Now when the Pope was aware of this, he was an angry

man,

His lips that night, with solemn rite, pronounced the

awful ban;

The curse of God, who died on rood, was on that sinner's head

To hell and woe man's soul must go, if once that curse be laid.

I wot, when the Cid was aware of this, a woeful man was he, At dawn of day he came to pray, at the blessed Father's knee:

"Absolve, blessed Father, have pity upon me,

Absolve my soul, and penance I for my sin will dree."

"Who is the sinner," quoth the Pope, "that at my foot doth kneel?"

"I am Rodrigo Diaz-a poor baron of Castille."—

Much marvelled all were in the hall, when that name

they heard him say.

"Rise up, rise up," the Pope he said, "I do thy guilt away:

"I do thy guilt away,” he said, “and my curse I blot it out ;
God save Rodrigo Diaz, my Christian champion stout;
I trow, if I had known thee, my grief it had been sore,
To curse Ruy Diaz de Bivar, God's scourge upon the Moor."
LOCKHART.

ZARA'S EAR-RINGS.

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they've dropt into the well, And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell."

Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez'

daughter,

"The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold blue water.

To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas! I cannot tell.

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! they were pearls in silver set,

That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him

forget,

That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on other's tale,

But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those earrings pale.

When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped them in the well,

O what will Muça think of me, I cannot, cannot tell.

"My ear-rings! my ear-rings! he'll say they should have been,

Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincereThat changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting

well

Thus will he think-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.

"He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the

way;

He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say; He'll think some other lover's hand among my tresses

noosed,

From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of pearl unloosed;

He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well, My pearls fell in-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.

"He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same; He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame— But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken, And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his token.

My ear-rings! my ear-rings! oh, luckless, luckless well! For what to say to Muça, alas! I cannot tell.

"I'll tell the truth to Muça, and I hope he will believeThat I have thought of him at morning, and thought of

him at eve;

That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone; And that my mind was o'er the sea, when from my hand they fell,

And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the

well."

LOCKHART.

SPRING.

THE Sweet south wind, so long

Sleeping in other climes, on sunny seas,
Or dallying gaily with the orange-trees
In the bright land of song,

Wakes unto us, and laughingly sweeps by,
Like a glad spirit of the sunlit sky.

The labourer at his toil

Feels on his cheek its dewy kiss, and lifts
His open brow to catch its fragrant gifts-
The aromatic spoil

Borne from the blossoming gardens of the south—-
While its faint sweetness lingers round his mouth.

The bursting buds look up

To greet the sunlight, while it lingers yet
On the warm hill-side; and the violet

Opens its azure cup

Meekly, and countless wild-flowers wake to fling
Their earliest incense on the gales of spring.

The reptile that hath lain

Torpid so long within his wintry tomb,

Pierces the mould, ascending from its gloom
Up to the light again;

And the lithe snake crawls forth from caverns chill,
To bask as erst upon the sunny hill.

Continual songs arise

From universal nature; birds and streams

Mingle their voices, and the glad earth scems
A second Paradise!

Thrice-blessed Spring! thou bearest gifts divine!
Sunshine, and song, and fragrance-all are thine.

Nor unto earth alone

Thou hast a blessing for the human heart,
Balm for its wounds and healing for its smart,
Telling of Winter flown,

And bringing hope upon thy rainbow wing,
Type of eternal life—thrice-blessed Spring!

BURLEIGH.

A REQUIEM.

AY, pale and silent maiden,
Cold as thou liest there,

Thine was the sunniest nature
That ever drew the air,
The wildest and most wayward,
And yet so gently kind,
Thou seemedst but to body

A breath of summer wind.

Into the eternal shadow

That girds our life around,

Into the infinite silence

Wherewith Death's shore is bound,

Thou hast gone forth, beloved!

And I were mean to weep,

That thou hast left Life's shallows
And dost possess the deep.

Thou liest low and silent,

Thy heart is cold and still,