With ballast snug I put about, and scudded for the land. Loud hissed the sea beneath her lee; my little boat flew fast, But faster still the rushing storm came, borne upon the blast. Lord! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail! What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail! What darksome caverns yawned before! what jagged steeps behind!

Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the

wind.

Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase,
But where it sank another rose, and galloped in its place;
As black as night-they turned to white, and cast against
the cloud

A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor's shroud:
Still flew my boat; alas! alas! her course was nearly run!
Behold yon fatal billow rise-ten billows heaped in one!
With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling fast,
As if the scooping sea contained one only wave, at last!
Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift-pursuing grave;
It seemed as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a
wave!

Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face

I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base!
I saw its Alpine hoary head impending over mine!

Another pulse, and down it rushed, an avalanche of brine!
Brief pause had I on God to cry, or think of wife and home;
The waters closed-and when I shrieked, I shrieked below
the foam!

Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after-deed—
For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed.
"Where am I? In the breathing world, or in the world of
death?"

With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath;
My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound;
And was that ship a real ship whose tackle seemed around?
A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft;
But were those eyes the eyes of man that looked against my

own?

O! never may the moon again disclose me such a sight
As met my gaze, when first I looked on that accursed night!
I've seen a thousand horrid shapes, begot of fierce extremes
Of fever; and most frightful things have haunted in my
dreams-

Hyenas, cats, blood-loving bats, and apes with hateful stare, Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls, the lion, and she-bear, Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treachery and spiteDetested features, hardly dimmed and banished by the light! Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs

All fantasies and images, that flit in midnight glooms

Hags, goblins, demons, lemures, have made me all aghast,But nothing like that Grimly One who stood beside the

mast!

His cheek was black-his brow was black-his eyes and hair as dark:

His hand was black, and where it touched it left a sable

mark;

His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I looked

beneath,

His breast was black-all, all was black, except his grinning teeth.

His sooty crew were like in hues, as black as Afric slaves! O, horror! e'en the ship was black, that plowed the inky waves!

"Alas!" I cried, "for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake,

Where am I? in what dreadful ship? upon what dreadful lake ?

What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal?
It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gained my soul!
O, mother dear! my tender nurse! dear meadows that be-
guiled

My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child

My mother dear-my native fields, I never more shall see :
I'm sailing in the Devil's ship, upon the Devil's sea!”
Loud laughed that sable mariner, and loudly in return
His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to

stern

A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce—
As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once:
A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoyed the merry fit,
With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like demons of the
pit.

They crowed their fill, and then the chief made answer for the whole,

"Our skins," said he, 66

coal;

are black, ye see, because we carry

You'll find your mother, sure enough, and all your native fields

For this here ship has picked you up-the 'Mary Ann,' of Shields!"

Ex. CXXIV.-THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

ALBERT G. GREENE.

O'ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray,
Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay,—
The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been
bent

By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent.

"They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er,

That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more;

They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I,

Their own liege lord and master born, that I—ha! ha!— must die.

"And what is death? I'a dared him oft, before the Paynim spear;

Think ye he's entered at my gate-has come to seek me here?

I've met him, faced him. scorned him, when the fight was raging hot;

I'll try his might, I'll brave his power!-defy, and fear him not!

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower. and fire the culverin; Bid each retainer arm with speed: cali every vassal in. Up with my banner on the wall.-the banquet-board pre

pare,

Throw wide the portal of my ball, and bring my armor there!"

An hundred hands were busy then: the banquet forth was spread,

the heavy oaken floor with many a martial end ·

While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall, Lights gleamed on harness, plume and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured,

On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board;

While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state,

Armed cap-à-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sat.

"Fill every beaker up, my men!-pour forth the cheering wine!

There's life and strength in every drop,-thanksgiving to the vine!

Are ye all there, my vassals true?-mine eyes are waxing dim:

Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim !

"Ye're there, but yet I see you not!-forth draw each trusty sword,

And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board!

I hear it faintly!-louder yet! What clogs my heavy breath?

Up, all!-and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto death!" "

Bowl rang to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafen

ing cry,

That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on

high:

"Ho! cravens! do ye fear him? Slaves! traitors! have ye

flown?

Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone?

"But I defy him!-let him come !" Down

cup,

rang the massy

While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half-way

up;

And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on

his head,

There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat

dead!

Ex. CXXV.-THE FIELD OF TALAVERA.

BYRON.

AWAKE, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance!
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries;
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance,
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies:
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies,
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's roar:
In every peal she calls-" Awake! arise!"
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore,
When her war-song was heard on Andalusia's shore?

Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note?
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath?
Saw ye not whom the reeking saber smote;
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves? the fires of death,
The bale-fires flash on high-from rock to rock
Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe,
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc,

Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock.

Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon;
Restless it rolls, now fixed, now anon
Flashing afar, and at his iron feet

Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done;

For on this morn three potent nations meet,

To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet.

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice;

Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high;
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue skies;
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Victory!
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain,
Are met—as if at home they could not die-
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain,
And fertilize the field that each pretends to gain.

There shall they rot-Ambition's honored fools
Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their clay!