At this good news, so great The devil's pleasure grew, That with a joyful swish he rent The hole where his tail came through. His countenance fell for a moment Great news! bloody news! cried a newsman; So he bought the newspaper, and no news Lying varlet, thought he, thus to take in old Nick! To know thou art paid beforehand for the trick, He went to a coffee-house to dine, They are much to my palate, thought he, But the soles in the bill were ten shillings; But mark ye, said he to the waiter, Now the morning air was cold for him For he had some morning calls to make So thought he, I'll step into a gaming house, But just before he could get to the door, For all on a sudden, in a dark place, He came upon General s burning face; CIV.-THE SEVEN HEADS. LOCKHART. "WHO bears such heart of baseness, a king I'll never call,"— Thus spake Gonzalo Gustos within Almanzor's hall; To the proud Moor Almanzor, within his kingly hall, The gray-haired knight of Lara thus spake before them all :"In courteous guise, Almanzor, your messenger was sent, And courteous was the answer with which from me he went; For why?-I thought the word he brought of a knight and of a king; But false Moor henceforth never me to his feast shall bring. "Ye bade me to your banquet, and I at your bidding came; Accurséd be the villainy, eternal be the shame,— For ye have brought an old man forth, that he your sport might be: Thank God, I cheat you of your joy,-thank God, no tear you see. "My gallant boys," quoth Lara, "it is a heavy sight These dogs have brought your father to look upon this night; Seven gentler boys, nor braver, were never nursed in Spain, And blood of Moors, God rest your souls, ye shed on her like rain. "Some currish plot, some trick, (God wot!) hath laid you all so low, Ye died not altogether in one fair battle so; Not all the misbelievers ever pricked upon yon plain "Thou youngest and the weakest, Gonzalez dear! wert thou, Yet well this false Almanzor remembers thee, I trow; "False Moor, I am thy captive thrall; but when thou bad'st me forth, To share the banquet in thy hall, I trusted in the worth Of kingly promise. Think'st thou not my God will hear my prayer? Lord! branchless be (like mine) his tree,-yea, branchless, Lord, and bare !" So prayed the baron in his ire; but when he looked again, Then burst the sorrow of the sire, and tears ran down like rain; Wrath no more could check the sorrow of the old and childless man, And, like waters in a furrow, down his cheeks the salt tears ran. He took their heads up one by one, he kissed them o'er and o'er, And aye ye saw the tears down run,-I wot that grief was sore. He closed the lids on their dead eyes all with his fingers frail, And handled all their bloody curls, and kissed their lips so pale. "O, had ye died all by my side upon some famous day, My fair young men, no weak tears then had washed your blood away! The trumpet of Castile had drowned the misbelievers' horn, And the last of all the Lara's line a Gothic spear had borne.” With that it chanced a Moor drew near, to lead him from the place, Old Lara stooped him down once more, and kissed Gonzalez' face; But ere the man observéd him, or could his gesture bar, Sudden he from his side had grasped that Moslem's cimeter. O, swiftly from its scabbard the crooked blade he drew, And, like some frantic creature, among them all he flew :"Where, where is false Almanzor ?-back, bastards of Ma houn !" And here and there, in his despair, the old man hewed them down. A hundred hands, a hundred brands, are ready in the hall, To keep his children company beneath the Moorish sod. Ex. CV.-TO THE NEAPOLITANS. THOMAS MOORE. AYE-down to the dust with them, slaves as they are, Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains. On, on like a cloud, through their beautiful vales, Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails From each slave-mart of Europe, and shadow their shore! Let their fate be a mock-word, let men of all lands Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword, that the cowards let fall from their hands, And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven, To think-as the doomed often think of that heaven They had once within reach-that they might have been free. When the world stood in hope-when a spirit that breathed When around you the shades of your mighty in fame, And their words, and their warnings, like tongues of bright flame Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you! Oh shame! that in such a proud moment of life, Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world, That then-oh! disgrace upon manhood-even then It is strange, it is dreadful;-shout, Tyranny, shout |