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A BALLAD OF RONCESVALLES.

'Thou hast not been with the festal throng At the pouring of the wine,

Men bear not from the hall of song

So dark a mien as thine!

There's blood upon thy shield,

There's dust upon thy plume,

Thou hast brought from some disastrous field That brow of wrath and gloom.'

'And is there blood upon my shield?

Maiden, it well may be!

We have sent the streams from our battle field All darkened to the sea!

We have given the founts a stain

Midst their woods of ancient pine; And the ground is wet-but not with rain, Deep dyed-but not with wine.

'The ground is wet-but not with rain;
We have been in war array,

And the noblest blood of Christian Spain
Hath bathed her soil to-day.

I have seen the strong man die,
And the stripling meet his fate,
Where the mountain winds go sounding by
In the Roncesvalles' Strait.

'In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait
There are helms and lances cleft;
And they that moved at morn elate
On a bed of heath are left!

There's many a fair young face
Which the war-steed hath gone o'er;
At many a board there is kept a place
For those that come no more!'

'Alas for love, for woman's breast,

If woe like this must be!

Hast thou seen a youth with an eagle crest
And a white plume waving free?

With his proud quick-flashing eye,

And his mien of kingly state,

Doth he come from where the swords flashed high

In the Roncesvalles' Strait?'

'In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait
I saw, and marked him well;
For nobly on his steed he sate
When the pride of manhood fell.
But it is not youth which turns
From the field of spears again;
For the boy's high heart too wildly burns
Till it rests among the slain.'

'Thou canst not say that he lies low,
The lovely and the brave?

Oh none could look on his joyous brow
And think upon the grave!

Dark, dark perchance the day
Hath been with valour's fate;
But he is on his homeward way
From the Roncesvalles' Strait.'

'There is dust upon his joyous brow,
And o'er his graceful head,

And the warhorse will not wake him now,
Though it browse his greensward bed.
I have seen the stripling die,
And the strong man meet his fate,
Where the mountain winds go sounding by,
In the Roncesvalles' Strait.'

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A DIRGE.

Calm on the bosom of thy God,

Fair spirit, rest thee now!

E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod His seal was on thy brow.

Dust, to its narrow house beneath!

Soul, to its place on high!

They that have seen thy look in death No more may fear to die.

CASABIANCA.

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead;
Yet beautiful and bright he stood
As born to rule the storm!

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form!

The flames roll'd on-he would not go
Without his Father's word;
That Father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He call'd aloud: 'Say, father, say
If yet my task is done!'

He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!' once again he cried,
'If I may yet be gone!'

And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair;

And look'd from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave, despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,

'My father! must I stay?'

While o'er him fast through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,

And stream'd above the gallant child
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder-sound-
The boy-O! where was he?.
-Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea,
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part;

But the noblest thing which perish'd there
Was that young faithful heart!

LEIGH HUNT.

[BORN at Southgate, Middlesex, October 19, 1784; was educated at Christ's Hospital; contributed to various periodicals; was an editor of The Examiner, 1808; was imprisoned for libel on the Prince Regent, 1811; visited Byron and Shelley in Italy, 1822; received a pension from the Crown, 1847; died August 28, 1859. Besides many works in prose, he published Juvenilia, 1801; The Feast of the Poets, 1814; The Descent of Liberty, A Mask, 1815; The Story of Rimini, 1816; Foliage, 1818; Poetical Works, 1832; Captain Sword and Captain Pen, 1835; A Legend of Florence, 1840; The Palfrey, 1842; Stories in Verse, 1855. For the bibliography of Leigh Hunt see 'List of the Writings of William Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt, chronologically arranged with notes, &c., by Alexander Ireland,' 1868.]

Leigh Hunt's distinction as a poet is to be inspired by pleasure which never steals from his senses the freshness of boyhood, and never darkens his heart with the shadow of unsatisfied desire. Hazlitt spoke of 'the vinous quality of his mind,' which, with his natural gaiety and sprightliness of manner and his high animal spirits, 'produce an immediate fascination and intoxication in those who come in contact with him.' This vinous quality is in all Leigh Hunt's verse, but it is not that of the heady liquor Hazlitt describes; it is a bright, light wine,

'Tasting of Flora, and the country-green,

Dance, and Provençal song, and sun-burnt mirth.'

For his chief poem, The Story of Rimini, he chose a passionate and piteous theme; but it was, as he says, to steady his felicity when, released from imprisonment, he visited the English south coast with his wife and their first beloved child.

A clear bright happiness in duty Leigh Hunt found; his industry was that of a bird building its nest. He had dared in a troubled time to libel the girth of the first gentleman in Europe,

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