JOHN FREDERICK HERRING.

and London Highflyer." While thus engaged BRAVE Rodrick was the hero of a

But Rodrick once had home and wife and
child,

A peaceful man, was loving, gentle, mild,
A neighbor kind, a friend without a peer.
Most happy passed his days from year to year
Till foemen came; a fierce, a foreign band
By ruthless war subdued his native land,
His home destroyed, destroyed his child, his
wife,

Naught leaving but his courage and his life.

Deep buried in his inmost soul his woes,

"Let traitors leave us and let cowards fly; We go," he cried, "to conquer or to die."

II.

The monarch grand, within his castle wall,
Held festival in his great banquet-hall,
And proudly smiled upon that bright array
Of chieftains brave and ladies fair and gay;
His sceptre holding with an iron hand,
He sternly stretched it o'er a conquered land,
All fearless now of chief in wilds afar

With dauntless breast he met his country's Who unsubdued maintained guerilla-war.

Oh, fruitless now is valor, vain the strife:
These valiant rustics can but yield their life,
There fighting, not to conquer, but to die,
And from their country's foes they will not
fly;

For Rodrick speeds once more to open war;
And if he only reach those wilds afar,
That spirit brave may yet thy conqueror be—
In coming time may hail his people free.
Thy minions send in hot pursuit to fly :

They bravely fall beneath the conqueror's That rebel chief will vanquish thee or die. blade.

A captive now their gallant chief is made:
No mercy unto him will foeman give,
For what were conquest worth if Rodrick

live?

III.

Fast through the city gates the riders go,
Pursuing, all, a solitary foe;
And as the walls they pass their ranks

divide,

That warrior in to hem on either side.

Life's closing day! Brave chief, the die is Oh, brave is Rodrick, fleet and stanch his

cast:

last.

steed,

The trumpet's call proclaims this hour thy But naught avails it in this hour of need: He may not reach that solitary wild, His mountain-home, where cliffs on cliffs are piled.

But who would live a captive and a slave?
Oh, better far the gibbet and the grave!
Thy gallant steed-the charger which thee
bore

In bloody fray throughout this vengeful war-
Shall carry thee to where thy death shall

show

A tyrant's hatred toward a noble foe.

That swift pursuit began with midday sun,
Nor was it ended when the day was done:
Ere they arrived on Elward's giddy height
The moon on its dark cliff shed forth her
light.

No bridle checked that rider brave, with speed
Still pressing forward on his noble steed,
While on the craggy hillside just below

The captive chief to see, the people throng
As onward unto death he rides along,
Low murmuring they, like waves upon the Half circling him advance his warrior-foe.

tide,

IV.

As changed the wind her organ, so she changed

Though many years have passed by Elward's Perpetually; and whom she praised to-day,
Vexing his ear with acclamation loud,
To-morrow blamed, and hissed him out of
sight.

The rustic yet will speak of Rodrick's ride,
And strangers tell how, at a furious speed,
Again appears that chieftain on his steed;
And coming always in the moon's full light,
That gallant horse and rider drop each night
O'er Elward's cliff down to the depths below,
There disappearing; but how, none may

know.

They tell that Rodrick never can know rest
While by the foe his people are oppressed-
How yet a coming chief with valiant band
Will drive oppressors from their native land,
And to the patriot dead will honor give :
On history's brightest page their names will
live.

Then shall the nightly apparition cease,
And then shall gallant Rodrick rest in peace.

OF

FAME.

JOSEPH DICKSON.

F all the phantoms fleeting in the mist
Of Time, though meagre all, and ghostly
thin,

Most unsubstantial, unessential shade
Was earthly Fame. She was a voice alone,
And dwelt upon the noisy tongues of men.
She never thought, but gabbled ever on,
Applauding most what least deserved ap-
plause ;

The motive, the result, was naught to her:
The deed alone, though dyed in human gore,
And steeped in widows' tears, if it stood out
To prominent display, she talked of much,

And roared around it with a thousand tongues.

AT LAST.

ROBERT POLLOK.

THE old, old story o'er again,

Made up of passion, parting, pain:
He fought and fell to live in fame,
But dying only breathed her name.

Some tears most sad and innocent,
Some rebel thoughts, but all unmeant,
Then, with a silent, shrouded heart,
She turned to life and played her part.

Another man, who vowed and loved,
Her patient, pitying spirit moved;
Sweet hopes the dread of life beguiled:
The lost love sighed, the new love smiled.

So she was wed, and children bore,
And then her widowed sables wore;
Her eyes grew dim, her tresses gray,
And dawned at length her dying-day.

Her children gather: some are gone,
Asleep beneath a lettered stone;
The living, cold with grief and fear,
Stoop down her whispering speech to hear.

No child she calls, no husband needs:
At Death's sharp touch the old wound bleeds.
"Call him!" she cried. Her first love's

name

Leapt from her heart with life's last flame.

ROSE TERRY.

THE DECEITFUL MARRIAGE.

FROM THE SPANISH OF MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA.

T last resolving to push my suit in the style of a soldier who is about to shift his quarters, I came to the point with my fair one, Doña Estefania de Caycedo (for that is the name of my charmer), and this was the answer she gave me:

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