Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! SIR WALTER SCOTT. HELVELLYN. I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain. heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay, How long didst thou think that his silence was slum ber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou num ber, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, him Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart? When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming. Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam. SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE LORD OF BUTRAGO. * YOUR horse is faint, my King — my Lord! your gal. lant horse is sick; His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick; Mount, mount on mine, O, mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly! Or in my arms I'll lift your grace, hoofs are nigh! their trampling "My King my King! you 're wounded sore, blood runs from your feet; But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat: Mount, Juan, for they gather fast! I hear their com ing cry! Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy! I'll save you though I die! "Stand, noble steed! this hour of need a lamb: I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth dear I am! - be gentle as thy master Mount, Juan, mount! whate'er betide, away the bridle fling, And plunge the rowels in his side!- my horse shall save my King! Nay, never speak: my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours, And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine se cures: If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead, How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head? "Castile's proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain, And say, There's one that ran away when our good lords were slain! I leave Diego in your care, place: you'll fill his tather's Strike, strike the spur, and never spare God's blessing on your grace!" So spake the brave Montanez, Butrago's lord was he; And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee; He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill; He died, God wot! but not before his sword had drunk its fill! J. G. LOCKHART. Spanish Ballads. KUBLA KHAN. IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But O! that deep romantic chasm which slanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, The shadow of the dome of pleasure Where was heard the mingled measure It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! In a vision once I saw. It was an Abyssinian maid, |