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To-MORROW, do thy worst, for I have lived TO-DAY!

Be fair or foul, or rain or shine,
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.

Not heaven itself upon the past has power ;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour,

Fortune, that with malicious joy

her slave, oppress,
Proud of her office to destroy,

Is seldom pleased to bless :

Still various, and inconstant still, But with an inclination to be iil,

Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,

And makes a lottery of life.
I can enjoy her while she's kind;
But when she dances in the wind,

And shakes her wings and will not stay,

I puff the runagate away:
The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned :

Content with poverty, my soul I arm;

And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm. What is ’t to me, who never sail in her unfaithful sea, If storms arise, and clouds grow

black; If the mast split, and threaten wreck ? Then let the greedy merchant fear

For his ill-gotten gain;

And pray to gods that will not hear,
While the debating winds and billows bear

His wealth into the main.
For me, secure from fortune's blows,
Secure of what I cannot lose,
In my small pinnace I can sail.

Contemning all the blustering roar :
And running with a merry gale,
With friendly stars my safety seek
Within some little winding creek,

And see the storm ashore.


THERE is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded - it sank on the land,
It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every


The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless clay-more' is but reddened with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.
The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.
But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glen-aľadale's peaks are illumed with the rays,
And the streams of Glen-fin'nan leap bright in the blaze.
O, high-minded Mo'ray!- the exiled !--the dear! -
In the blush of the dawning the STANDARD uprear !
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it ily,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!
Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the agëd remind you to wake ?
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.
Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!
"Tis the bugle

- but not for the chase is the call; 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons — but not to the hall. 'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath ; They call to the dirk, the clay-more', and the targe, To the march and the muster, the line and the charge. Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire! May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire ! Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore! Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more !


XXIII. THE LORD OF BUTRAGO. The incident to which the following ballad relates is supposed to have occurred on the

famous field of Aljubarrota, where King Juan the First, of Castile, was defeated by the Portuguese. The king, who was at the time in a feeble state of health, exposed himself very much during the action ; and, being wounded, had great difficulty in making

The battle was fought A. D. 1385. Your horse is faint, my king — my lord! Your gallant horse is sick,His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick ;

his escape.



Mount, mount ou mine, — 0, mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly! Or in my arms I 'll lift your grace, — their trampling hoofs are nigh ! “My king — my king ! you ’re wounded sore : the blood runs from your

feet ;

But only lay a hand before, and I 'll lift you to your seat :
Mount, Juan, for they gather fast! I hear their coming cry!
Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy — I'll save you, though I die !

Stand, noble steed! this hour of need be gentle as a lamb :
I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth — thy master, dear, I am !
Mount, Juan, mount! whate'er betide ; away the bridle fling,
And plunge the rowels in his side! My horse shall save my king !

Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours,
And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures :
If I should fly, and thou, my king, be found among the dead,
How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head ?
“ Castile’s proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain,
And say, There 's one who ran away when our good king was slain !
I leave Diego in your care ; you 'll fill his father's place :
Strike, strike the spur, and never spare ! God's blessing on your grace !”
So spake the brave Montanez, - Butrago's lord was he,
And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee ;
He flung himself among them as they came down the hill;
He fought- he died, but not before his sword had drunk its fill!



HAVE ye heard of King Alfonzo — how he pledged his royal truth
To restore Bernardo's father, Don Sancho, to the youth ?
But when Bernardo, full of hope, came forth his sire to hail,
He found his stiffened corpse instead, on horseback, clad in mail !
With some good ten of his chosen men Bernardo hath appeared,
Before them all in the palace hall, the lying king to beard :
With cap in hand and eye on ground, he came in reverend guise,
But ever and anon he frowned, and flame broke from his eyes !
“ A curse upon thee,” cries the king, “ who com’st unbid to me!
But what from traitor's blood should spring, save traitor like to thee ?
His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart, perchance our champion brave
May think it were a pious part to share Don Sancho's grave.”

