Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and forever!

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,
Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

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?
And O, was it meet, that -no requiem read o'er

him,

No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before

him

Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:

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,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,

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
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

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
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast chick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;

Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.

It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw.

It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.