible assistance is contrived, WRITTEN AT TYNEMOUTH, NORTHUMBERLAND, AFTER and is at all times ready. The whole estate is vested in A TEMPESTUOUS VOYAGE,

the hands of trustees, one of whom, Dr. Sharp, archdeacon

of Northumberland, with an active zeal well suited to the As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,

nature of the humane institution, makes this castle his Much musing on the track of terror past,

chief residence, attending with unwearied diligence to When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,

the proper application of the charity.

The Wensbeck is a romantic and sequestered river Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide

in Northumberland. On its banks is situated our Lady's

Chapel. “The remains of this small chapel, or oratorys * His favourite horse.

(says Grose.) stand in a shady solitude, on the north bank + These sonnets were dedicaied "To the Rev. Newton of the Wensbeck, about three-quarters of a mile west of Ogle, D D., Dean of Winchester.-Donhead, Wilts, Nov, Bothall, in a spot admirably calculated for meditation. 1797 »

| It was probably built by one of the Barons Ogle." This

To bend o'er some enchanted spot; removed
From life's vain coil, I listen to the wind,

And think I hear meek sorrow's plaint, reclined

ON LEAVING A VILLAGE IN SCOTLAND. O'er the forsaken tomb of one she loved ! Fair scenes ! ye lend a pleasure, long unknown, CEYSDALE, as thy romantic vales I leave, To him who passes weary on his way

And bid farewell to each retiring hill, The farewell tear, which now he turns to pay, 1 Where fond attention seems to linger still, Shall thank you ;--and whene'er of pleasures flown | Tracing the broad bright landscape ; much I grieve His heart some long-lost image would renew, | 'That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no more Delightful haunts ! he will remember you.

I may return your varied views to mark,

Of rocks amid the sunshine towering dark,

Of rivers winding wild,* and mountains hoar, SONNET.

Or castle gleaming on the distant steep

For this a look back on thy hills I cast,

And many a soften'd image of the past

Pleased I combine, and bid remembrance keep, O TWEED! a stranger, that with wandering feet

To soothe me with fair views and fancies rude, O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile

When I pursue my path in solitude.
(If so his weary thoughts he might beguile,)
Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet.
The waving branches that romantic bend
O'er thy tall banks,* a soothing charm bestow;

The murmurs of thy wandering wave below
Seem to his ear the pity of a friend.

TO THE RIVER ITCHIN, NEAR WINTON. Delightful stream ! though now along thy shore,

ITChin,t when I behold thy banks again,
When spring returns in all her wonted pride,
The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more,

Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast,

On which the selfsame tints still seem'd to rest, Yet here with pensive peace could I abide,t

Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain ? Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,

Is it—that many a summer's day has past To muse upon thy banks at eventide.

Since, in life's morn, I carolld on thy side ?

Is it-that oft, since then, my heart has sigh’d,

As youth, and hope's delusive gleams, flew fast ? SONNET.

Is it--that those, who circled on thy shore, EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend,

Companions of my youth, now meet no more? Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still, Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend, The lonely battlement, and farthest hill

Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart, And wood, I think of those that have no friend, | As at the meeting of some long-lost friend, Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led,

From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part. From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure

Retiring, wander ’mid thy lonely haunts

Unseen; and watch the tints that o'er thy bed
Hang lovely, to their pensive fancy's eye | O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye,

Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind | Thy cheerless mien, of every charm bereft,

Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind, Thy brow that hope's last traces long have left, Nor hear the hourly moans of misery!

| Vain fortune's feeble sons with terror fly; Ah! beauteous views, that hope's fair gleams the I love thy solitary haunts to seek :while

For pity, reckless of her own distress; Should smile like you, and perish as they smile! And patience, in the pall of wretchedness,

That turns to the bleak storin her faded cheek; river is thus beautifully characterized by Akenside, who And piety, that never told her wrong; was horn near it:

And meek content, whose griess no more rebel ; " ye Northumbrian shades, which overlook

And genius, warbling sweet her saddest song;
The rocky pavement, and the mossy falls

And sorrow, listening to a lost friend's knell,
Of solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream!
How gladly I recall your well known seats

Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng;
Beloved of old, and that delighuful time

With thee, and thy unfriended offspring, dwell.
When all alone, for many a summer's day,
I wander'd through your calm recesses, led

* There is a wildness almost fantastic in the view of in silence by some powerful hand unseen."

the river from Stirling Castle, the course of which is seen Written on passing the Tweed at Kelso, where the for many miles, making a thousand turnings. scenery is much more picturesque than it is near Berwick, † The Itchin is a river running from Winchester to the more general route of travellers into Scotland. It was Southampton, the banks of which have been the scene of a beautiful and still autumnal eve when we passed. many a holiday sport. The lines were composed on an

simple and affecting pastoral strains evening in a journey from Oxford to Southam for which Scotland has seen so long celebrated. I need time I had seen the Itchin since I left school. not mention Lochaber, the braes of Ballendine, Tweed- We remember them as friends from whom we were side etc.

sorry ever to have parted. --Smith's Theory.

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