While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall, Lights gleamed on harness, plume and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mailed retainers poured, On through the portal's frowning arch, and thronged around the board; While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state, Armed cap-à-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sat. "Fill every beaker up, my men!-pour forth the cheering wine! There's life and strength in every drop,-thanksgiving to the vine! Are ye all there, my vassals true ?-mine eyes are waxing dim: Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim ! "Ye're there, but yet I see you not!-forth draw each trusty sword, And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board! I hear it faintly!-louder yet! What clogs my heavy breath? Up, all !—and shout for Rudiger, 'Defiance unto death!' " to bowl, steel clanged to steel, and rose a deafen Bowl rang ing cry, That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high: "Ho! cravens! do ye fear him? Slaves! traitors! have ye flown? Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone? "But I defy him!-let him come !" Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half-way up; And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head, There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger satdead! Ex. CXXV.-THE FIELD OF TALAVERA. BYRON. AWAKE, ye sons of Spain! awake! advance! Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful note? Lo! where the giant on the mountain stands, Restless it rolls, now fixed, now anon Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are done; For on this morn three potent nations meet, To shed before his shrine the blood he deems most sweet. Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice; Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high; There shall they rot-Ambition's honored fools Vain sophistry! in these behold the tools, The broken tools, that tyrants cast away By myriads, when they dare to pave their way With human hearts-to what?-a dream alone. Can despots compass aught that hails their sway? Or call with truth one span of earth their own, Save that wherein at last they crumble bone by bone. Ex. CXXVI-THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. JOHN G. WHITTIER. Look on him-through his dungeon grate, His hand upholds his drooping head- His long, disheveled locks of snow. What has the gray-haired prisoner done? God made the old man poor! For this he shares a felon's cell- For this-the boon for which he poured And so, for such a place of rest, Old prisoner, poured thy blood as rain Look forth, thou man of many scars, Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, And when the patriot cannon jars Ex. CXXVII.-THE BELLS. HEAR the sledges with the bells, Silver bells! EDGAR A. POE. What a world of merriment their melody foretells! In the icy air of night! In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells,- What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle dove, that listens, while she gloats Oh! from out the sounding cells, How it dwells On the future !-how it tells To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells,- What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! How they scream out their affright! They can only shriek, shriek, Out of time, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, And a resolute endeavor What a tale their terror tells How they clang, and clash, and roar! On the bosom of the palpitating air! And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; |