But oftener far the sounds that meet the ear
Are the rough songs that tell the soldier's cheer,
The laughter loud and long, the shouted jest,
The tireless clamour of his time of rest,
When danger draws not nigh, with finger cold
Enforcing silence on her followers bold.

Yet these are men who, if there come affront,
Seem ready now to bear her sternest brunt:
For some are polishing their arms, that shine
In fitful flashes o'er the sparkling brine;
And some have landed, and in order move
Past the dark belts of yonder ilex grove;
Or, stationed singly, drill and fence with care,
And hew with sword and axe the glancing air.

Now, on the road that leads from out the town, Appear two knights, who slowly wend them down, Till reached the ground, where still the men-at

arms

Repeat their mimicry of war's alarms.

But, as a glistening wave that quickly flies
From the cloud-shadow where its brightness dies,
To travel, laughing, onward as before,
With not a sign of any change it bore;
Did the light temper of the comely knight
Forget in joyousness the father's slight;
And smiling, answered, "Nay, my lord, you ne'er
Let me see use, in all this pageant fair;
For, save upon the field of their parade,
These gallant soldiers never bare a blade.”
"Enough," the father answered, “that they keep
Our home from outward harm or treason deep,
And that you only hear, and have not seen,
Aught of what they in other days have been,
Before I made the town and yonder rock
Proof to the miseries you would lightly mock."

Thus speaking, with a few of their armed band
The two passed slowly to the yellow sand,
Listening the while to wants of those who came
To offer homage, or prefer a claim.

plumes,

Each, in the ordered line, his place assumes; And waits with steadied gaze and lowered brand, Till every weapon in each rank is scanned.

The elder knight, whose fierce and haughty mien In his firm stride, and on his brow was seen, Was grizzled, swarthy, and his forehead worn By scars of fight and time, not lightly borne; For the dimmed eye that gazed, deep sunk, beneath,

Showed that the spirit's blade had worn its sheath;
And that full soon the years must have an end
In which, on friend or foe, that glance should
bend.

The younger man, who followed at his side,
Bore the same impress of a lofty pride.
But all his bearing lacked the rigid mould
That in the elder of tough metal told;
Thus as the sire, with patient care, surveys
How every movement practised skill displays;
The son would saunter heedlessly along,

His lips just murmuring as they shaped a song.
His large gray eye was restless as the thought
That fixed no purpose in the mind it sought.
One jewelled hand was on his dagger laid,
With pointed beard the other often played,
Or swept from neck and shoulder curls that, flung
In studied negligence, upon them hung.
Yet though he seemed irresolute and weak,
A flush of pride would rise upon his cheek,
When his sire chid him, "as a stripling vain,-
Almost unworthy of this gallant train,"
And told him, if he cared not for such state,
To"
go, play ball within the castle gate!"
Then backward falling for a little space,
A pain was pictured on his handsome face:
The dark brows met, the shapely lips were pressed,
The nostril curved, as if for breath distressed.

The elder told how all his days were spent "Throughout his youth, and e'en to manhood's

prime,

In broils, the passion of his troubled time;
How at the last, through many a year of toil,
Through the dread discord sown upon the soil,
He reaped the profit of his stubborn will,
And gathered power; until he won his fill
Of all for which a man of spirit strives;-
Riches and strength to save or take men's lives.
"Twas true, all this might yet be still increased;
But age had come, and his ambition ceased.
He would not care himself to waste more blood
By hunting those who ne'er against him stood.
They said the Saracen should be destroyed;
Then let them do it. If they died, he joyed.
Yet for himself he would not aid, for they
Had never dared to meet him in affray.
They knew the length of his good arm too well.
No, for his part, he felt no shame to tell,
His work had only been with those who dwell
Around and near him, thus his son had gained
Such place and power as none before attained.
He could not tell him how to use it, when
New times must change so much both things and

men.

One maxim only he must bear in mind,'
Aye to the followers of his house be kind,
For if the tree would stretch its branches round,
The roots must clasp and win the nearest ground."

The other, as such speech continuous flowed,
But little interest in his bearing showed.
His gentle nurture had not made him feel
Either the fear or love of brandished steel;
And he but lazily would dream of deeds
Such as, with other youths, rapt fancy feeds,
Until the thought to glorious action leads.
Thus little had he cared for aught beside

The early objects of a boyish pride:
His sports, his horse, his dog; and now full-grown,
Less worthy loves seemed in his nature sown,
And less a man than when he was a boy,
A trivial foppery became his joy:

His velvet stuffs, the fashion of his sleeve,

His hat and plume, were what could please or grieve.

While thus he listened not, but gazed or sung,
His eye had wandered to where now there hung
Along the far horizon, a low cloud

