TROUBADOUR SONG.

THE warrior cross'd the ocean's foam,
For the stormy fields of war-
The maid was left in a smiling home,
And a sunny land afar.

His voice was heard where javelin showers
Pour'd on the steel-clad line;

Her step was 'midst the summer flowers,
Her seat beneath the vine.

His shield was cleft, his lance was riven,
And the red-blood stain'd his crest;
While she-the gentlest wind of heaven
Might scarcely fan her breast.

Yet a thousand arrows pass'd him by,
And again he cross'd the seas;
But she had died, as roses die
That perish with a breeze.

As roses die, when the blast

come,

For all things bright and fair

There was death within the smiling home, How had death found her there?

THE TRUMPET.

THE trumpet's voice hath rous'd the land,
Light up the beacon-pyre!

-A hundred hills have seen the brand
And wav'd the sign of fire.

A hundred banners to the breeze
Their gorgeous folds have cast-
And hark!-was that the sound of seas?
-A king to war went past.

The chief is arming in his hall,
The peasant by his hearth;

The mourner hears the thrilling call,
And rises from the earth.

The mother on her first-born son,
Looks with a boding eye-

They come not back, though all be won,
Whose young hearts leap so high.

The bard hath ceas'd his song, and bound
The falchion to his side;

E'en for the marriage altar crown'd,
The lover quits his bride.

And all this haste, and change, and fear,
By earthly clarion spread!-
How will it be when kingdoms hear
The blast that wakes the dead?

BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.

The celebrated Spanish champion, Bernardo del Carpio, having made many ineffectual efforts to procure the release of his father, the Count Saldana, who had been imprisoned by king Alfonso of Asturias, almost from the time of Bernardo's birth, at last took up arms in despair. The war which he maintained proved so destructive, that the men of the land gathered round the king, and united in demanding Saldana's liberty. Alfonso accordingly offered Bernardo immediate possession of his father's person, in exchange for his castle of Carpio. Bernardo, without hesitation, gave up his strong hold with all his captives, and being assured that his father was then on his way from prison, rode forth with the king to meet him. "And when he saw his father approaching, he exclaimed," says the ancient chronicle, "Oh! God, is the Count of Saldana indeed coming? Look where he is, replied the cruel king, and now go and greet him whom you have so long desired to see."The remainder of the story will be found related in the ballad. The chronicles and romances leave us nearly in the dark, as to Bernardo's future history after this event.

THE warrior bow'd his crested head, and tam'd his heart of fire,

And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprison'd sire; "I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train,

I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!-oh! break my fa ther's chain!"

"Rise, rise! ev'n now thy father comes, a ransom'd man

this day;

Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way.

Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed.

And lo! from far, as on they press'd, there came a glittering band,

With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the

་

land;

"Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there in very truth

is he,

The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearn'd so long

to see.

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

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

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

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

-If thou wouldst clear thy perjured 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 looos'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 wo,
The birthright of her breast-
We leave it, as we leave the snow,
Bright and eternal, on Eryri's* crest.

Eryri, the Welsh name for Snowdon.