Now the morning air was cold for him
Who was used to a warm abode;
And yet he did not immediately wish,
To set out on his homeward road.

For he had some morning calls to make
Before he went back to hell;

So thought he, I'll step into a gaming house,
And that will do as well;

But just before he could get to the door,
A wonderful chance befell.

For all on a sudden, in a dark place,

He came upon General

-'s burning face;

And it struck him with such consternation,
That home in a hurry his way he did take,
Because he thought, by a slight mistake,
'T was the general conflagration.

CIV.-THE SEVEN HEADS.

LOCKHART.

"WHO bears such heart of baseness, a king I'll never call,"
Thus spake Gonzalo Gustos within Almanzor's hall;
To the proud Moor Almanzor, within his kingly hall,
The gray-haired knight of Lara thus spake before them all :-

"In courteous guise, Almanzor, your messenger was sent, And courteous was the answer with which from me he went; For why?—I thought the word he brought of a knight and of a king;

But false Moor henceforth never me to his feast shall bring.

"Ye bade me to your banquet, and I at your bidding came; Accurséd be the villainy, eternal be the shame,

For ye have brought an old man forth, that he your sport might be:

Thank God, I cheat you of your joy,-thank God, no tear

you see.

"My gallant boys," quoth Lara, "it is a heavy sight

These dogs have brought your father to look upon this night; Seven gentler boys, nor braver, were never nursed in Spain, And blood of Moors, God rest your souls, ye shed on her like rain.

"Some currish plot, some trick, (God wot!) hath laid you all

so low,

Ye died not altogether in one fair battle so;

Not all the misbelievers ever pricked upon yon plain
The seven brave boys of Lara in open field had slain.

"Thou youngest and the weakest, Gonzalez dear!
thou,-

wert

Yet well this false Almanzor remembers thee, I trow;
O, well doth he remember how on his helmet rung
Thy fiery mace, Gonzalez! although thou wert so young.
"Thy gallant horse had fallen, and thou hadst mounted thee
Upon a stray one in the field, his own true barb had he;
O, hadst thou not pursued his flight upon that runaway,
Ne'er had the caitiff 'scaped that night, to mock thy sire to-
day.

"False Moor, I am thy captive thrall; but when thou bad'st me forth,

To share the banquet in thy hall, I trusted in the worth Of kingly promise. Think'st thou not my God will hear my prayer?

Lord! branchless be (like mine) his tree,-yea, branchless, Lord, and bare Ì”

So prayed the baron in his ire; but when he looked again, Then burst the sorrow of the sire, and tears ran down like

rain;

Wrath no more could check the sorrow of the old and child

less man,

And, like waters in a furrow, down his cheeks the salt tears ran.

He took their heads up one by one, he kissed them o'er and

o'er,

And aye ye saw the tears down run,—I wot that grief was sore. He closed the lids on their dead eyes all with his fingers

frail,

And handled all their bloody curls, and kissed their lips so pale.

"O, had ye died all by my side upon some famous day, My fair young men, no weak tears then had washed your blood away!

The trumpet of Castile had drowned the misbelievers' horn, And the last of all the Lara's line a Gothic spear had borne."

With that it chanced a Moor drew near, to lead him from the

place,

Old Lara stooped him down once more, and kissed Gonzalez'

face;

But ere the man observéd him, or could his gesture bar, Sudden he from his side had grasped that Moslem's cimeter.

O, swiftly from its scabbard the crooked blade he drew, And, like some frantic creature, among them all he flew :'Where, where is false Almanzor ?-back, bastards of Ma houn !"

66

And here and there, in his despair, the old man hewed them down.

A hundred hands, a hundred brands, are ready in the hall,
But ere they mastered Lara, thirteen of them did fall;
He has sent, I ween, a good thirteen of dogs that spurned
his God,

To keep his children company beneath the Moorish sod.

Ex. CV.-TO THE NEAPOLITAN S.

THOMAS MOORE.

AYE-down to the dust with them, slaves as they are,
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,
That shrunk at the first touch of liberty's war

Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er-

Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails

From each slave-mart of Europe, and shadow their shore!

Let their fate be a mock-word, let men of all lands

Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles,

When each sword, that the cowards let fall from their hands, Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,

To think-as the doomed often think of that heaven

They had once within reach-that they might have been free.

When the world stood in hope-when a spirit that breathed
The fresh hour of the olden time, whispered about;
And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheathed,
But waited one conquering cry, to flash out!

When around you the shades of your mighty in fame,
Filicajas and Petrarchs seemed bursting to view,

And their words, and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame

Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life,

Worth the history of ages, when had you but hurled One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife

Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world.

That then-oh! disgrace upon manhood-even then
You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;
Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men,
And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful;-shout, Tyranny, shout
Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er ;”—
If there lingers one spark of her life, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.

Ex. CVI.-THE SEER.

I HEAR the far-off voyager's horn,
I see the Yankee's trail;

His foot on every mountain pass,
On every stream his sail.

J. G. WHITTIER.

He's whittling round St. Mary's falls,

Upon his loaded wain;

He's leaving on the pictured rocks
His fresh tobacco stain.

I hear the mattock in the mine,
The axe stroke in the dell,
The clamor from the Indian lodge,
The Jesuit's chapel bell.

I see the swarthy trappers come
From Mississippi's springs;

The war-chiefs with their painted bows,
And crest of eagle wings.

Behind the scared squaw's birch canoe,
The steamer smokes and raves;
And city lots are staked for sale
Above old indian graves.

By forest, lake, and water-fall,
I see the peddler's show-
The mighty mingling with the mean,
The lofty with the low.

I hear the tread of pioneers

Of nations yet to be;

The first low wash of waves that soon

Shall roll a human sea.

The rudiments of empire here

Are plastic yet and warm;
The chaos of a mighty world
Is rounding into form.

Each rude and jostling fragment soon

Its fitting place shall find

The raw material of a state,

Its music and its mind.

And western still, the star, which leads
The New World in its train,

Has tipped with fire the icy spears
Of many a mountain chain.
The snowy cones of Oregon
Are kindled on its way;
And California's golden sands
Gleam brighter in its ray.

Ex. CVII.-CITY AND COUNTRY.

0. W. HOLMES.

Come back to your mothers, ye children, for shame,
Who have wandered like truants for riches and fame!
With a smile on her face, and a sprig in her cap,
She calls you to feast from her bountiful lap.