"All! I would do it all,

Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot;
Thrust foully in the earth to be forgot.

O heavens! but I appall

Your heart, old man! forgive—ha! on your lives
Let him not faint! rack him till he revives!

“Vain—vain—give o'er. His eye

Glazes apace.

He does not feel you now.

Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow!
Gods! if he do not die

But for one moment-one-till I eclipse
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips!

66

'Shivering! Hark! he mutters

Brokenly now; that was a difficult breath;
Another? Wilt thou never come, O Death?
Look! how his temple flutters!

Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head!
He shudders-gasps-Jove help him-so, he's dead!"

How like a mountain devil in the heart
Rules this unreined ambition! Let it once
But play the monarch, and its haughty brow
Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought
And unthrones peace forever. Putting on
The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns

The heart to ashes, and with not a spring
Left in the desert for the spirit's lip,

We look upon our splendor, and forget
The thirst of which we perish!

- Willis.

CLXIV.-COUNT CANDESPINA'S STANDARD.

SCARCE were the splintered lances dropped,

Scarce were the swords drawn out,

Ere recreant Lara, sick with fear,

Had wheeled his steed about:

His courser reared and plunged and neighed, Loathing the fight to yield;

But the coward spurred him to the bone,

And drove him from the field.

Gonzalez in his stirrups rose:

"Turn, turn, thou traitor knight! Thou bold tongue in a lady's bower! Thou dastard in a fight!"

But vainly valiant Gomez cried
Across the waning fray:
Pale Lara and his craven band
To Burgos scoured away.

"Now, by the Heaven above me, sirs,
Better we all were dead,

Than a single knight among ye all
Should ride where Lara led!

"Yet ye who fear to follow me,
As yon traitor, turn and fly;
For I lead ye not to win a field;
I lead ye forth to die.

"Olea, plant my standard here,
Here on this little mound;
Here raise the war-cry of thy house,
Make this our rallying ground.

"Forget not, as thou hop'st for grace,
The last care I shall have

Will be to hear thy battle-cry,
And see that standard wave."

Down on the ranks of Aragon
The bold Gonzalez drove,
And Olea raised his battle-cry,
And waved the flag above.

Slowly Gonzalez' little band

Gave ground before the foe;

But not an inch of the field was won
Without a deadly blow;

And not an inch of the field was won

That did not draw a tear

From the widowed wives of Aragon,
That fatal news to hear.

Backward and backward Gomez fought,
And high o'er the clashing steel
Plainer and plainer rose the cry,
"Olea for Castile!"

Backward fought Gomez, step by step,
Till the cry was close at hand,
Till his dauntless standard shadowed him;
And there he made his stand.

Mace, sword, and axe rang on his mail,
Yet he moved not where he stood,
Though each gaping joint of armor ran
A stream of purple blood.

As, pierced with countless wounds, he fell,
The standard caught his eye,

And he smiled like an infant hushed asleep,

To hear the battle-cry.

Now one by one the wearied knights

Have fallen, or basely flown;

And on the mound where his post was fixed

Olea stood alone.

"Yield up thy banner, gallant knight!

Thy lord lies on the plain;

Thy duty has been nobly done;
I would not see thee slain."

"Spare pity, king of Aragon!

I would not hear thee lie:

My lord is looking down from heaven
To see his standard fly."

"Yield, madman, yield! thy horse is down; Thou hast nor lance nor shield;

Fly! I will grant thee time." "This flag
Can neither fly nor yield!'

They girt the standard round about,
A wall of flashing steel,

But still they heard the battle-cry,
"Olea for Castile!"

And there, against all Aragon,
Full-armed with lance and brand,
Olea fought until the sword
Snapped in his sturdy hand.

Among the foe with that high scorn
Which laughs at earthly fears,
He hurled the broken hilt, and drew
His dagger on the spears.

They hewed the hauberk from his breast,
The helmet from his head;

They hewed the hands from off his limbs;
From every vein he bled.

Clasping the standard to his heart

He raised one dying peal,

That rang as if a trumpet blew,

"Olea for Castile!"

-Geo H. Boker.

CLXV. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO.

STOP!-for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust?
Nor column, trophied for triumphal show?
None: but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be.-
How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee,
Thou first and last of fields! king-making victory?

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry: and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;

A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;—

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it ?—No;—'t was but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet-
But hark!-that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm! it is !-it is!-the cannon's opening roar !

Within a window'd niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deem'd it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;