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In the dire carnage of that night's dread hour,
Crushed mid the ruins of his crumbling power,
Belshazzar fell beneath an unknown blow-
His kingdom wasted, and its pride laid low !

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7. BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.—Mrs. Hemans

The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having made many ineffectual efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, who had been imprisoned, by King Alphonso of Asturias, almost from the time of Bernardo's birth, at last took up arms, in despair. The war which he maintained proved so destructive, that the men of the land gathered round the king, and united in demanding Saldana's liberty. Alphonso accordingly offered Bernardo immediate possession of his father's person, in exchange for his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up his strong-hold with all his captives; and, being assured that his father was then on his way from prison, rode forth with the king to meet him. "And when

he saw his father approaching, he exclaimed," says the ancient chronicle, "O, God! is the Count of Saldana indeed coming?' 'Look where he is,' replied the cruel king, and now go and greet him, whom you have so long desired to see.'" The remainder of the story will be found related in the ballad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearly in the dark as to Bernardo's history after this event.

THE warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire,
And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire;

"I bring thee here my fortress-keys, I bring my captive train,

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!-0! break my father's

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chain!"

Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man, this day! Mount thy good horse; and thou and I will meet him on his way." Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land: "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see." His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his cheek's hue came and went;

He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting,

bent;

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took

What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

the face was of the dead!

That hand was cold, -a frozen thing, - it dropped from his like lead!
He looked up to the face above,
A plume waved o'er the noble brow,
He met, at last, his father's eyes,

the brow was fixed and white: but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprang and gazed; — but who could paint that gaze?

They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze:— They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood; For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

"Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then : Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men'

He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown,
He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.
Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,
"No more, there is no more," he said, " to lift the sword for, now,
My king is false, my hope betrayed! My father-O! the worth,
The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!

"I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire, beside thee, yet! I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met ! Thou wouldst have known my spirit, then; - for thee my fields were

won;

And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's

rein,

Amidst the pale and wildered 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 forth, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this? The voice, the glance, the heart I sought, give answer, where are

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Into these glassy eyes put light; be still! keep down thine ire! Bid these white 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 a king! — his dust be mountains on thy head!"

--

He loosed the steed, his slack hand fell;
upon the silent face
He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turned from that sad place:
His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain:
His banner led the spears no more, amidst the hills of Spain.

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Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the pow der.

THE boy stood on the burning deck, whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood, as born to rule the storm,
A creature of heroic blood, a proud, though child-like form.

The flames rolled on - he would not go, without his Father's word;
That Father, faint in death below, his voice no longer heard.
He called aloud: "Say, Father, say, if yet my task is done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay, unconscious of his son.

Speak, Father!" once again he cried, "if I may yet be gone! And " but the booming shots replied, and fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, and in his waving hair,

And looked from that lone post of death, in still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud, "My Father! must I stay?" While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, the wreathing fires made way.

They wrapped the ship in splendor wild, they caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound, the boy - O! where was he? Ask of the winds, that far around with fragments strewed the sea, With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, that well had borne their part! But the noblest thing which perished there was that young, faithful heart!

9. ROCKS OF MY COUNTRY.—Mrs. Hemans.

ROCKS of my country! let the cloud your crested heights array,
And rise ye, like a fortress proud, above the surge and spray!
My spirit greets you as ye stand, breasting the billow's foam:
O! thus forever guard the land, the severed Land of Home!
I have left rich blue skies behind, lighting up classic shrines,
And music in the southern wind, and sunshine on the vines.
The breathings of the myrtle-flowers have floated o'er my way;
The pilgrim's voice, at vesper-hours, hath soothed me with its lay.
The Isles of Greece, the Hills of Spain, the purple Heavens of Rome,
Yes, all are glorious; yet again I bless thee, Land of Home!
For thine the Sabbath peace, my land! and thine the guarded hearth;
And thine the dead, the noble band, that make thee holy earth.
Their voices meet me in thy breeze, their steps are on thy plains;
Their names by old majestic trees are whispered round thy fanes.
Their blood hath mingled with the tide of thine exulting sea;
O! be it still a joy, a pride, to live and die for thee!

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10. THE TWO HOMES.-Mrs. Hemans.

SEEST thou my home? 't is where yon woods are waving,
In their dark richness, to the summer air;

Where yon blue stream, a thousand flower-banks laving,
Leads down the hills, a vein of light, — 't is there!

'Midst those green wilds how many a fount lies gleaming,
Fringed with the violet, colored with the skies!
My boyhood's haunt, through days of summer dreaming,
Under young
leaves that shook with melodies.
My home! the spirit of its love is breathing
In every wind that plays across my track;

From its white walls the very tendrils wreathing
Seem with soft links to draw the wanderer back.
There am I loved, there prayed for, there my mother
Sits by the hearth with meekly thoughtful eye;
There my young sisters watch to greet their brother —
Soon their glad footsteps down the path will fly.

There, in sweet strains of kindred music blending,
All the home-voices meet at day's decline;
One are those tones, as from one heart ascending:
There laughs my home, sad stranger! where is thine?
Ask'st thou of mine? - In solemn peace 't is lying,
Far o'er the deserts and the tombs away;

"T is where I, too, am loved with love undying,
And fond hearts wait my step. But where are they?

Ask where the earth's departed have their dwelling:
Ask of the clouds, the stars, the trackless air!
I know it not, yet trust the whisper, telling
My lonely heart that love unchanged is there.
And what is home and where, but with the loving?
Happy thou art, that so canst gaze on thine!
My spirit feels but, in its weary roving,
That with the dead, where'er they be, is mine.
Go to thy home, rejoicing son and brother!
Bear in fresh gladness to the household scene!
For me, too, watch the sister and the mother,
I will believe but dark seas roll between.

11. INVOCATION. — Mrs. Hemans.

ANSWER me, burning stars of night! where is the spirit gone,
That past the reach of human sight as a swift breeze hath flown? —
And the stars answered me, "We roll in light and power on high;
But, of the never-dying soul, ask that which cannot die."

O! many-toned and chainless wind! thou art a wanderer free;
Tell me if thou its place canst find, far over mount and sea?
And the wind murmured, in reply, "The blue deep I have crossed,
And met its barks and billows high, but not what thou hast lost."
Ye clouds that gorgeously repose around the setting sun,
Answer! have ye a home for those whose earthly race is run?-
The bright clouds answered, "We depart, we vanish from the sky;
Ask what is deathless in thy heart for that which cannot die."
Speak, then, thou voice of God within, thou of the deep, low tone!
Answer me, through life's restless din, where is the spirit flown?-
And the voice answered, "Be thou still! Enough to know is given,
Clouds, winds and stars, their part fulfil,-thine is to trust in Heaven.”

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12. LOCHINVAR.- Sir Walter Scott.

O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West,-
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in

war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,

'Mong bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all.
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
O, come ye in peace here, or come ye

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in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”
"I long wooed your daughter,- my suit you denied; -
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bridemaidens whispered, "Twere better, by far.
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode, and they ran:

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