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BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. 59

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 list 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

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

Amidst the pale and wilder'd looks of all the courtiertrain ;

And with a fierce o'ermastering grasp the rearing warhorse 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 8

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 f—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.

Thou hast laid low the warrior's head,
The minstrel's chainless hand;
Dreamer! that numberest with the dead

The burning spirit of the mountain-land.

Think'st thou, because the song hath ceas'd, The soul of song is flown Think'st thou it woke to crown the feast, It liv'd beside the ruddy hearth alone *

No! by our names and by our blood, We leave it pure and free— Though hush'd awhile, that sounding flood Shall roll in joy through ages yet to be.

We leave it, 'midst our country's woe,
The birthright of her breast—
We leave it, as we leave the snow,

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