Beaumanoir, mid them all, bravest and first-
"Give me to drink, for I perish of thirst!"
Hark! at his side, in the deep tones of ire,
"Bois ton SANG, Beaumanoir!" shouted his sire.

Deep had it pierced him-the foemen's swift sword,
Deeper his soul felt the wound of that word:
Back to the battle, with forehead all flushed,
Stung to wild fury, the noble youth rushed!
Scorn in his dark eyes-his spirit on fire-
Deeds were his answer that day to his sire.
Still where triumphant the young hero came,
Glory's bright garland encircled his name:
But in her bower, to beauty a slave,
Dearer the guerdon his lady-love gave,

While on his shield, that no shame had defaced,
"Bois ton sang, Beaumanoir!" proudly she traced.

THE LAMENTATION OF DON RODERICK.

J. G. LOCKHART.

THE hosts of Don Rodrigo were scattered in dismay,
When lost was the eighth battle, nor heart nor hope had they;
He, when he saw that field was lost, and all his hope was flown,
He turned him from his flying host, and took his way alone.

His horse was bleeding, blind, and lame-he could no farther go;
Dismounted, without path or aim, the King stepped to and fro;
It was a sight of pity to look on Roderick,

For, sore athirst and hungry, he staggered faint and sick.

All stained and strewed with dust and blood, like to some smouldering brand

Plucked from the flame, Rodrigo showed: his sword was in his hand, But it was hacked into a saw of dark and purple tint;

His jewelled mail had many a flaw, his helmet many a dint.

He climbed unto a hill-top, the highest he could see-
Thence all about of that wide rout his last long look took he;
He saw his royal banners, where they lay drenched and torn,
He heard the cry of victory, the Arab's shout of scorn.

He looked for the brave captains that led the hosts of Spain,
But all were fled except the dead, and who could count the slain?

Where'er his eye could wander, all bloody was the plain,

And, while thus he said, the tears he shed run down his cheeks like

rain:

"Last night I was the King of Spain-to-day no King am I;
Last night fair castles held my train-to-night where shall I lie?
Last night a hundred pages did serve me on the knee,-
To-night not one I call mine own:-not one pertains to me.

Oh, luckless, luckless was the hour, and cursed was the day,
When I was born to have the power of this great seniory!
Unhappy me that I should see the sun go down to-night!
O Death, why now so slow art thou, why fearest thou to smite?"

THE LORD OF BUTRAGO.

J. G. LOCKHART.

"YOUR horse is faint, my King-my Lord! your gallant horse is sickHis limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick; Mount, mount on mine, oh, mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly! Or in my arms I'll lift your grace—their trampling hoofs are nigh! "My King-my King! you're wounded sore-the blood runs from your feet;

But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat:

Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!-I hear their coming cry-
Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy-I'll save you though I die!

"Stand, noble steed! this hour of need-be gentle as a lamb:
I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth-thy master dear I am-
Mount, Juan, mount! whate'er betide, away the bridle fling,
And plunge the rowels in his side.-My horse shall save my King!

"Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from

yours,

And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures:
If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead,
How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head?

"Castile's proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain, And say there's ONE that ran away when our good lords were slain !— I leave Diego in your care-you'll fill his father's place:

Strike, strike the spur, and never spare-God's blessing on your grace!"

So spake the brave Montañez, Butrago's lord was he;
And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee;
He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill-
He died, God wot! but not before his sword had drunk its fill.

THE CAVALIERS' MARCH TO LONDON.

To horse! to horse! brave cavaliers!

To horse for church and crown!

LORD MACAULAY

Strike, strike your tents! snatch up your spears!

And ho for London town!

The imperial harlot, doomed a prey

To our avenging fires,

Sends up the voice of her dismay

From all her hundred spires.

The Strand resounds with maidens' shrieks,

The 'Change with merchants' sighs,
And blushes stand on brazen cheeks,

And tears in iron eyes;

And, pale with fasting and with fright,

Each Puritan committee

Hath summoned forth to prayer and fight
The Roundheads of the city.

And soon shall London's sentries hear
The thunder of our drum,

And London's dames, in wilder fear,
Shall cry, Alack! They come !

Fling the fascines ;-tear up the spikes;
And forward, one and all.

Down, down with all their train-band pikes,
Down with their mud-built wall.

Quarter?-Foul fall your whining noise,
Ye recreant spawn of fraud!

No quarter! Think on Strafford, boys.
No quarter! Think on Laud.
What ho! The craven slaves retire.
On! Trample them to mud.
No quarter! Charge.-No quarter!

No quarter! Blood! blood! blood!

Where next? In sooth there lacks no witch,
Brave lads, to tell us where,
Sure London's sons be passing rich,

Her daughters wondrous fair:
And let that dastard be the theme
Of many a board's derision,
Who quails for sermon, cuff, or scream
Of any sweet precisian.

Their lean divines, of solemn brow,

Sworn foes to throne and steeple, From an unwonted pulpit now Shall edify the people:

Till the tired hangman, in despair,

Shall curse his blunted shears,
And vainly pinch, and scrape, and tear,
Around their leathern ears.

We'll hang, above his own Guildhall,
The city's grave Recorder,

And on the den of thieves we'll fall,
Though Pym should speak to order.
In vain the lank-haired gang shall try
To cheat our martial law;

In vain shall Lenthall trembling cry
That strangers must withdraw.

Of bench and woolsack, tub and chair,
We'll build a glorious pyre,

And tons of rebel parchment there

Shall crackle in the fire.

With them shall perish, cheek by jowl,

Petition, psalm, and libel,

The colonel's canting muster-roll,

The chaplain's dog-eared Bible.

We'll tread a measure round the blaze

Where England's pest expires,

And lead along the dance's maze

The beauties of the friars:

Then smiles in every face shall shine,

And joy in every soul.

Bring forth, bring forth the oldest wine,

And crown the largest bowl.

And as with nod and laugh ye sip

The goblet's rich carnation,

Whose bursting bubbles seem to tip

The wink of invitation;

Drink to those names,-those glorious names,-
Those names no time shall sever,-

Drink, in a draught as deep as Thames,
Our church and king for ever!

337

THE COMBAT OF HERMINIUS AND MAMILIUS.

RIGHT glad were all the Romans

Who, in that hour of dread,

Against great odds bare up the war

Around Valerius dead,

When from the south the cheering
Rose with a mighty swell;
"Herminius comes, Herminius,
Who kept the bridge so well!"

Mamilius spied Herminius,

And dashed across the way.
"Herminius! I have sought thee
Through many a bloody day.
One of us two, Herminius,
Shall never more go home.
I will lay on for Tusculum,
And lay thou on for Rome!"

All round them paused the battle,
While met in mortal fray
The Roman and the Tusculan,

The horses black and gray.
Herminius smote Mamilius

LORD MACAULAY.

Through breast-plate and through breast;

And fast flowed out the purple blood

Over the purple vest.

Mamilius smote Herminius

Through head-piece and through head;
And side by side those chiefs of pride

Together fell down dead.

Down fell they dead together

In a great lake of gore;

And still stood all who saw them fall

While men might count a score.