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THE BARD.

L. 1.

RUIN seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait; ough fanned by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Im, nor hauberk's twisted mail, e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall

avail

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,

From Cambria's curse, from Cam

bria's tears!"

ch were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay,

down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array.

out Glo'ster stood aghast in

speechless trance: To arins!" cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. I. 2.

On a rock, whose haughty brow owns o'er old Conway's foaming flood.

Robed in the sable garb of woe, th haggard eyes the poet stood; ose his beard, and hoary hair ned, like a meteor, to the troubled air),

No more I weep. They do not
sleep.

Ye died amidst your dying coun
try's cries-

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
I see them sit, they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land:
With me in dreadful harmony they
join,

with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, uck the deep sorrows of his lyre. Hark, how each giant-oak, and

desert cave.

s to the torrent's awful voice

beneath!

r thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,

evenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;

cal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

1. 3.

Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, at hushed the stormy main:

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"Weave the warp, and weave the
woof,

The winding sheet of Edward's race.
Give ample room, and verge
enough

Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The characters of hell to trace.

The shrieks of death, through Berk-
Shrieks of an agonizing king!
ley's roof that ring.

She-wolf of France, with unrelent
ing fangs,

That tear'st the bowels of thy
mangled mate,

From thee be born, who o'er thy
country hangs

The scourge of heaven. What ter-
rors round him wait!
Amazement in his van, with flight
combined,

And sorrow's faded form, and soli-
tude behind.

liege.

Lady

ALFRED THE HARPER.

DARK fell the night, the watch was set,

The host was idly spread,

The Danes around their watchfires met,

Caroused, and fiercely fed.

The chiefs beneath a tent of leaves,
And Guthrum, king of all,
Devoured the flesh of England's
beeves,

And laughed at England's fall.
Each warrior proud, each Danish
earl,

In mail and wolf-skin clad, Their bracelets white with plundered pearl,

Their eyes with triumph mad.

From Humber-land to Severn-land, And on to Tamar stream,

Where Thames makes green the towery strand,

Where Medway's waters gleam, With hands of steel and mouths of flame

They raged the kingdom through; And where the Norseman sickle came,

No crop but hunger grew.

They loaded many an English horse With wealth of cities fair;

They dragged from many a father's

Corse

The daughter by her hair.

And English slaves, and gems and gold,

Were gathered round the feast;
Till midnight in their woodland hold,
Oh! never that riot ceased.

In stalked a warrior tall and rude Before the strong sea-kings; "Ye Lords and Earls of Odin's brood,

Without a harper sings.

He seems a simple man and poor,
But well he sounds the lay;
And well, ye Norseman chiefs, be sure,
Will ye the song repay."

In trod the bard with keen cold look,
And glanced along the board,
That with the shout and war-cry
shook

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To all who boldly strive,
Who fall where first the fight began,
And ne'er go back alive.

"Fill high your cups, and swell the shout.

At famous Regnar's name!
Who sank his host in bloody rout,
When he to Humber came.

His men were chased, his sons were slain,

And he was left alone.

They bound him in an iron chain
Upon a dungeon stone.

"With iron links they bound him fast;

With snakes they filled the hole, That made his flesh their long repast,

And bit into his soul.

"Great chiefs, why sink in gloom your eyes?

Why champ your teeth in pain? Still lives the song though Regnar dies!

Fill high your cups again. Ye too, perchance, O Norsemen lords!

Who fought and swayed so long, Shall soon but live in minstrel words, And owe your names to song.

"This land has graves by thousands

more

Than that where Regnar lies.
When conquests fade, and rule is o'er,
The sod must close your eyes.
How soon, who knows? Not chief,
nor bard;

And yet to me 'tis given,

To see your foreheads deeply scarred, And guess the doom of Heaven.

"I may not read or when or how, But, Earls and Kings, be sure I see a blade o'er every brow, Where pride now sits secure. Fill high the cups, raise loud the strain!

When chief and monarch fall, Their names in song shall breathe again,

And thrill the feastful hall."

Grim sat the chiefs; one heaved a groan,

And one grew pale with dread,
His iron mace was grasped by one,
By one his wine was shed.
And Guthrum cried, "Nay, bard, no

more

We hear thy boding lay;

Make drunk the song with spoil and gore!

Light up the joyous fray!"

"Quick throbs my brain," so burst

the song,

"To hear the strife once more.
The mace, the axe, they rest too long;
Earth cries, My thirst is sore.
More blithely twang the strings of
bows

Than strings of harps in glee;
Red wounds are lovelier than the rose,
Or rosy lips to me.

"Oh! fairer than a field of flowers, When flowers in England grew, Would be the battle's marshalled powers,

The plain of carnage new.

With all its deaths before my soul
The vision rises fair;

Raise loud the song, and drain the bowl!

I would that I were there!"

Loud rang the harp, the minstrel's eye Rolled fiercely round the throng;

It seemed two crashing hosts were nigh,

Whose shock aroused the song.
A golden cup King Guthrum gave
To him who strongly played;
And said, "I won it from the slave
Who once o'er England swayed."

King Guthrum cried, "Twas Alfred's own;

Thy song befits the brave:
The King who cannot guard his
throne

Nor wine nor song shall have."
The minstrel took the goblet bright,
And said, "I drink the wine
To him who owns by justest right
The cup thou bid'st be mine.

"To him, your Lord, Oh shout ye all!

His meed be deathless praise!
The King who dares not nobly fall,
Dies basely all his days."

"The praise thou speakest," Guthrum said,

"With sweetness fills mine ear;
For Alfred swift before me fled,
And left me monarch here.
The royal coward never dared
Beneath mine eye to stand.

Oh, would that now this feast he shared,

And saw me rule his land!"

Then stern the minstrel rose, and spake,

And gazed upon the King, — "Not now the golden cup I take, Nor more to thee I sing. Another day, a happier hour, Shall bring me here again: The cup shall stay in Guthrum's power

Till I demand it then."

The Harper turned and left the shed,

Nor bent to Guthrum's crown;
And one who marked his visage said
It wore a ghastly frown.

The Danes ne'er saw that Harper more,

For soon as morning rose,

Upon their camp King Alfred bore, And slew ten thousand foes.

JOHN STERLING.

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"My liege," quoth he, "seven Moors I see a-coming from the wood, Now bring they all the blows they may. I trow they'll find as good;

For it is Don Garci Perez, - if his cognizance they know,

I guess it will be little pain to give them blow for blow."

The Moors from forth the greenwood came riding one by one,

A gallant troop with armor resplendent in the sun;

Full haughty was their bearing, as o'er the sward they came; But the calm Lord of Vargas, his march was still the same.

They stood drawn up in order, while past them all rode he: But when upon his shield they saw the sable blazonry, And the wings of the Black Eagle,

that o'er his crest were spread, They knew Don Garci Perez, and never word they said.

He took the casque from off his brow, and gave it to the squire; "My friend," quoth he, "no need I see why I my brows should tire."

But as he doffed the helmet he saw his scarf was gone,

"I've dropped it, sure," quoth Garci, "when I put my helmet on."

He looked around and saw the scarf, for still the Moors were near, And they had picked it from the sward, and looped it on a spear. These Moors," quoth Garci Perez, "uncourteous Moors they be,Now, by my soul, the scarf they stole, yet durst not question me!

Now reach once more my helmet." The esquire said him nay, "For a silken string why should ye fling perchance your life away?"

"I had it from my lady," quoth Garci, "long ago,

And never Moor that scarf, be sure, in proud Seville shall show."

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