"Ye're there, but yet I see you not!-draw forth 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 deafening 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?

66

But I defy him!-let him come!" Down rang the massy cup, 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!

18. "HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX,” 16—. -Robert Browning.

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;

"Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ;
"Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, -
Nor galloped less steadily Roland, a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, 't was morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with, "Yet there is time!"

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland, at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ;
And one eye's black intelligence, -ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!

And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her,

We'll remember at Aix "*- for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Looz and past Tongrés, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!

"How they'll greet us!" - and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,

As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)

Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

19. THE SOLDIER FROM BINGEN. - Mrs. Norton.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while the life-blood ebbed away,
And bent with pitying glance to hear each word he had to say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said: "I never more shall see my own
- my native land!
Take a message and a token to the distant friends of mine,
For I was born at BINGEN
at Bingen on the Rhine!

The x in this word is not sounded.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun;
And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars,
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, - the last of many scars!
But some were young, and suddenly beheld Life's morn decline,
And one had come from Bingen- fair Bingen on the Rhine!

"Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and, even when a child,

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword! And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,

On the cottage wall at Bingen - calm Bingen on the Rhine !

"Tell my sisters not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant

tread;

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,

For their brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die!

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name

To listen to him kindly, without regret and shame;

And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine),

For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the Rhine!

"There's another,

not a sister, in happy days gone by, You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning,

O! friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourn

ing!

Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon be risen,
My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison), -

I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine
On the vine-clad hills of Bingen - fair Bingen on the Rhine!

I saw the blue Rhine sweep along,

I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill,

The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still;
And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk,
Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remembered walk;
And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly, in mine, -

But we'll meet no more at Bingen-loved Bingen on the Rhine!"

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his gasp was childish weak,
His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed, and ceased to speak;
His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled
The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead!

And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down
On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn !
Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine,
As it shone on distant Bingen - fair Bingen on the Rhine!

20. THE TORCH OF LIBERTY.— Thomas Moore.

I SAW it all in Fancy's glass

Herself the fair, the wild magician,
Who bade this splendid day-dream pass,
And named each gliding apparition.
'T was like a torch-race-such as they
Of Greece performed, in ages gone,
When the fleet youths, in long array,
Passed the bright torch triumphant on.

I saw the expectant Nations stand,
To catch the coming flame in turn ;
I saw, from ready hand to hand,

The clear, though struggling, glory burn.
And, O, their joy, as it came near,
'T was, in itself, a joy to see;·
While Fancy whispered in my ear,
"That torch they pass is Liberty!"
And each, as she received the flame,
Lighted her altar with its ray;
Then, smiling, to the next who came,
Speeded it on its sparkling way.
From Albion first, whose ancient shrine
Was furnished with the fire already,
Columbia caught the boon divine,

And lit a flame, like Albion's, steady.

The splendid gift then Gallia took,
And, like a wild Bacchanté, raising
The brand aloft, its sparkles shook,

As she would set the world a-blazing!
Thus, kindling wild, so fierce and high
Her altar blazed into the air,
That Albion, to that fire too nigh,

Shrank back, and shuddered at its glare!

Next, Spain, -so new was light to her,
Leaped at the torch; but, ere the spark

That fell upon her shrine could stir,

"T was quenched, and all again was dark!
Yet, no- ·not quenched, -a treasure, worth
So much to mortals, rarely dies:
Again her living light looked forth,
And shone, a beacon, in all eyes!

Who next received the flame?

Alas!

Unworthy Naples. Shame of shames,
That ever through such hands should pass
That brightest of all earthly flames!
Scarce had her fingers touched the torch,
When, frighted by the sparks it shed,
Nor waiting even to feel the scorch,
She dropped it to the earth-

and fled !

And fallen it might have long remained;
But Greece, who saw her moment now,
Caught up the prize, though prostrate, stained,

And waved it round her beauteous brow.

And Fancy bade me mark where, o'er
Her altar, as its flame ascended,

Fair laurelled spirits seemed to soar,

Who thus in song their voices blended:

"Shine, shine forever, glorious Flame,
Divinest gift of gods to men!
From Greece thy earliest splendor came,
To Greece thy ray returns again.
Take, Freedom, take thy radiant round;
When dimmed, revive, when lost, return,
Till not a shrine through earth be found,
On which thy glories shall not burn!"

21. THE SAILOR-BOY'S DREAM.-Dimond.

IN slumbers of midnight the sailor-boy lay,
His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind;
But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,
And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn;
While memory stood side-wise, half covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.