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The Moors that saw it shouted, for esquire none was near,
To serve Diego at his need with falchion, mace, or spear.
Loud, loud he blew his bugle, sore troubled was his eye,
But, by God's grace, before his face there stood a tree full nigh;
An olive-tree with branches strong, close by the wall of Xeres, -
“ Yon goodly bough will serve, I trow," quoth Don Diego Perez.
A gnarled branch he soon did wrench down from that olive strong,
Which o'er his head-piece brandishing, he spurs among the throng;
Ah ha! full many a pagan must in his saddle reel !
What leech may cure, what beadsman shrive, if once that weight

ye feel ?

But when Don Alvar saw him thus bruising down the foe, Quoth he, “ I've seen some flail-armed men belabor barley so; Sure, mortal mould did ne'er enfold such mastery of power; Let's call Diego Perez THE POUNDER from this hour !”

LOCKHART.

XVII. – BALBOA'S DISCOVERY OF THE PACIFIC. From San Domingo's crowded wharf Fernandez' vessel bore, To seek in unknown lands afar the Indian's golden ore; And, hid among the freighted casks, where none might see or know, Was one of Spain's immortal men, three hundred years ago. But when the fading town and land had dropped below the sea, He met the captain face to face, and not a fear had he ! “ What villain thou?" Fernandez cried ; “and wherefore serve

us so ?” “ To be thy follower,” he replied,

three hundred years ago. He wore a manly form and face, a courage firm and bold, His words fell on his comrades' hearts like precious drops of gold : They saw not his ambitious soul ; he spoke it not — for, lo! He stood among the common ranks, three hundred years ago. But when Fernandez' vessel lay at golden Darien, A murmur, born of discontent, grew loud

the

men; And with the word there came the act; and with the sudden blow, They raised Balbo’a from the ranks, three hundred years ago. And while he took command beneath the banner of his lord, A mighty purpose grasped his soul, as he had grasped his sword: He saw the mountain's far blue height whence golden waters flow; Then with his men he scaled the crags, three hundred years ago.

among

THE DAYS OF YOUTH.

315

He led them up through tangled brakes, the rivulet's sliding bed, And through the storm of poisoned darts, from many an ambush

shed.; He gained the turret crag, alone, — and wept to see below An ocean, boundless and unknown, three hundred years ago. And while he raised upon the height the banner of his lord, The mighty purpose grasped him still, as still he grasped his sword; Then down he rushed with all his men, as headlong rivers flow, And plunged breast-deep into the sea, three hundred years ago. And while he held above his head the conquering flag of Spain, He waved his gleaming sword, and smote the waters of the main: For Rome! for Leon! for Castile! thrice gave the cleaving blow; And thus Bal-boʻa claimed the sea, three hundred years ago.

T. B, READ.

XVIII. — THE DAYS OF YOUTH.

Give me, O! give me back the days
When I-I, too, was young,
And felt, as they now feel, each coming hour,
New consciousness of power.
0! happy, happy time, above all praise !
Then thoughts on thoughts and crowding fancies sprung,
And found a language in unbidden lays ;
Unintermitted streams from fountains ever flowing !
Then, as I wandered free,
In every field, for me
Its thousand flowers were blowing !
A veil through which I did not see,
A thin veil o'er the world was thrown,-
In every bud a mystery!
Magic in every thing unknown!
The field, the grove, the air, was haunted,
And all that age has disenchanted !
Yes! give me — give me back the days of youth,
Poor, yet how rich !- my glad inheritance
The inextinguishable love of truth,
While life's realities were all romance !
Give me, O! give youth's passions unconfined,
The rush of joy that felt almost like pain,
Its hate, its love, its own tumultuous mind;
Give me my youth again!

GOETHE (translated by Anster).

XIX. -THE VENGEANCE OF MUDARA.

To the chase goes Rodrigo,* with hound and with hawk;
But what

game

he desires is revealed in his talk : “O, in vain have I slaughtered the Infants of Lăra ; There's an heir in his hall, — there's the stripling Mudăra, There's the son of the renegade,

spawn of Mahoun : If I meet with Mudăra, my spear brings him down.” While Rodrigo rides on in the heat of his wrath, A stripling, armed cap-à-pee, crosses his path : “Good-morrow, young esquire.”—“Good-morrow, old kright.” “ Will you ride with our party, and share our delight ? ”.

