CXXXII

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.

Seven daughters had Lord Archibald,

All children of one mother:

You could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland, of seven lilies, wrought!
Seven Sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their father took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.

Sing mournfully, oh ! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,

And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a Rover brave

To Binnorie is steering;

Right onward to the Scottish strand

The gallant ship is borne;

The warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the Leader of the band
Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Beside a grotto of their own,

With boughs above them closing,

The Seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like fawns reposing.
But now upstarting with affright
At noise of man and steed,

Away they fly to left, to right—
Of your fair household, Father-Knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,

And over hill and hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,

The youthful Rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam:

Enough for him to find

The empty house when he comes home;
For us your yellow ringlets comb,
For us be fair and kind!"

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather;
They run, and cry, "Nay let us die,
And let us die together."

A lake was near; the shore was steep;
There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!

The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little Islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say, those sisters fair,
By fairies all are buried there,
And there together sleep.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

WORDSWORTH.

CXXXIII

THE CID'S DEATH-BED.

It was an hour of grief and fear

Within Valencia's walls,

When the blue spring-heaven lay still and clear

Above her marble halls.

There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes,
And steps of hurrying feet,

Where the Zambra's notes were wont to rise,
Along the sunny street-

It was an hour of fear and grief
On bright Valencia's shore,
For death was busy with her chief,
The noble Campeador.

The Moor king's barks were on the deep,
With sounds and signs of war;

But the Cid was passing to his sleep,

In the silent Alcazar.

No moan was heard through the towers of state,

No weeper's aspect seen,

But by the couch Ximena sate,
With pale yet steadfast mien.

Stillness was round the leader's bed,
Warriors stood mournful nigh,
And banners o'er his glorious head
Were drooping heavily.

And feeble grew the conquering hand,
And cold the valiant breast;

He had fought the battles of the land,
And his hour was come to rest.

What said the ruler of the field?

-His voice is faint and low,

The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield Hath louder accents now.

"Raise ye no cry,

and let no moan

Be made when I depart;

The Moor must hear no dirge's tone:

"Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpet-strain
From your walls ring far and shrill;
And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain
Shall grant you victory still.

"And gird my form with mail-array, And set me on my steed!

So go ye

forth on your funeral-way,

And God shall give you speed.

"Go with the dead in the front of war,
All armed with sword and helm,
And march by the camp of King Bucar,
For the good Castilian realm.

"And let me slumber in the soil
Which gave my fathers birth;
I have closed my day of battle-toil,
And my course is done on earth."