That mounted steadily on high, while loud
The wind piped, like a rustic at his toil,
Furrowed the sea in ridges like the soil,
And scattered rain-drops, as he strode along;
Then rose the storm, in awful fury strong.
Gleams of a wondrous light a moment stood
On pallid sea and on wind-stricken wood,
And dazzling, where they shone the vision's sense,
They fled; and, chased by shadows as intense,
Passed with the swiftness of the blast, and leaped
From gulf to cliff,-then to the crags, that heaped
In grandeur 'gainst the flying skies, appeared
Like to white ashes that the fire has seared.
And then the mists rolled over them, as black
Grew heaven's vault with darkest thunder wrack;
From under which, increasing in fierce sound,
A harsh and hissing noise spread fast around,
And a low moaning, like a voice of dread,
Welled, as if coming from the deep sea's bed.
The rain ran down, and, as the lightning flashed,
In bounding torrents o'er the ground was dashed.
From the dry hills the new-born fountains sprung,
The narrow tracks with swelling waters rung,
And, 'mid the turmoil, could be faintly heard
The heavy fall of distant land-slip, stirred
To headlong ravage, burying as it flowed,
Man and his works beneath a hideous load!
Down the broad bed of shingle and of stone
That the shrunk river seemed ashamed to own
When, in the heat of the life-parching day,
A feeble streamlet, scarce it found a way;
Now dashed a brimming tide, whose eddies surged
Till o'er the banks the muddy foam was urged,
And louder still the notes of terror grew,
Ere past the hills the roaring tempest flew,
And on lashed sea, and groaning shore was spent
The rage of nature, and her frown unbent!

Stood dripping like a merman, standing nigh
The pine-wood fire, that sent its flame on high:
While the good wife, her distaff laid aside,
Still fed its glow with many a branch well dried,
Chattering as o'er her task she bent intent,
And from the blaze a storm of sparks was sent.

A bright-hued sash the fisher's jerkin bound,
His scanty locks a crimson bonnet crowned.
He turned upon the guests a face that spoke
A ready welcome, ere he silence broke.
Then, with bared head and smile of joy, he said,
"Ah! knight of Orles, what chance has hither led
Thee and the Signor Guido?-Enter here:
Praise be to God, and to the Virgin dear;
May she from tempests every ill avert,
Send gladness as to me, instead of hurt!—
Pray, glorious sirs, to honour my abode,
And with deep gratitude my heart to load
By wishing well to me and this my roof:
Now of such kindliness to give me proof,
I pray you take your seats, and break your fast.
'Tis your first visit here, I fear the last,
For humble folk get not such favours oft:"
And here his dame broke in-"Hist, Carlo! soft;
Their presence now gives joy, and they may take
Some fish, and fruit, and wine. Our girl will bake
A little flour upon the embers soon;
Come hither, Lita-Lita. Here's a boon,
A pleasure rare for thee. Thy bread shall be
Refreshment to these lords of high degree.
O, Signors, 'tis indeed a poor repast,
But on its winning has our toil been cast.
Come, Lita-wherefore lingers she?" Then came
Into the ruddy light of her hearth's flame,
So that it blazoned her young beauty forth,
And seemed to love with all its charms to play,
The fisher's daughter, pride of cape and bay!

Whose loveliness, not such as in the north
Blushes like sunshine through the morning mist,
Was that of southern eve, quick darkening,
kissed

By crimsoned lightnings of her burning day.
A maid whose arching brow and glancing eyes
Told of a passing, timorous surprise;
Whose tresses half concealed a neck that raised
A head that classic art might well have praised.
Framed with the hair, in glossy masses thrown

Soon found a cottage in a wooded plain;
And passing through the open door, were met
By the poor owner, who, with garments wet,

Else had not dimples on the sunburnt cheek
Helped the eye's merriment so oft to speak.
O'er beauteous mouth and rounded chin there
strayed

The sign of power that ardent will betrayed;
But broken by a gentleness of soul

That through her steadfast gaze in softness stole.

A slight obeisance, as though half afraid;
Then stood,- -a coarse robe flowing to her feet,
Each limb round shadowed in the fitful heat.
And, like the glow that lighted her, there sped
Through Guido's frame a pulse that quickly fled,
But left his breathless gaze to feed upon
The figure that, to him, like angel's shone.
Till the repast prepared, his father quaffed
A horn of wine; and turning, as he laughed,
Said to the wife, "A beauteous maid in truth
You give to serve us. That young man, forsooth,
Has, as you see, no eyes for food, because
They worship elsewhere with a mute applause.
Nay! is she gone? I spoke with little grace,
Else had not scared her from her 'customed
place."

Then said the wife, "Oh, sir, we do not heed
If her fair looks to admiration lead
With such great folks as you, who cannot care
For fisher maidens, with your ladies rare;
But oftentimes, when neighbours come about,
They find my welcome marred by anxious doubt."
And Guido smiled, but could not laugh away
The spell of silence that upon him lay.

When, turning from old Carlo's poor abode, The knights again together homeward strode, So strange the feeling that within found birth, It seemed to him he scarcely walked the earth.

Alone once more that humble hearth to find, Alone once more that radiant face to scan, And prove the charm, as when it first began.

Ah! who can tell, when thus the will is swayed,
And to emotions dangerous train is laid,
The torch that love or passion each can fire,
What hidden issue waits the heart's desire ?
What little grains the balance may control,
E'en though it shape the fortune of the soul,
That, by its fervid longings all possessed,
Yearns for the secrets of another's breast;
Would live or die, but in the sight of one
Who to its being seems the central sun,
Without whose presence every scene is drear--
The world a desert, haunted but with fear!
Who from the scroll of fate may knowledge wring
Of the first birth of life's mysterious spring,
What is the nature that so soon has grown
A potent tide, on which our bark is thrown?
Ah! who can tell if noblest impulse lies
Within the magic of the meeting eyes,
Or, if the ruin of a life be where
The light falls softest on some golden hair?

The knights of Orles regained the lofty keep,
When, sinking slowly on the purpled deep,
The sun still lingered on the bannered tower,
Though evening on the shore now showed her

power,

And bathed it deeply in the twilight hour.