When, lo! from far, as on they press'd,
There came a glittering band,
And one that 'midst them stately rode,
As a leader of the land.
"Now haste, Bernardo! haste,
For there in very truth is he;
The father whom thy faithful heart
Hath yearn'd so long to see."
His dark eye flash'd, his proud breast heaved,
His cheek's hue came and went;
He reach'd that grey-hair'd 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 dropt from his, like lead:
He look'd up to the face above-
The face was of the dead.
A plume waved o'er that noble brow-
That brow was fix'd and white;
He met at last his father's eyes,
But in them was no sight.
Up from the ground he sprang and gazed,
But who could paint that gaze!
It hush'd their very hearts that saw
Its horror and amaze.
They might have chain'd him, as before
That stony form he stood;
For the power was stricken from his arm,
And from his lips the blood.
"Father," at length he murmur'd 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 young renown;
He flung the falchion from his side,
And in the dust sat down.
Then 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 betray'd,
My father, O! the worth,
The glory, and the loveliness,
Are pass'd away from earth!
"I thought to stand where banners waved, My sire, beside thee yet;
I would that there our kindred blood
On Spain's free soil had met.
Thou would'st have known my spirit then,
For thee my fields were won;
But thou hast perish'd in thy chains,
As if thou had'st no son."
Then starting from the ground once more,
He seized the monarch's rein,
Amid the pale bewilder'd looks
Of all the courtier train;
And with a fierce o'er-mastering grasp
The rearing war-horse led,
And sternly set them face to face
The king before the dead.
"Came I not forth upon thy pledge,
My father's hand to kiss?
Be still, and gaze thou on, false king,
And tell me, what is this?
The voice, the heart, the glance I sought-
Give answer, where are they?
If thou would'st clear thy perjured soul,
Send life thro' this cold clay.
"Into these glassy eyes put light-
Be still keep down thine ire ;—
Bid these white lips a blessing speak,
This earth is not my sire.
Give me back him for whom I strove,
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, troubled look-
Then turn'd from that sad place.
His hope was crush'd, his after fate
Untold in martial strain;
His banners led the spears no more,
Amid the hills of Spain. MRS HEMANS.
When, to his glorious first essay in war,
New Carthage fell, there all the flower of Spain.
Were kept in hostage: a full field presenting
For Scipio's generosity to shine.-A noble virgin,
Conspicuous far o'er all the captive dames,
Was mark'd the general's prize. She wept, and blush'd;
Young, fresh, and blooming, like the morn.
As when the blue sky trembles through a cloud
Her features, and infused enchantment through them.
Her shape was harmony. But eloquence
Beneath her beauty fails; which seem'd on purpose
By nature lavish'd on her, that mankind
Might see the virtue of a hero tried
Almost beyond the stretch of human force.
Soft as she pass'd along with downcast eyes,
Where gentle sorrow swell'd, and, now and then,
Dropp'd o'er her modest cheeks a trickling tear,
The Roman legions languish'd, and hard War
Felt more than pity; even their chief himself,
As on his high tribunal raised he sat,
Turn'd from the dangerous sight, and chiding, ask'd
His officers, if by this gift they meant
To cloud his glory in its very dawn.
She, question'd of her birth, in trembling accents,
With tears and blushes broken, told her tale.
But when he found her royally descended;
Of her old captive parents the sole joy;
And that a hapless Celtiberian prince,
Her lover, and beloved, forgot his chains,
His lost dominions, and for her alone
Wept out his tender soul; sudden the heart
Of this young, conquering, loving, godlike Roman
Felt all the great divinity of virtue.
His wishing youth stood check'd, his tempting power
Restrain'd by kind humanity.—At once
He for her parents and her lover call'd.
The various scene imagine. How his troops
Look'd dubious on, and wonder'd what he meant ;
While stretch'd below the trembling suppliants lay,
Rack'd by a thousand mingling passions-fear,
Hope, jealousy, disdain, submission, grief,
Anxiety, and love in every shape.
To these as different sentiments succeeded,
As mix'd emotions, when the man divine
Thus the dread silence to the lover broke:
"We both are young; both charm'd. The right of war
Has put thy beauteous mistress in my power;
With whom I could, in the most sacred ties,
Lead out a happy life. But know that Romans,
Their hearts, as well as enemies, can conquer;
Then, take her to thy soul: and with her take
Thy liberty and kingdom. In return,
I ask but this-when you behold these eyes,
These charms with transport, be a friend to Rome."
Ecstatic wonder held the lovers mute;
While the loud camp, and all the clustering crowd
That hung around, rang with repeated shouts.
Fame took the alarm, and through resounding Spain
Blew fast the fair report; which more than arms
Admiring nations to the Romans gain'd.-THOMSON.
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse o'er the ramparts we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's dusky light,
And our lanterns dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his restWith his martial cloak around him!
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead,
And we bitterly thought of to-morrow-
We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow-
How the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
But nothing he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock toll'd the hour for retiring, And we heard by the distant and random gun, That the foe was suddenly firing
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame, fresh and gory! We'carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone in his glory!-WOLFE.
Twilight closes,
The last charg-
The shadows of evening are thickening. and the thin mists are rising in the valley. ing squadron yet thunders in the distance; but it presses only on the foiled and scattered foe. For this day the fight is over! And those who rode foremost in its field at morning-where are they now? On the bank of yon little stream, there lies a knight, his life-blood is ebbing faster than its tide. His shield is rent, and his lance is broken. Soldier, why faintest thou? The blood that swells from that deep wound will answer. It was this morning that the sun rose
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