Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam?

And who commanded,—and the silence came,—
"Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ?"
Ye ice-falls! ye, that, from the mountain's brow,
Adown enormous ravines slope amain,—
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!—

Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who with living flowers
Of loveliest blue spread garlands at your feet?-
"God!" let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer: and let the ice-plains echo, "God!"

"God!" sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice,
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And, in their perilous fall, shall thunder, "God!"
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the elements!
Utter forth "God!" and fill the hills with praise.

Thou, too, hoar mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene,
Into the depth of clouds, that vail thy breast-
Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain! thou
That as I raise my head, a while bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base

Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears-
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,
To rise before me-rise, O ever rise!

Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
Thou kingly spirit, throned among the hills,
Thou dread embassador from earth to heaven,
Great hierarch, tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell, you rising sun,
"Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God."

Ex. CXLVI.-THE ADMIRAL GUARIN O S.

LOCKHART.

THE day of Roncesvalles was a dismal day for you,
Ye men of France, for there the lance of King Charles was

broke in two:

Ye well may curse that rueful field, for many a noble peer In fray or fight the dust did bite beneath Bernardo's spear.

There captured was Guarinos, King Charles's admiral; Seven Moorish kings surrounded him, and seized him for their thrall;

Seven times, when all the chase was o'er, for Guarinos lots they cast,

Seven times Marlotes won the throw, and the knight was his at last.

Much joy had then Marlotes, and his captive much did prize;
Above all the wealth of Araby, he was precious in his eyes.
Within his tent at evening he made the best of cheer,
And thus, the banquet done, he spake unto his prisoner :-

"Now, for the sake of Alla, Lord Admiral Guarinos,
Be thou a Moslem, and much love shall ever rest between us:
Two daughters have I,-all the day thy handmaid one shall be,
The other (and the fairer far) by night shall cherish thee.

"The one shall be thy waiting-maid, thy weary feet to lave, To scatter perfumes on thy head, and fetch thee garments

brave;

The other she the pretty-shall deck thy bridal bower,
And my field and my city they both shall be her dower;

"If more thou wishest, more I'll give; speak boldly what thy thought is.”

Thus earnestly and kindly to Guarinos said Marlotes:
But not a moment did he take to ponder or to pause,
Thus clear and quick the answer of the Christian captive

was:

"Now, God forbid! Marlotes, and Mary, his dear mother, That I should leave the faith of Christ, and bind me to another:

For women, I've one wife in France, and I'll wed no more in Spain;

I change not faith, I break not vow, for courtesy or gain."

Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when thus he heard him say, And all for ire commanded he should be led away;

Away unto the dungeon-keep, beneath its vault to lie,

With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off from sun and sky.

With iron bands they bound his hands: that sore, unworthy plight

Might well express his helplessness, doomed never more to

fight.

Again, from cincture down to knee, long bolts of iron he bore,

Which signified the knight should ride on charger never

more.

Three times alone, in all the year, it is the captive's doom To see God's daylight bright and clear, instead of dungeongloom;

Three times alone they bring him out, like Samson long ago,
Before the Moorish rabble-rout to be a sport and show.

On three high feasts they bring him forth, a spectacle to be,-
The feast of Pasque, and the great day of the Nativity,
And on that morn, more solemn yet, when maidens strip the

bowers,

And gladden mosque and minaret with the firstlings of the flowers.

Days come and go of gloom and show: seven years are come

and gone;

And now doth fall the festival of the holy Baptist John; Christian and Moslem tilts and jousts, to give it homage due, And rushes on the paths to spread, they force the sulky Jew.

Marlotes, in his joy and pride, a target high doth rear,Below the Moorish knights must ride, and pierce it with the

spear;

But 'tis so high up in the sky, albeit much they strain,
No Moorish lance so far may fly, Marlotes' prize to gain.
Wroth waxéd King Marlotes, when he beheld them fail;
The whisker trembled on his lip,-his cheek for ire was pale;
And heralds proclamation made, with trumpets, through the
town;-

"Nor child shall suck, nor man shall eat, till the mark be tumbled down."

The cry of proclamation, and the trumpet's haughty sound, Did send an echo to the vault where the admiral was bound. Now, help me, God!" the captive cries, "what means this din so loud?

O Queen of Heaven! be vengeance given on these thy haters proud!

"O, is it that some pagan gay doth Marlotes' daughter wed, And that they bear my scornéd fair in triumph to his bed? Or is it that the day is come,-one of the hateful three,— When they with trumpet, fife, and drum, make heathen game of me?"

These words the jailer chanced to hear, and thus to him he

said:

"These tabors, lord, and trumpets clear, conduct no bride to

bed;

Nor has the feast come round again, when he that has the

right

Commands thee forth, thou foe of Spain, to glad the people's sight.

"This is the joyful morning of John the Baptist's day,

When Moor and Christian feasts at home, each in his nation's

way;

But now our king commands that none his banquet shall begin,

Until some knight, by strength or sleight, the spearman's prize do win."

Then out and spake Guarinos: "O, soon each man should

feed,

Were I but mounted once again on my own gallant steed:
O, were I mounted as of old, and harnessed cap-a-pie,
Full soon Marlotes' prize I'd hold, whate'er its price may be!

“Give me my horse, mine old gray horse, so be he is not

dead,

All gallantly caparisoned, with plate on breast and head, And give the lance I brought from France; and if I win it

not,

My life shall be the forfeiture,-I'll yield it on the spot."

The jailer wondered at his words: thus to the knight said he, "Seven weary years of chains and gloom have little humbled thee;

There's never a man in Spain, I trow, the like so well might

bear,

And if thou wilt, I with thy vow will to the king repair."

The jailer put his mantle on, and came unto the king,-
He found him sitting on the throne, within his listed ring;
Close to his ear he planted him, and the story did begin,
How bold Guarinos vaunted him, the spearman's prize to
win.

That, were he mounted but once more on his own gallant

gray,

And armed with the lance he bore on Roncesvalles' day, What never Moorish knight could pierce, he would pierce it at a blow,

Or give with joy his life-blood fierce, at Marlotes' feet to flow.

Much marveling, then said the king: "Bring Sir Guarinos forth,

And in the grange go seek ye for his gray steed of worth; His arms are rusty on the wall,-seven years have gone, I

judge,

Since that strong horse has bent his force to be a carrion

drudge;

"Now this will be a sight indeed, to see the enfeebled lord Essay to mount that ragged steed, and draw that rusty

sword,

And for the vaunting of his phrase he well deserves to die,— So, jailer, gird his harness on, and bring your champion

nigh."

They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuisses well they've clasped,

And they've barred the helm on his visage pale, and his hand the lance hath grasped,

And they have caught the old gray horse, the horse he loved

of yore,

And he stands pawing at the gate,-caparisoned once more.

When the knight came out, the Moors did shout, and loudly laughed the king,

For the horse he pranced and capered, and furiously did fling;