Page images
PDF
EPUB

There was arming heard in Valencia's halls,
There was vigil kept on the rampart walls;
Stars had not faded, nor clouds turned red,
When the knights had girded the noble dead,
And the burial train moved out.

With a measured pace, as the pace of one,
Was the still death-march of the host begun;
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands.
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands,
And they gave no battle-shout.

When the first went forth, it was midnight deep,--
In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep;
When the last through the city gates had gone,
O'er tent and rampart the bright day shone,
With a sun-burst from the sea.

There were knights five hundred went armed before
And Bermudez the Cid's green standard bore;
To its last fair field, with the break of morn,
Was the glorious banner in silence borne,
On the glad wind streaming free.

And the Campeador1 came stately then,
Like a leader circled with steel-clad men:
The helmet was down o'er the face of the dead,
But his steed went proud, by a warrior led,
For he knew that the Cid was there.

He was there, the Cid, with his own good sword,
And Ximena2 following her noble lord;

Her eye was solemn, her step was slow,
But there rose not a sound of war or woe,
Nor a whisper on the air.

The halls in Valencia were still and lone,
The churches were empty, the masses done;
There was not a voice through the wide streets far,
Not a footfall heard in the Alcazar;3

So the burial-train moved out.

1 Campeador; that is, Champion, a title of the Cid.
2 Wife of the Cid.

3 Market-piace.

With a measured pace, as the pace of one,
Was the still death-march of the host begun;
With a silent step went the cuirassed bands,
Like a lion's tread on the burning sands,
And they gave no battle-shout.

But the hills pealed with a cry ere long,
When the Christians burst on the Paynim' throng!
With a sudden flash of the lance and spear,
And a charge of the war-steed in full career,
It was Alvar Fanez came!

He that was wrapt with no funeral-shroud,
Had passed before, like a threatening cloud!
And the storm rushed down on the tented plain,
And the archer-Queen with her bands lay slain,
For the Cid upheld his fame.

Then a terror fell on the King Bucar,

4

And the Libyan kings who had joined his war;
And their hearts grew heavy and died away,
And their hands could not wield an assagay,
For the dreadful things they saw!

For it seemed where Minaya" his onset made,
There were seventy thousand knights arrayed,
All white as snow on Nevada's' steep,

And they came like the foam of a roaring deep;-
'Twas a sight of fear and awe.

And the crested form of a warrior tall,

With a sword of fire, went before them all;
With a sword of fire and a banner pale,
And a blood-red cross on his shadowy mail,
He rode in the battle's van!

There was fear in the path of his dim white horse,
There was death in the giant-warrior's course!

1 Heathen, or pagan.

2 A famous follower of the Cid.

3 A Moorish princess who led a band of female archers, to assist the Moorish

king, Bucar, in his invasion of Spain.

That is, African.

6 That is, Alvar Fanez Minaya.

A Moorish weapon.

A range of mountains in Spain.

Where his banner streamed with its ghostly light,
Where his sword blazed out there was hurrying flight,
For it seemed not the sword of man!

The field and the river grew darkly red,
As the kings and leaders of Afric fled;

There was work for the men of the Cid that day!
They were weary at eve when they ceased to slay,
As reapers whose task is done!

The kings and the leaders of Afric fled!
The sails of their galleys in haste were spread;
But the sea had its share of the Paynim slain,
And the bow of the desert was broke in Spain,
So the Cid to his grave passed on!

XII.-FRANKLIN.
(Punch.)

Sir John Franklin, whose name is inseparably connected with Arctic navigation, died in the Polar regions in 1848. His fate was not positively known till the return of Captain (now Sir) F. L. M'Clintock in 1859.

"Punch, or the London Charivari," was commenced on 17th July 1841. Some of its more sober pieces are marked by great power and pathos.

THE Polar clouds uplift

A moment and no more-
And through the snowy drift
We see them on the shore,—
A band of gallant hearts,

Well-ordered, calm, and brave;
Braced for their closing parts-
Their long march to the grave.

Through the snow's dazzling blink,
Into the dark they've gone :-
No pause the weaker sink,
The strong can but strive on,

Till all the dreary way

Is dotted with their dead;

And the shy foxes play
About each sleeping head.

Unharmed the wild deer run,
To graze along the strand;
Nor dread the loaded gun
Beside each sleeping hand.

The remnant that survive
Onward like drunkards reel;
Scarce wotting if alive,

But for the pangs they feel.

The river of their hope

At length is drawing nighTheir snow-blind way they grope,

And reach its banks to die!

Thank God, brave Franklin's place
Was empty in that band!
He closed his well-run race
Not on the iron strand.

Not under snow-clouds white,
By cutting frost-wind driven,
Did his true spirit fight

Its shuddering way to heaven;

But warm, aboard his ship,
With comfort at his side

And hope upon his lip,

The gallant Franklin died.

His heart ne'er ached to see

His much-loved sailors ta'en;

His sailors' pangs were free
From their loved captain's pain.

But though in death apart,
They are together now;
Calm, each enduring heart—
Bright, each devoted brow!

XIII-THE AVENGING CHILDE.

(LOCKHART.)

John Gibson Lockhart, the son-in-law and biographer of Sir Walter Scott, was author of several novels, the best known of which are "Valerius, a Roman Story," and "Reginald Dalton." He was a frequent contributor to Blackwood's Magazine, and was editor of the Quarterly Review from 1826 to 1852. His translations of the Spanish Ballads are remarkable for spirit and elegance. He died at Abbotsford in 1854.

HURRAH! hurrah! avoid the way of the Avenging Childe; His horse is swift as sands that drift—an Arab of the wild; His gown is twisted round his arm-a ghastly cheek he wears;

And in his hand, for deadly harm, a hunting knife he bears.

Avoid that knife in battle strife, that weapon short and thin; The dragon's gore hath bathed it o'er, seven times 'twas steeped therein;

Seven times the smith hath proved its pith,―it cuts a coulter through:

In France the blade was fashioned, from Spain the shaft it drew.

He sharpens it, as he doth ride, upon his saddle-bow;

He sharpens it on either side, he makes the steel to glow. He rides to find Don Quadros, that false and faitour1 knight; His glance of ire is hot as fire, although his cheek be white.

He found him standing by the king, within the judgmenthall;

He rushed within the barons' ring-he stood before them all.
Seven times he gazed and pondered if he the deed should do ;
Eight times distraught he looked and thought, then out his
dagger flew.

He stabbed therewith at Quadros-the king did step between;
It pierced his royal garment of purple wove with green;
He fell beneath the canopy, upon the tiles he lay.

Thou traitor keen, what dost thou mean-thy king why wouldst thou slay?"

1 Vagabond.

« PreviousContinue »