Whoever told this tale the king, hath rashness to repeat,”
Cries Bernard; —“ here my gage I fling before the liar's feet !
No trenson was in Sancho's blood, - do stain in mine doth lie :
Below the throne what knight will own the coward calumny?

* To introduce the subject more distinctly to the hearer, we have added the first stanza above to Lockhart's admirable version.

Ye swore, upon your kingly faith, to set my father free ; But, curse upon your paltering breath! the light he ne'er did see : He died in dungeon cold and dim, by Alfonzo's base decree ; And visage blind, and stiffened limb, were all they gave to me. “ The king that swerveth from his word hath stained his purple black : No Spanish lord will draw the sword behind a liar's back. But noble vengeance shall be mine ; an open hate I 'll show; The king hath injured Carpio's line, and Bernard is his foe!” “ Seize - seize him!” loud the king doth scream : " there are a thousand

here ; Let his foul blood this instant stream ! — What! caitiffs, do ye fear ? Seize, seize the traitor !” But not one to move a finger dareth : Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his sword he bareth. He drew the falchion from its sheath, and held it up on high ;* And all the hall was still as death. Cries Bernard, “ Here am I; And here's the sword that owns no lord, excepting Heaven and me : Fain would I know who dares its point, — king, condé, or grandee.” Then to his mouth his horn he drew (it hung below his cloak) ; His ten true men the signal knew, and through the ring they broke. With helm on head, and blade in hand, the knights the circle brake, And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, and the false king to quake. “ Ha ! Bernard !” quoth Alfonzo,“ what means this warlike guise ? Ye know full well I jested ; - - ye know your worth I prize!” But Bernard turned upon his heel, and, smiling, passed away: Long rued Alfonzo and Castile the jesting of that day ! LOCKHART.

URGE me no more —

your prayers are in vain,
And even the tears ye shed;
When Regʻulus can lead again

The bands that once he led ;
When he can raise your legions slain
On swarthy Lybia's fatal plain

To vengeance from the dead;
Then will he seek once more a home,
And lift a freeman's voice in Rome!

* Here is an opportunity for the picturesque imitative action of drawing a sword and holding it up on high. But the action, if ventured on at all, must be correctly imitative. The left hand should first rise to the hip, as if to hold the scabbard ; and the right arm, in drawing the sword, must not be curved across the body, but straightly drawn out, as if it had a yard of steel behind it. The speaker should rise to his full height, and stretch his arm up perpendicularly (the hand closed as if grasping a sword), while uttering Bernard's splendid defiance.

+ See the story of Regulus, page 195.

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Accursëd moment! when I woke

From faintness all but death,
And felt the coward conqueror's yoke

Like venomed serpents wreathe
Round every limb!

If lip and eye
Betrayed no sign of agony,
Inly I cursed


Wherefore, of all that fought, was I
The only wretch who could not die ?
To darkness and to chains consigned,

The captive's blighting doom,
I recked not; could they chain the mind,

Or plunge the soul in gloom ?
And there they left me, dark and lone,
Till darkness had familiar grown;

Then from that living tomb
They led me forth, - I thought to die,
0! in that thought was ecstasy!

- kind Heaven had yet in store
For me, a conquered slave,
A joy I thought to feel no more,
Or feel but in the

They deemed perchance my haughtier mood
Was quelled by chains and solitude ;

That he who once was brave-
Was I not brave ? --- had now become
Estrānged from honor as from Rome !

But no

They băde me to my country bear

The offers these have borne ;
They would have trained my lips to swear,

Which never yet have sworn!
Silent their base commands I heard ;
At length, I pledged a Roman's word

Unshrinking to return.
I go, prepared to meet the worst,
But I shall gall proud Carthage first !

They sue for peace,

- I bid you spurn The gilded bait they bear! I bid you still, with aspect stern,

War, ceaseless war, declare !

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