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Where his banner streamed with its ghostly light,
Where his sword blazed out there was hurrying flight,
For it seemed not the sword of man!

The field and the river grew darkly red,

As the kings and leaders of Afric fled;

There was work for the men of the Cid that day!
They were weary at eve when they ceased to slay,
As reapers whose task is done!

The kings and the leaders of Afric fled!
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread;
But the sea had its share of the Paynim slain,
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain,
So the Cid to his grave passed on!

XII.-FRANKLIN.
(Punch.)

Sir John Franklin, whose name is inseparably connected with Arctic navigation, died in the Polar regions in 1848. His fate was not positively known till the return of Captain (now Sir) F. L. M'Clintock in 1859.

"Punch, or the London Charivari," was commenced on 17th July 1841. Some of its more sober pieces are marked by great power and pathos.

THE Polar clouds uplift

A moment and no more-
And through the snowy drift
We see them on the shore,—
A band of gallant hearts,

Well-ordered, calm, and brave;
Braced for their closing parts-
Their long march to the grave.

Through the snow's dazzling blink,
Into the dark they've gone :-
No pause the weaker sink,
The strong can but strive on,

Till all the dreary way

Is dotted with their dead;

And the shy foxes play
About each sleeping head.

Unharmed the wild deer run,
To graze along the strand;
Nor dread the loaded gun
Beside each sleeping hand.

The remnant that survive
Onward like drunkards reel;
Scarce wotting if alive,

But for the pangs they feel.

The river of their hope

At length is drawing nighTheir snow-blind way they grope,

And reach its banks to die!

Thank God, brave Franklin's place
Was empty in that band!
He closed his well-run race
Not on the iron strand.

Not under snow-clouds white,
By cutting frost-wind driven,
Did his true spirit fight

Its shuddering way to heaven;

But warm, aboard his ship,

With comfort, at his side

And hope upon his lip,

The gallant Franklin died.

His heart ne'er ached to see

His much-loved sailors ta'en;

His sailors' pangs were free
From their loved captain's pain.

But though in death apart,
They are together now;
Calm, each enduring heart-
Bright, each devoted brow!

XIII.-THE AVENGING CHILDE.

(LOCKHART.)

John Gibson Lockhart, the son-in-law and biographer of Sir Walter Scott, was author of several novels, the best known of which are "Valerius, a Roman Story," and "Reginald Dalton." He was a frequent contributor to Blackwood's Magazine, and was editor of the Quarterly Review from 1826 to 1852. His translations of the Spanish Ballads are remarkable for spirit and elegance. He died at Abbotsford in 1854.

HURRAH! hurrah! avoid the way of the Avenging Childe;
His horse is swift as sands that drift-an Arab of the wild ;
His gown
is twisted round his arm-a ghastly cheek he

wears;

And in his hand, for deadly harm, a hunting knife he bears.

Avoid that knife in battle strife, that weapon short and thin; The dragon's gore hath bathed it o'er, seven times 'twas steeped therein;

Seven times the smith hath proved its pith,-it cuts a coulter through:

In France the blade was fashioned, from Spain the shaft it drew.

He sharpens it, as he doth ride, upon his saddle-bow;

He sharpens it on either side, he makes the steel to glow. He rides to find Don Quadros, that false and faitour1 knight; His glance of ire is hot as fire, although his cheek be white.

He found him standing by the king, within the judgmenthall;

He rushed within the barons' ring-he stood before them all.
Seven times he gazed and pondered if he the deed should do;
Eight times distraught he looked and thought, then out his
dagger flew.

He stabbed therewith at Quadros-the king did step between;
It pierced his royal garment of purple wove with green;
He fell beneath the canopy, upon the tiles he lay.

Thou traitor keen, what dost thou mean-thy king why wouldst thou slay?"

1 Vagabond.

"Now, pardon, pardon," cried the Childe; "I stabbed not, king, at thee,

But him, that caitiff, blood-defiled, who stood beside thy knee :

Eight brothers were we-in the land might none more loving be

They all are slain by Quadros' hand-they all are dead but

me.

"Good king, I fain would wash the stain-for vengeance is

my cry;

This murderer with sword and spear to battle I defy."

But all took part with Quadros, except one lovely May,Except the king's fair daughter, none word for him would

say.

She took their hands, she led them forth into the court below;

She bade the ring be guarded, she bade the trumpet blow; From lofty place, for that stern race, the signal she did throw

“With truth and right the Lord will fight-together let them go."

The one is up, the other down, the hunter's knife is bare;
It cuts the lace beneath the face, it cuts through beard and

hair;

Right soon that knife hath quenched his life-the head is sundered sheer ;

Then gladsome smiled the Avenging Childe, and fixed it on his spear.

But when the king beholds him bring that token of his truth, Nor scorn nor wrath his bosom hath-"Kneel down, thou noble youth;

Kneel down, kneel down, and kiss my crown, I am no more thy foe;

My daughter now may pay the vow she plighted long ago."

XIV.-BATTLE OF BUNKER'S HILL.

(COZZENS.)

This celebrated battle was fought between the revolted Americans and the English troops in 1775. The United States forces were nearly a thousand less in number than the British; but the fact that, though ultimately defcated and compelled to retreat, they yet maintained a doubtful struggle against superior numbers, is a matter of boast to the Americans to the present day. Mr. Cozzens is an American writer.

It was a starry night in June, the air was soft and still, When the "minute-men" from Cambridge came, and gathered on the hill;

Beneath us lay the sleeping town, around us frowned the fleet,

But the pulse of freemen, not of slaves, within our bosoms

beat;

And every heart rose high with hope, as fearlessly we said, "We will be numbered with the free, or numbered with the

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dead!"

'Bring out the line to mark the trench, and stretch it on the sward!"

The trench is marked, the tools are brought, we utter not a

word,

But stack our guns, then fall to work with mattock and with spade,

A thousand men with sinewy arms, and not a sound is made; So still were we, the stars beneath, that scarce a whisper fell;

We heard the red-coat's musket click, and heard him cry, "All's well!" *

*

*

*

See how the morn is breaking! the red is in the sky:
The mist is creeping from the stream that floats in silence by;
The Lively's hull looms through the fog, and they our works
have spied,

For the ruddy flash and round-shot part in thunder from her side;

And the Falcon and the Cerberus make every bosom thrill, With gun and shell, and drum and bell, and boatswain's whistle shrill;

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