Speak your name, courteous stranger,” the young man replied ; Speak your name and your lineage, ere with you I ride." “ My name is Rodrigo," thus answered the knight; “Of the line of old Lăra, though barred from my right; For the kinsman of Salas proclaims for the heir Of our ancestor's castles and forestries fair A stripling, a renegade's offspring — Mudăra, Whom I'll send, if I can, to the Infants of Lăra.” “I behold thee, disgrace to thy lineage!-- with joy I behold thee, thou murderer!” answered the boy : • The stripling you curse, you behold him in me; But his brothers' avenger that stripling shall be. Draw! for I am the renegade's offspring — Mudăra, We shall see who inherits the life-blood of Lăra !” “I am armed for the forest chase- not for the fight;

for
my

shield and sword,” cries the knight.
“Now the mercy you dealt to my brothers of old, -
Be the hope of that mercy

the comfort you

hold! Die, foeman to Sancha die, traitor to Lăra ! " As he spake, there was blood on the spear of Mudăra.

LOCKHART (altered).

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XX. - THE PROGRESS OF MADNESS.

Stay, jailer! stay, and hear my woe!

He is not mad who kneels to thec;
For what I'm now too well I know,

And what I was - and what should be !

The i in this word has the sound of long e, as in me,

THE PROGRESS OF MADNESS.

317

I'll rave no more in proud despair

My language shall be mild, though sad; But yet I'll firmly, truly swear,

I am not mad! I am not mad ! My tyrant foes have forged the tale,

Which chains me in this dismal cell ! My fate unknown my friends bewail

O! jailer, haste that fate to tell ! 0! haste

my

father's heart to cheer ;
His heart at once 't will grieve and glad,
To know, though chained a captive here,

I am not mad! I am not mad !
He smiles in scorn he turns the key —
He quits the grate-

I knelt in vain !
His glimmering lamp still, still I see —

'T is gone -- and all is gloom again! Cold, bitter cold! --- no warmth, no light!

Life, all thy comforts once I had !
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,

Although not mad! no, no not mad! 'Tis sure some dream some vision vain !

What! I- the child of rank and wealth Am I the wretch who clanks this chain,

Bereft of freedom, friends, and health ? Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more my heart must glad, How aches my heart, how burns my

head !
But 't is not mad! it is not mad !
Hast thou, my child, forgot e'er this

A parent's face, a parent's tongue ?
I'll ne'er forget thy parting kiss,
Nor round
my neck how

fast you clung! Nor how with me you sued to stay,

Nor how that suit my foes forbăde ;
Nor how — I'll drive such thoughts away

They 'll make me mad! they'll make me mad!
Thy rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!

Thy mild blue eyes, how bright they shone !
None ever saw a lovelier child !
And art thou now for ever gone ?

And must I never see thee more,

My pretty,* gracious, noble lad ? -
I will be free! Unbar the door!

I am not mad! I am not mad !
O, hark! what mean those yells and cries ?

His chain some furious madman breaks !
He comes ! I see his glaring eyes !

Now, now, my dungeon grate he shakes!
Help! help!- he's gone! 0, fearful woe,

Such screams to hear, such sights to see !
My brain, my brain ! I know, I know,

I am not mad but soon shall be !
Yes, soon; for, lo! now, while I speak,

Mark how yon dēmon's eyeballs glare !
He sees me

– now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent high in air!
Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad !
Ay, laugh, ye fiends! I feel the truth!
Your task is done — I'm mad ! I'm mad !

M. G. LEWIS (attered).

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Enjoy the present smiling hour,

And put it out of fortune's power! The tide of business, like the morning stream,

Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,

And always in extreme.
Now with a noiseless gentle course
It keeps within the middle bed ;

Anon it lifts aloft the head,
And bears down all before it with impetuous force ;

And trunks of trees come rolling down ;

Sheep and their folds together drown:
Both house and homestead into seas are borne ;

And rocks are from their old foundations torn;
And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered honors mourn

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call to-day his own :
He who, secure within, can say,

* Pronounced prit'ty.

See Sargent's Standard Speller, p. 44.

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