And ye lie pining here, as men in whom
The pulse which God hath made for noble thought
Can so be thrill'd no longer?
Sickness, and toil, and grief, have breath'd upon us. Our hearts beat faint and low.
Are ye so poor
Of soul, my countrymen! that ye can draw
Strength from no deeper source than that which sends
The red blood mantling through the joyous veins,
And gives the flect step wings?-Why, how have age
And sensitive womanhood ere now endured,
Through pangs of searching fire, in some proud cause,
Blessing that agony ?—Think ye the Power
Which bore them nobly up, as if to teach
The torturer where eternal Heaven had set
Bounds to his sway, was earthly, of this earth,
This dull mortality ?-Nay, then look on me!
Death's touch hath mark'd me, and I stand among you,
As one whose place, i' th' sunshine of your world,
Shall soon be left to fill!-I say, the breath
Of th' incense, floating through yon fane, shall scarce
Pass from your path before me! But even now,
I have that within me, kindling through the dust,
Which from all time hath made high deeds its voice
And token to the nations!-Look on me!
Why hath Heaven pour'd forth courage, as a flame
Wasting the womanish heart, which must be still'd
Yet sooner for its swift-consuming brightness,
If not to shame your doubt, and your despair,
And your soul's torpor ?-Yet, arise and arm!
It may not be too late.
Why, what are we, To cope with hosts?—Thus faint, and worn, and few, O'ernumber'd and forsaken, is 't for us
To stand against the mighty?
Hath He, who shakes the mighty with a breath
From their high places, made the fearfulness,
And ever-wakeful presence of his power,
To the pale startled earth most manifest,
But for the weak?-Was 't for the helm'd and crown'd
That suns were stay'd at noonday ?-Stormy seas
As a rill parted?-Mail'd archangels sent
To wither up the strength of kings with death?
-I tell you, if these marvels have been done,
"T was for the wearied and the oppress'd of men,
Deliverances, whose tale shall live with those
Of the great elder time!-Be of good heart!
Who is forsaken?—He that gives the thought
A place within his breast!T is not for you.
-Know you this banner?
Citizens (murmuring to each other.) Is she not inspired? Doth not Heaven call us by her fervent voice?
Ximena. Know ye this banner?
Who breathes that name but in th' exulting tone
Which the heart rings to?-Why, the very wind
As it swells out the noble standard's fold
Hath a triumphant sound!-The Cid's!-it moved
Even as a sign of victory through the land,
From the free skies ne'er stooping to a foe!
Old Citizen. Can ye still pause, my brethren ?-Oh! that youth
Through this worn frame were kindling once again?
Ximena. Ye linger still!-Upon this very air,
He that was born in happy hour for Spain,
Pour'd forth his conquering spirit!-T was the breeze
From your own mountains which came down to wave
This banner of his battles, as it droop'd
Above the champion's death bed. Nor even then
Its tale of glory closed. They made no moan
O'er the dead hero, and no dirge was sung,
But the deep tambour and the shrill horn of war
Told when the mighty pass'd !-They wrapt him not
With the pale shroud, but braced the warrior's form
In war array, and on his barbed steed,
As for a triumph, rear'd him; marching forth
In the hush'd midnight from Valencia's walls,
Beleaguer'd then as now. All silently
The stately funeral moved:-but who was he
That followed, charging on the tall white horse,
And with the solemn standard, broad and pale,
Waving in sheets of snow-light? And the cross,
The bloody cross, far-blazing from his shield,
And the fierce meteor sword? They fled, they fled!
The kings of Afric, with their countless hosts,
Were dust in his red path!-The scimitar
Was shivered as a reed!-for in that hour
The warrior-saint that keeps the watch for Spain,
Was arm❜d betimes !—And o'er that fiery field
The Cid's high banner stream'd all joyously,
For still its lord was there!
The noble stem hewn down, the beacon light
Which his house for ages o'er the land
Hath shone through cloud and storm, thus quenched at once?
Will he not aid his children in the hour
Of this their uttermost peril ?-Awful power
Is with the holy dead, and there are times
When the tomb hath no chain they cannot burst!
-Is it a thing forgotten, how he woke
From its deep rest of old, remembering Spain
In her great danger ?-At the night's mid-watch
How Leon started, when the sound was heard
That shook her dark and hollow-echoing streets,
As with the heavy tramp of steel-clad men,
By thousands marching through!-For he had risen!
