BERNARDO DEL CARPIO.-(Mrs. Hemans.) THE warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; "I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, I pledge my faith, my liege, my lord-oh! break my father's chain ! "Rise! rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day: Mount thy good steed, 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 hand, his charger's foaming speed. And lo! from far, as on they pressed, they saw a glittering band, With one that 'mid them stately rode, like a leader in the land. 'Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, The father whom thy grateful heart hath yearned so long to see.'

His proud breast heaved, his dark eye flashed, his cheek's hue came and went :

He reached that grey-haired chieftain's side, and there, dismounting, bent:

A lowly knee to earth he bent-his father's hand he took-
What was there in its touch, that all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold-a frozen thing-it dropped from his like lead,—
He looked up to the face above-the face was of the dead!

A plume waved o'er that noble brow-the brow was fixed and white! He met at length his father's eyes-but in them was no sight!

Up from the ground he sprang, and gazed; but who can paint that gaze?

They hushed their very hearts, who saw its horror and amaze :

They might have chained him, as before that noble form he stood,
For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his cheek the blood.
"Father!" at length he murmured 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, on all his high renown ;
Then flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sat down.
And, covering with his steel-gloved hand his darkly mournful brow,
"No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now.
My king is false! my hope betrayed! my father-oh! the worth,
The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth!"

Up from the ground he sprang once more, and seized the monarch's rein,

Amid the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train :

And with a fierce, o'ermastering grasp, the rearing war-horse led,
And sternly set them face to face-the king before the dead!

Came I not here, upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss?
Be still! and gaze thou on, false king! and tell me what is this?
The look, the voice, the heart I sought-give answer, where are they?
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, put life in this cold clay !

"

"Into these glassy eyes put light-be still! keep down thine ire :
Bid these cold lips a blessing speak-this earth is not my sire !
Give me back him for whom I fought, for whom my blood was shed,
Thou canst not,—and a king? his dust be mountains on thy head!
He loosed the rein-his slack hand fell ;-upon the silent face
He cast one long, deep, mournful glance, and fled from that sad place :
His after-fate no more was heard amid the martial train :
His banner led the spears no more among the hills of Spain !

BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO.-(Lockhart.)
WITH Some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appeared,
Before them all, in the palace hall, the lying king to beard;
With cap in hand and eye on ground, he came in reverent guise,
But ever and anon he frowned, and flame broke from his eyes.

'A curse upon thee," cries the King, "who com'st unbid to me; But what from traitor's blood should spring save traitor like to thee? His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart; perchance our champion brave May think it were a pious part to share Don Sancho's grave.' "Whoever told this tale, the king hath rashness to repeat," Cries Bernard, "here my gage I fling before the LIAR'S feet! No treason was in Sancho's blood, no stain in mine doth lieBelow the throne, what knight will own the coward calumny? "The blood that I like water shed, when Roland did advance, By secret traitors hired and led, to make us slaves of France ;The life of King Alphonso I saved at Roncesval―

Your words, Lord King, are recompense abundant for it all!

"Your horse was down,-your hope was flown- I saw the falchion shine

That soon had drunk your royal blood, had I not ventured mine :

But memory soon of service done deserteth the ingrate,

And you've thanked the son for life and crown by the father's bloody fate.

"You swore upon your kingly faith to set Don Sancho free,

But, curse upon your paltering breath! the light he ne'er did see;
He died in dungeon cold and dim, by Alphonso's base decree,
And visage blind and stiffened limb were all they gave to me.

"The king that swerveth from his word hath stained his purple black;
No Spanish Lord will draw the sword behind a liar's back;
But noble vengeance shall be mine; an open hate I'll show-
The King hath injured Carpio's line, and Bernard is his foe."
"Seize-seize him!" loud the King doth scream;

thousand here;

"there are a

I et his foul blood this instant stream-what! caitiffs, do you fear?
Seize seize the traitor!" But not one to move a finger dareth, —
Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his sword he bareth.

He drew the falchion from the sheath, and held it up on high,
And all the hall was still as death; cries Bernard, "Here am I ;
And here's the sword that owns no lord, excepting Heaven and me;
Fain would I know who dares its point-King, Condé, or Grandee ?”
Then to his mouth the horn he drew-(it hung below his cloak)—
His ten true men the signal knew, and through the ring they broke:
With helm on head and blade in hand, the knights the circle brake
And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, and the false King to quake.
"Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, "what means this warlike guise?
You know full well I jested-you know your worth I prize."
But Bernard turned upon his heel, and smiling passed away;
Long rued Alphonso and Castile the jesting of that day.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.-(Longfellow.) UNDER a spreading chestnut-tree the village smithy stands; the smith, a mighty man is he, with large and sinewy hands; and the muscles of his brawny arms are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long, his face is like the tan; his brow is wet with honest sweat, he earns whate'er he can, and looks the whole world in the face, for he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night, you can hear his bellows blow; you can hear him swing his heavy sledge, with measured beat and slow, like a sexton ringing the village-bell when the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school look in at the open door; they love to see the flaming forge, and hear the bellows roar, and catch the burning sparks that fly like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church and sits among his boys; he hears the parson pray and preach-he hears his daughter's voice singing in the village choir, and it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, singing in Paradise! he needs must think of her once more, how in the grave she lies; and with his hard, rough hand he wipes a tear out of his eyes. Toiling,-rejoicing, sorrowing,-onward through life he goes; each morning sees some task begin, each evening sees it

close; something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, for the lesson thou hast taught! thus at the flaming forge of life our fortunes must be wrought thus on its sounding anvil shaped each burning deed and thought!

GINEVRA. (Rogers.)

SHE was an only child—her name Ginevra, the joy, the pride of an indulgent sire; and in her fifteenth year became a bride, marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, her playmate from her birth, and her first love. She was all gentleness, all gaiety, her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, the nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ; and in the lustre of her youth she gave her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast, when all sat down, the bride was wanting there, nor was she to be found! Her father cried, "'Tis but to make a trial of our love!"—and filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, and soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, laughing, and looking back, and flying still-her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas! she was not to be found; nor from that hour could anything be guessed, but that she was not!

Weary of his life, Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith flung it away in battle with the Turk. Orsini lived; and long mightst thou have seen an old man wandering as in quest of something, something he could not find he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.

Full fifty years were past, and all forgot; when on

an idle day-a day of search 'mid the old lumber in the gallery that mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said by one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" 'Twas done as soon as said; but on the way it burst-it fell ; and lo! a skeleton; with here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, a golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold! All else had perished-save a nuptial ring and a small seal, her mother's legacy, engraven with a name, the name of both--" GINEVRA". There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; when a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, fastened her down for ever!

BARBARA FRIETCHIE.-(Whittier.)

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach-tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.

Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,

She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic-window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.

Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.