He thought on all his glorious hopes—
On all his high renown,—
He flung the falchion from his side,
And in the dust sat down.
And covering with his steel-gloved hand
His darkly mournful brow,
"No more, there is no more," he said,
"To lift the sword for now."
My king is false, my hope betray'd,
My father-oh! the worth,
The glory, and the loveliness
Are pass'd away from earth
"I thought to stand where banners waved, My sire, beside thee yet;
I would that there on Spain's free soil
Our kindred blood had met;
Thou would'st have known my spirit then,
For thee my fields were won ;
But thou hast perish'd in thy chains,
As if thou hadst no son."
Then starting from the ground once more,
He seized the monarch's rein,
Amid the pale and 'wilder'd looks
Of all the courtier train;
And with a fierce o'ermastering grasp,
The rearing war-horse led,
And sternly set them face to face
The king before the dead!
"Came I not here upon thy pledge,
My father's hand to kiss?—
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king,
And tell me what is this?
The look, the voice, the heart I sought-
Give answer, where are they?
If thou would'st clear thy perjured soul, Put life in this cold clay !—
Into these glassy eyes put light,—
Be still, keep down thine ire,—
Bid these cold lips a blessing speak !—
This earth is not my sire!
Give me back him for whom I strove,
For whom my blood was shed !—
Thou canst not, and, O king! his dust
Be mountains on thy head!"
He loosed the rein; his slack hand fell!
Upon the silent face
He cast one long, deep, troubled look,-
Then turn'd from that sad place!
His hope was crush'd, his after-fate
Untold in martial strain,-
His banner led the spears no more
Among the hills of Spain!
(By permission of the Publishers.)
BY MRS. MACLEAN (L. E. L.)
NONE will dwell in that cottage, for they say
Oppression reft it from an honest man,
And that a curse clings to it: hence the vine
Trails its green weight of leaves upon the ground;
Hence weeds are in that garden; hence the hedge,
Once sweet with honey-suckle, is half dead;
And hence the grey moss on the apple-tree.
One once dwelt there, who had been in his youth
A soldier; and when many years had pass'd
He sought his native village, and sat down
To end his days in peace. He had one child-
A little, laughing thing, whose large dark eyes,
He said, were like the mother's he had left
Buried in strange lands; and time went on
In comfort and content-and that fair girl
Had grown far taller than the red rose tree
Her father planted her first English birth-day;
And he had train'd it up against an ash
Till it became his pride;-it was so rich
In blossom and in beauty, it was call'd
The tree of Isabel. 'Twas an appeal
To all the better feelings of the heart
To mark their quiet happiness; their home,
In truth a home of love: and more than all,
To see them on the Sabbath, when they came
Among the first to church; and Isabel
With her bright colour, and her clear glad eyes,
Bow'd down so meekly in the house of prayer;
And in the hymn her sweet voice audible :-
Her father look'd so fond of her, and then
From her look'd up so thankfully to Heaven!
And their small cottage was so very neat ;
Their garden fill'd with fruits, and herbs, and flowers:
And in the winter there was no fireside
So cheerful as their own. But other days
And other fortunes came-an evil power!
They bore against it cheerfully, and hoped
For better times, but ruin came at last;
And the old soldier left his own dear home,
And left it for a prison. 'Twas in June,
One of June's brightest days-the bee, the bird,
The butterfly, were on their brightest wings;
The fruits had their first tinge of summer light;
The sunny sky, the very leaves seemed glad,
And the old man look'd back upon his cottage
And wept aloud:-they hurried him away,
And the dear child that would not leave his side.
They led him from the sight of the blue heaven
And the green trees, into a low, dark cell,
The windows shutting out the blessed sun
With iron grating; and for the first time
He threw him on his bed, and could not hear
His Isabel's "good night!" But the next morn
She was the earliest at the prison gate,
The last on whom it closed; and her sweet voice,
And sweeter smile, made him forget to pine.
She brought him every morning fresh wild flowers,
But every morning could he see her cheek
Grow paler and more pale, and her low tones
Get fainter and more faint, and a cold dew
Was on the hand he held. One day he saw
The sun shine through the grating of his cell,
Yet Isabel came not; at every sound
His heart-beat took away his breath, yet still
She came not near him. But one sad day
He mark'd the dull street through the iron bars
That shut him from the world;-at length he saw
A coffin carried carelessly along,
And he grew desperate-he forced the bars;
And he stood on the street, free and alone!
He had no aim, no wish for liberty-
He only felt one want, to see the corpse
That had no mourners. When they set it down,
Or e'er 'twas lower'd into the new dug grave,
A rush of passion came upon his soul,
And he tore off the lid, and saw the face
Of Isabel, and knew he had no child!
He lay down by the coffin quietly—
His heart was broken!
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