was the darling passion of the Spanish Goths; and Alfonso was obliged to change his policy by the opposition of his nobles, at the head of whom was Bernardo del Carpio.

When Don Alfonso ceased to speak,
Murmurs of discord filled the hall,
And eager voices, loud and high,
Canvassed the proffers of the Gaul.

Some say: The liberty of Spain !
'Our ears can list no dearer sound:
'Long, long enough our Spanish soil

'Has been the slave to false Mahound;

'Unless, by righteous heaven's decree,
'For vengeance that our sins provoke,
'Condemned, in malison of crime,

'To bear for aye the stranger's yoke.'

Others maintain : ''Tis no affront,
'Nor is it well to scorn the aid,
'Which Charles, for honorable terms,
'Proffers against the renegade.'

With that, confused and hurried sounds
Rise from the palace court below;

And troops of armed men are seen
Tumultuous rushing to and fro.

'Viva España !-loud they shout:-
'Viva her ever glorious cause;
Viva the chaste Alfonso, if

'He stands for Leon and her laws!

'Viva, who joins our rallying cry!—
'The dastards who refuse, our swords
'Shall reach their coward hearts to-day,
'From peasants up to belted lords.

• Viva the brave Bernardo here,

'The champion of our Spain,

"Whose hand his native land defends, And rends the oppressor's chain !'--

Bernardo in the front appears ;—

He stills their noisy cries; and then,
Choosing from out the multitude
Some dozen of his gallant men,

He enters where Alfonso sat,

And thus he speaks :- If craven fear 'Inspires you with submissive thoughts, 'Shameful alike to prince and peer,

'Freezing the noble blood you claim,— 'If such indeed can e'er be said To be the blood of generous Goths, 'Who filled of yore the world with dread :

'And if you truckle to the Frank,

'How shall the sounding trump of fame, 'Your deeds, the deeds of recreant men,'In camp or palace hall proclaim ?—

'Let angry heaven pour down its fires
'To blast and burn the soil of Spain,

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'Rather than bend your freeborn necks

'To be the slaves of Charlemagne.

'Never, no never :-in this cause

'All powers of earth I here defy :

Who counsels yielding to the Frank,

'The wretch by this right hand shall die.

'And many more to this great stake

'Are sworn in solemn league with me:
'For sweet is freedom's glorious name,
'And oh! abhorred is slavery.'

Therewith he left the council hall,
And, hastening to the plain,
Marshalled his men in grim array,
To strike for noble Spain.

The King, who might not choose but yield,

Joined in the bold Bernardo's cry:

Whereby, in spite of Gallic foes,

Spain held and holds her liberty.

These lines exhibit, in striking colors, the characteristic aversion of the Spanish people for the yoke of France. They also illustrate, in a very curious manner, the frank and independent proceedings of the Gothic nobles, who yielded a precarious allegiance to their sovereigns, and possessed many valuable rights, until Charles the First and his successors broke down the power of the aristocracy, and gradually suppressed the franchises of the people. But, in former times, the Spaniards promised obedience to their kings with a very significant IF; and as in the present ballad, were accustomed to cry,

Viva el casto Rey Alfonso,

CON TAL que esta voz no estorbe :

Which, in spirit, is not unlike the famous oath of the Aragonese.

Alfonso, then, however reluctantly, is compelled to arm against the Emperor, and the command of his forces is, of course, entrusted to Bernardo del Carpio.

Con tres mil y mas Leoneses.

Followed by gallant Leonese,

Three thousand men and more,
Bernardo leaves the city, which
Rescued Iberia from the Moor,

And gave

it back again to Christ;—
Which, sacred to our country's fame,
Preserves within its proud old walls
Pelayo's ever glorious name.

The shepherd flings his crook away;
Sickle and spade neglected lie;
The peasants, in the half-turned sod,
Leave the forsaken share, and fly.

The old reanimate their fire;

Rush to their arms the young;

The slothful rouse themselves, the sick
Feel their weak frames with vigor strung.

The Frank, perchance, by force of arms Has conquered these our native glades? 'Counts he on bloodless victory?

'No, while our hands can grasp our blades.

Say, for ye may, the Leonese

'Fighting in serried files are slain,
But never that they tamely yield:
'Are they not sons, indeed, of Spain?

If, battling on for fourteen years,
'Numantia's single strength defied,
With desperate constancy, the power
'Of Rome, in all her martial pride,—

'Shall we, the lions of whose realm

'Have bathed so oft their crimson flanks

'In Libyan gore,-shall we subject

'Our Leon to the invading Franks ?—

'The King may squander lands and gold;—
'He cannot thus his liegemen sell :-
'For spirits brave and faithful hearts
'No royal sceptre can compel.'

With that Bernardo forms his files,

The squadrons of España's boast,—
While Don Alfonso, where he stands,
Looks down upon the glittering host;

And cavaliers and billmen bold
Come pouring in from vale and hill,