His dark eye flash'd,-his proud breast heav'd,—his cheek's hue came and went,

He reach'd that grey-hair'd chieftain's side, and there dismounting bent,

A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he

took

What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold-a frozen thing-it dropp'd from his like lead

He look'd up to the face above,-the face was of the

dead

A plume wav'd o'er the noble brow-the brow was fix'd and white

He met at last his father's eyes-but in them was no

sight!

Up from the ground he sprang and gaz'd—but who could

paint that gaze?

They hush'd their very hearts that saw its horror and

amaze

They might have chain'd him as before that stony form

he stood,

For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood.

"Father!" at length he murmur'd low-and wept like childhood then

Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men!

He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young

renown

He flung his falchion from his side, and in the dust sat

down.

Then covering with his steel-glov'd hands his darkly mournful brow,

"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword

for now

My king is false, my hope betray'd, my father-oh! the

worth,

The glory, and the loveliness are pass'd away from

earth.

"I thought to stand where banners wav'd, my sire! beside

thee yet

I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil

had met

Thou wouldst have known my spirit then-for thee my fields were won,

And thou hast perish'd in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!"

Then starting from the ground once more, he seiz❜d the monarch's rein,

Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the courtier

train;

And with a fierce o'ermastering grasp the rearing war

horse led,

And sternly set them face to face-the king before the dead

"Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to

kiss?

-Be still, and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what

is this?

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought-give answer, where are they?

-If thou wouldst clear thy perjur'd soul, send life through this cold clay.

"Into these glassy eyes put light-be still! keep down thine

ire

Bid these white lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my

sire

Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed

Thou canst not?—and a king!—his dust be mountains on thy head!"

He loos'd the steed, his slack hand fell-upon the silent

face

He cast one long, deep, troubled look, then turn'd from that sad place

His hope was crush'd, his after-fate untold in martial strain

His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of

Spain.

THE DYING BARD'S PROPHECY.

AT THE TIME OF THE SUPPOSED MASSACRE BY EDWARD I.

THE Hall of Harps is lone this night,

And cold the chieftain's hearth;

It hath no mead, it hath no light,
No voice of melody, no sound of mirth.

And I depart-my wound is deep,

My brethren long have died—

Yet, ere my soul grow dark with sleep,
Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride.

Bear it, where on his battle-plain,

Beneath the setting sun,

He counts my country's noble slain

Say to him-Saxon! think not all is won.