spake,

Upon the traitor's shoulder fierce he drove The weapon, well bestowed. He in the seat Tottered and fell. The avenger hastened on In search of Ebba; and in the heat of fight Rejoicing, and forgetful of all else,

Set up his cry, as he was wont in youth,

cried,

"It comes from Roderick's hand! Roderick the Goth!

Who spared, who trusted thee, and was betrayed!

Go tell thy father now how thou hast sped

well.

Pelayo eagerly took up the word,

And shouted out his kinsman's name beloved, -
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance! Odoar gave it forth;
Urban repeated it, and through his ranks
Count Pedro sent the cry. Not from the field
Of his great victory, when Witiza fell,
With louder acclamations had that name
Been borne abroad upon the winds of heaven.
The unreflecting throng, who yesterday,
If it had passed their lips, would with a curse
Have clogged it, echoed it as if it came
From some celestial voice in the air, revealed
To be the certain pledge of all their hopes.
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance! O'er the field it
spread,

All hearts and tongues uniting in the cry;
Mountains and rocks and vales re-echoed round;
And he, rejoicing in his strength, rode on,
Laying on the Moors with that good sword, and
smote,

And overthrew, and scattered, and destroyed,
And trampled down; and still at every blow
Exultingly he sent the war-cry forth,
Roderick the Goth! Roderick and Victory!
Roderick and Vengeance!

Thus he made his way, Smiting and slaying, through the astonished ranks,

Till he beheld, where, on a fiery barb,
Ebba, performing well a soldier's part,
Dealt to the right and left his deadly blows.
With mutual rage they met. The renegade
Displays a cimeter, the splendid gift
Of Walid from Damascus sent; its hilt
Embossed with gems, its blade of perfect steel,
Which, like a mirror sparkling to the sun
With dazzling splendor, flashed. The Goth ob-
jects

His shield, and on its rim received the edge
Driven from its aim aside, and of its force
Diminished. Many a frustrate stroke was dealt
On either part, and many a foin and thrust
Aimed and rebated; many a deadly blow,
Straight or reverse, delivered and repelled.
Roderick at length with better speed hath reached
The apostate's turban, and through all its folds

His puissant sword unto his side
Near his undaunted heart was tied,
With basket hilt that would hold broth,
And serve for fight and dinner both.
In it he melted lead for bullets

To shoot at focs, and sometimes pullets,
To whom he bore so fell a grutch
He ne'er gave quarter to any such.
The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty,
For want of fighting was grown rusty,
And ate into itself, for lack
Of somebody to hew and hack.

The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt,
The rancor of its edge had felt;
For of the lower end two handful
It had devoured, it was so manful;
And so much scorned to lurk in case,
As if it durst not show its face.

This sword a dagger had, his page,
That was but little for his age,
And therefore waited on him so
As dwarfs unto knight-errants do.
It was a serviceable dudgeon,
Either for fighting or for drudging.
When it had stabbed or broke a head,
It would scrape trenchers or chip bread,
Toast cheese or bacon, though it were
To bait a mouse-trap 't would not care;
'T would make clean shoes, and in the earth
Set leeks and onions, and so forth:
It had been 'prentice to a brewer,
Where this and more it did endure;
But left the trade, as many more
Have lately done on the same score.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

MALBROUCK.

MALBROUCK, the prince of commanders,
Is gone to the war in Flanders;
His fame is like Alexander's;

But when will he come home?

Perhaps at Trinity feast; or
Perhaps he may come at Easter.
Egad! he had better make haste, or
We fear he may never come.

For Trinity feast is over,

And has brought no news from Dover; And Easter is past, moreover,

And Malbrouck still delays.

Milady in her watch-tower
Spends many a pensive hour,
Not knowing why or how her

Dear lord from England stays.

While sitting quite forlorn in
That tower, she spies returning
A page clad in deep mourning,

With fainting steps and slow.

"O page, prithee, come faster! What news do you bring of your master? I fear there is some disaster,

Your looks are so full of woe." "The news I bring, fair lady," With sorrowful accent said be, "Is one you are not ready

So soon, alas! to hear.

"But since to speak I'm hurried,"
Added this page quite flurried,

66
'Malbrouck is dead and buried !"
And here he shed a tear.

"He's dead! he's dead as a herring!

For I beheld his berring,

And four officers transferring

His corpse away from the field.

"One officer carried his sabre;
And he carried it not without labor,
Much envying his next neighbor,
Who only bore a shield.

"The third was helmet-bearer,
That helmet which on its wearer
Filled all who saw with terror,

And covered a hero's brains.

"Now, having got so far, I
Find that. by the Lord Harry!
The fourth is left nothing to carry ;—

So there the thing remains.'

ANONYMOUS (French). Translation of MAHONY.

the Forth,

Count the stars in the clear, cloudless heaven of the north;

Then go blazon their numbers, their names, and their worth,

All the broadswords of old Scotland! etc.

The highest in splendor, the humblest in place,
Stand united in glory, as kindred in race,
For the private is brother in blood to his Grace.
O the broadswords of old Scotland! etc.

Then sacred to each and to all let it be,
Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us
free,

Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.

O the broadswords of old Scotland! etc.

JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

Give half his years if but he could
Have been with us at Monterey.

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,

Yet not a single soldier quailed
When wounded comrades round them wailed
Their dying shout at Monterey.

And on, still on our column kept,
Through walls of flame, its withering way;
Where fell the dead, the living stept,
Still charging on the guns which swept
The slippery streets of Monterey.

The foe himself recoiled aghast,

When, striking where he strongest lay, We swooped his flanking batteries past, And, braving full their murderous blast,

Stormed home the towers of Monterey.

O THE charge at Balaklava !
O that rash and fatal charge!
Never was a fiercer, braver,
Than that charge at Balaklava,

On the battle's bloody marge!
All the day the Russian columns,

Fortress huge, and blazing banks,
Poured their dread destructive volumes
On the French and English ranks,
On the gallant allied ranks!
Earth and sky seemed rent asunder
By the loud incessant thunder!
When a strange but stern command-
Needless, heedless, rash command-
Came to Lucan's little band,
Scarce six hundred men and horses
Of those vast contending forces :-
"England's lost unless you save her!
Charge the pass at Balaklava!"

O that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Far away the Russian Eagles

Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, And their hordes, like howling beagles,

Dense and countless, round them yell!
Thundering cannon, deadly mortar,
Sweep the field in every quarter!
Never, since the days of Jesus,
Trembled so the Chersonesus!

Here behold the Gallic Lilies-
Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies
Float as erst at old Ramillies!
And beside them, lo! the Lion!

With her trophied Cross, is flying!
Glorious standards !- shall they waver
On the field of Balaklava?

No, by Heavens at that command-
Sudden, rash, but stern command
Charges Lucan's little band!

Brave Six Hundred ! lo! they charge,
On the battle's bloody márge!

Down yon deep and skirted valley,

Where the crowded cannon play, · Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli,

Down that gorge they swept away! Down that new Thermopyla, Flashing swords and helmets see! Underneath the iron shower,

To the brazen cannon's jaws, Heedless of their deadly power,

Press they without fear or pause, To the very cannon's jaws ! Gallant Nolan, brave as Roland

At the field of Roncesvalles, Dashes down the fatal valley, Dashes on the bolt of death, Shouting with his latest breath,

'Charge, then, gallants! do not waver, Charge the pass at Balaklava!"

O that rash and fatal charge,
On the battle's bloody marge!

Now the bolts of volleyed thunder
Rend that little band asunder,
Steed and rider wildly screaming,

Screaming wildly, sink away;
Late so proudly, proudly gleaming,
Now but lifeless clods of clay,
Now but bleeding clods of clay!

Never, since the days of Jesus,
Saw such sight the Chersonesus!
Yet

your remnant, brave Six Hundred, Presses onward, onward, onward,

Till they storm the bloody pass,

Till, like brave Leonidas,

They storm the deadly pass! Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli, In that wild shot-rended valley,

Drenched with fire and blood, like lava,
Awful pass at Balaklava!

O that rash and fatal charge,
On that battle's bloody marge!

For now Russia's rallied forces,
Swarming hordes of Cossack horses,
Trampling o'er the reeking corses,

Drive the thinned assailants back,
Drive the feeble remnant back,
O'er their late heroic track!
Vain, alas! now rent and sundered,
Vain your struggles, brave Two Hundred!
Thrice your number lie asleep,

In that valley dark and deep.
Weak and wounded you retire
From that hurricane of fire, —
That tempestuous storm of fire,
But no soldiers, firmer, braver,

Ever trod the field of fame,
Than the Knights of Balaklava,

Honor to each hero's name! Yet their country long shall mourn For her rank so rashly shorn, So gallantly, but madly shorn

-

In that fierce and fatal charge, On the battle's bloody marge.

ALEXANDER B. MEEK,

DEATH OF ARTHUR.

So all day long the noise of battle rolled Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur's Table, man by man, Had fallen in Lyonesse about their lord, King Arthur: then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land. On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: "The sequel of to-day unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep- the men I loved. I think that wo Shall nevermore, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were.

I perish by this people which I made, -
Though Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more; but let what will be, be.
I am so deeply smitten through the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere : "It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten through the helmA little thing may harm a wounded man ; Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word."

So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping
down

By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth
And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt:
For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks,
Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work
Of subtlest jewelry. He gazed so long
That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood,
This way and that dividing the swift mind,
In act to throw but at the last it seemed
Better to leave Excalibur concealed
There in the many-knotted water-flags,
That whistled stiff and dry about the marge.
So strode he back slow to the wounded King.

:

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: "Hast thou performed my mission which I gave? What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag."

To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: "Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseemed Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: For surer sign had followed, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie.

As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing

I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word."

Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud :—

"And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost forever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm, undone? deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to after-time, but empty breath And rumors of a doubt? but were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, 'King Arthur's sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills.'

So might some old man speak in the after-time To all the people, winning reverence.

But now much honor and much fame were lost."

So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, And hid Excalibur the second time, And so strode back slow to the wounded King.

Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: "What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?"

And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: "I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds."

To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widowed of the power in his eye That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest-left of all my knights In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur,

I will arise and slay thee with my hands."