Bring me the captive-now!

My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift
From my waked spirit airily and swift;

And I could paint the bow

Upon the bended heavens; around me play
Colors of such divinity to-day.

"Ha! bind him on his back!

Look! as Prometheus in my picture here!
Quick! or he faints! stand with the cordial near!
Now, bend him to the rack!

Press down the poisoned links into his flesh!
And tear agape that healing wound afresh!

"So! let him writhe! How long

Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now!
What a fine agony works upon his brow!
Ha! gray-haired, and so strong!

How fearfully he stifles that short moan!
Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan!

"Pity' thee? So I do;

I pity the dumb victim at the altar;
But does the robed priest for his pity falter?
I'd rack thee, though I knew

A thousand lives were perishing in thine;
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine?

"Ah! there's a deathless name!

A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn,
And, like a steadfast planet, mount and burn;
And though its crown of flame

Consumed my brain to ashes as it won me,
By all the fiery stars! I'd pluck it on me!

"Ay, though it bid me rifle

My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst;
Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first;
Though it should bid me stifle

The yearning in my throat for my sweet child,
And taunt its mother till my brain went wild.

"All! I would do it all,

Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot;
Thrust foully in the earth to be forgot.

O heavens! but I appall

Your heart, old man! forgive-ha! on your lives
Let him not faint! rack him till he revives!

“Vain—vain—give o'er. His eye

Glazes apace. He does not feel you now.
Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment-one-till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

"Shivering! Hark! he mutters
Brokenly now; that was a difficult breath;
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death?
Look! how his temple flutters!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders-gasps-Jove help him-so, he's dead!"

How like a mountain devil in the heart
Rules this unreined ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns
The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the desert for the spirit's lip,

We look upon our splendor, and forget
The thirst of which we perish!

-Willis.

CLXIV.-COUNT CANDESPINA'S STANDARD.

SCARCE were the splintered lances dropped,

Scarce were the swords drawn out,

Ere recreant Lara, sick with fear,

Had wheeled his steed about:

His courser reared and plunged and neighed, Loathing the fight to yield;

But the coward spurred him to the bone,

And drove him from the field.

Gonzalez in his stirrups rose:

"Turn, turn, thou traitor knight! Thou bold tongue in a lady's bower! Thou dastard in a fight!"

But vainly valiant Gomez cried
Across the waning fray:
Pale Lara and his craven band
To Burgos scoured away.

"Now, by the Heaven above me, sirs,
Better we all were dead,

Than a single knight among ye all
Should ride where Lara led!

"Yet ye who fear to follow me,
As yon traitor, turn and fly;
For I lead ye not to win a field;
I lead ye forth to die.

"Olea, plant my standard here,
Here on this little mound;
Here raise the war-cry of thy house,
Make this our rallying ground.

"Forget not, as thou hop'st for grace,
The last care I shall have

Will be to hear thy battle-cry,
And see that standard wave."

Down on the ranks of Aragon
The bold Gonzalez drove,
And Olea raised his battle-cry,
And waved the flag above.

Slowly Gonzalez' little band

Gave ground before the foe;
But not an inch of the field was won
Without a deadly blow;

And not an inch of the field was won

That did not draw a tear

From the widowed wives of Aragon,
That fatal news to hear.

Backward and backward Gomez fought,
And high o'er the clashing steel
Plainer and plainer rose the cry,
"Olea for Castile!"

Backward fought Gomez, step by step,
Till the cry was close at hand,
Till his dauntless standard shadowed him;
And there he made his stand.

Mace, sword, and axe rang on his mail,
Yet he moved not where he stood,
Though each gaping joint of armor ran
A stream of purple blood.

As, pierced with countless wounds, he fell,
The standard caught his eye,

And he smiled like an infant hushed asleep,

To hear the battle-cry.

Now one by one the wearied knights

Have fallen, or basely flown;

And on the mound where his post was fixed

Olea stood alone.

"Yield up thy banner, gallant knight!

Thy lord lies on the plain;

Thy duty has been nobly done;
I would not see thee slain."

Spare pity, king of Aragon!

I would not hear thee lie:

My lord is looking down from heaven
To see his standard fly."

"Yield, madman, yield! thy horse is down; Thou hast nor lance nor shield;

Fly! I will grant thee time." "This flag
Can neither fly nor yield!'

They girt the standard round about,
A wall of flashing steel,

But still they heard the battle-cry,
"Olea for Castile!"

And there, against all Aragon,
Full-armed with lance and brand,
Olea fought until the sword
Snapped in his sturdy hand.

Among the foe with that high scorn
Which laughs at earthly fears,
He hurled the broken hilt, and drew

His dagger on the spears.

They hewed the hauberk from his breast,
The helmet from his head;

They hewed the hands from off his limbs;
From every vein he bled.

Clasping the standard to his heart

He raised one dying peal,

That rang as if a trumpet blew,

"Olea for Castile!"

-Geo. H. Boker.

CLXV. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

STOP!-for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust?
Nor column, trophied for triumphal show?
None: but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be.--
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making victory?

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry: and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;