The Campeador was on his march again,
And in his arms, and follow'd by his hosts
Of shadowy spearmen! He had left the world
From which we are dimly parted, and gone forth
And called his buried warriors from their sleep,
Gathering them round him to deliver Spain;
For Afric was upon her! Morning broke-
Day rush'd through clouds of battle ;-but at eve
Our God had triumph'd, and the rescued land
Sent up a shout of victory from the field,
That rock'd her ancient mountains.
The Citizens.
On to our chief! We have strength within us yet
To die with our blood roused! Now, be the word,
For the Cid's house!
[They begin to arm themselves. Ye know his battle-song?
The old rude strain wherewith his bands went forth
To strike down Paynim swords! She sings.
THE CID'S BATTLE SONG.
The Moor is on his way!
With the tambour-peal and the tecbir-shout,
And the horn o'er the blue seas ringing out,
He hath marshal'd his dark array!
Shout through the vine-clad land!
That her sons on all their hills may hear,
And sharpen the point of the red-wolf-spear,
And the sword for the brave man's hand!
[The Citizens join in the song, while they continue
Banners are in the field!
The chief must rise from his joyous board,
The Moor is on his way !
Let the peasant leave his olive-ground,
And the goats roam wild through the pine woods round!
―There is nobler work to day!
Send forth the trumpet's call !
Till the bridegroom cast the goblet down,
And the marriage-robe and the flowery crown,
And arm in the banquet-hall!
And stay the funeral-train!
Bid the chanted mass be hush'd awhile,
And the bier laid down in the holy aisle,
And the mourners girt for Spain !
up the banner, and follow Ximena out. Their voices are heard gradually dying away at a distance. Ere night, must swords be red!
It is not an hour for knells and tears,
But for helmets braced, and serried spears!
To-morrow for the dead!
His steed is barbed, his plume waves high,
His banner is up in the sunny sky,
Now, joy for the Cross to-day!
EVENING RECOLLECTIONS OF THE EXILE.
FROM THE FOREST SANCTUARY.
I SEE a star-eve's first born!-in whose train
Past scenes, woods, looks, come back. The arrowy spire
Of the lone cypress, as of wood-girt fane,
Rests dark and still amidst a heaven of fire;
The pine gives forth its odours, and the lake
Gleams like one ruby, and the soft winds wake,
Till every string of nature's solemn lyre
Is touch'd to answer; its most secret tone
Drawn from each tree, for each hath whispers all its own.
And hark! another murmur on the air,
Not of the hidden rills, nor quivering shades!
-That is the cataract's, which the breezes bear,
Filling the leafy twilight of the glades
With hollow surge-like sounds, as from the bed
Of the blue mournful seas, that keep the dead:
But they are far!-the low sun here pervades
Dim forest-arches, bathing with red gold
Their stems, till each is made a marvel to behold.
Gorgeous, yet full of gloom!-In such an hour,
The vesper-melody of dying bells
Wanders through Spain, from each gray convent's tower O'er shining rivers pour'd, and olive-dells,
By every peasant heard, and muleteer,
And hamlet, round my home :-and I am here,
Living again through all my life's farewells,
In these vast woods, where farewell ne'er was spoken, And sole I lift to Heaven a sad heart-yet unbroken!
In such an hour are told the hermit's beads;
With the white sail the seaman's hymn floats by:
Peace be with all! whate'er their varying creeds,
With all that send up holy thoughts on high!
Come to me, boy!-by Guadalquivir's vines,
By every stream of Spain, as day declines,
Man's prayers are mingled in the rosy sky.
-We, too, will pray; nor yet unheard, my child!
Of Him whose voice we hear at eve amidst the wild.
At eve?-oh!-through all hours!—from dark dreams oft Awakening, I look forth, and learn the might Of solitude, while thou art breathing soft, And low, my loved one! on the breast of night: I look forth on the stars-the shadowy sleep Of forests-and the lake, whose gloomy deep Sends up red sparkles to the fire-flies' light. A lonely world!—ev'n fearful to man's thought, But for his presence felt, whom here my soul hath sought.
THE SONGS OF OUR FATHERS.
SING them upon the sunny hills,
When days are long and bright,
And the blue gleam of shining rills
Is loveliest to the sight.
Sing them along the misty moor,
Where ancient hunters roved,
And swell them through the torrent's roar
The songs our fathers loved!
The songs their souls rejoiced to hear
When harps were in the hall,
And each proud note made lance and spear
Thrill on the banner'd wall:
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