Where now the fearless heart, the soul of flame?
Thus has their glory closed its dazzling race
In one brief hour? Is this their valor's doom,
On distant shores to fall, and find not even a tomb?

Once were they in their splendor and their pride,
As an imperial cedar on the brow

Of the Great Lebanon! It rose, array'd
In its rich pomp of foliage, and of wide
Majestic branches, leaving far below
All children of the forest. To its shade
The waters tribute paid,

Fostering its beauty. Birds found shelter there
Whose flight is of the loftiest through the sky,
And the wild mountain-creatures made their lair
Beneath; and nations by its canopy

Were shadow'd o'er. Supreme it stood, and ne'er Had earth beheld a tree so excellently fair.

By all elated, on its verdant stem,
Confiding solely in its regal height,

It soar'd presumptuous, as for empire born;
And God for this removed its diadem,
And cast it from its regions of delight,
Forth to the spoiler, as a prey and scorn,
By the deep roots uptorn!

And lo! encumb'ring the lone hills it lay,
Shorn of its leaves, dismantled of its state,
While, pale with fear, men hurried far away,
Who in its ample shade had found so late
Their bower of rest; and nature's savage race
'Midst the great ruin sought their dwelling-place.

But thou, base Libya, thou whose arid sand
Hath been a kingdom's death-bed, where one fate
Closed her bright life, and her majestic fame,-
Though to thy feeble and barbarian hand
Hath fall'n the victory, be not thou elate!

Boast not thyself, though thine that day of shame,
Unworthy of a name!

Know, if the Spaniard in his wrath advance,
Aroused to vengeance by a nation's cry,
Pierced by his searching lance,

Soon shalt thou expiate crime with agony,
And thine affrighted streams to ocean's flood
An ample tribute bear of Afric's Paynim blood.

THE SIEGE OF VALENCIA.

A DRAMATIC POEM.

Judicio ha dado esta no vista hazanna,
Del valor que en los siglos venideros
Tendran los Hijos de la fuerte Espanna,
Hijos de tal padres herederos.

Hallo sola en Numancia todo quanto
Debe con justo titulo cantarse,

Y lo que puede dar materia al canto.

Numancia de Cervantes.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE history of Spain records two instances of the severe and selfdevoting heroism, which forms the subject of the following dramatic poem. The first of these occurced at the siege of Tarifa, which was defended, in 1294, for Sancho, King of Castile, during the rebellion of his brother, Don Juan, by Guzman, surnamed the Good.* The second is related of Alonzo Lopez de Texeda, who, until his garrison had been utterly disabled by pestilence, maintained the city of Zamora for the children of Don Pedro the Cruel, against the forces of Henrique of Trastamara.†

Impressive as were the circumstances which distinguished both these memorable sieges, it appeared to the author of the following pages that a deeper interest, as well as a stronger color of nationality, might be imparted to the scenes in which she has feebly attempted "to describe high passions and high actions," by connecting a reli gious feeling with the patriotism and high-minded loyalty which had thus been proved "faithful unto death," and by surrounding her ideal dramatis persone with recollections derived from the heroic legends of Spanish chivalry. She has, for this reason, employed the agency of imaginary characters, and fixed upon Valencia del Cid as the scene to give them

THERESA,

Wife to Gonzalez.

An Attendant.

Her Daughter.

Citizens, Soldiers, Attendants, &c.

*See Quintana's Vidas de Espanoles Célèbres, p. 53.
† See the Preface to Southey's Chronicle of the Cid.

SCENE I.

Room in a Palace of Valencia.-XIMENA Singing to a Lute

BALLAD.

"THOU hast not been with a festal throng

At the pouring of the wine;

Men bear not from the hall of song

A mien so dark 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 darken'd 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 it wet-but not with rain—
We have been in war array,

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

1 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 left;
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!

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

With his proud quick-flashing eye,
And his mien of knightly state?

Doth he come from where the swords flash'd high
In the Roncesvalles' Strait?"

"In the gloomy Roncesvalles' Strait
I saw, and mark'd 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 admidst 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 valor'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 war-horse 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!"

[ELMINA enters.

Elm. Your songs are not as those of other days,
Mine own Ximena! Where is now the young
And buoyant spirit of the morn, which once
Breathed in your spring-like melodies, and woke
Joy's echo from all hearts?

Xim.
My mother, this
Is not the free air of our mountain-wilds;
And these are not the halls wherein my voice
First pour'd those gladd'ning strains.

Elm.

Alas! thy heart
(I see it well) doth sicken for the pure
Free-wand'ring breezes of the joyous hills,

Where thy young brothers, o'er the rock and heath,
Bound in glad boyhood, e'en as torrent streams

Leap brightly from the heights. Had we not been
Within these walls, thus suddenly begirt,

Thou shouldst have track'd ere now, with step as ligh
Their wild-wood paths.

Xim.

I would not but have shared

These hours of woe and peril, though the deep

And solemn feelings wak'ning at their voice,
Claim all the wrought-up spirit to themselves,

And will not blend with mirth. The storm doth hush
All floating whispery sounds, all bird-notes wild
O' th' summer-forest, filling earth and heaven
With its own awful music. And 'tis well!
Should not a hero's child be train❜d to hear
The trumpet's blast unstartled, and to look

In the fix'd face of death without dismay?

Elm. Woe! woe! that aught so gentle and so young
Should thus be call'd to stand i' the tempest's path,
And bear the token and the hue of death

On a bright soul so soon! I had not shrunk

From mine own lot; but thou, my child, shouldst move,
As a light breeze of heaven, through summer-bowers,
And not o'er foaming billows. We are fall'n

On dark and evil days!

Xim.
Ay, days, that wake
All to their tasks!-Youth may not loiter now
In the green walks of spring; and womanhood
Is summon'd unto conflicts, heretofore

The lot of warrior-souls. Strength is born
In the deep silence of long-suffering hearts:
Not amidst joy.

Elm.

Hast thou some secret woe

Elm.

What sorrow should be mine,

Alas! the baleful air

Wherewith the pestilence in darkness walks
Through the devoted city, like a blight

Amidst the rose-tints of thy cheek hath fall'n,

And wrought an early withering!-Thou hast cross'd
The paths of death, and minister'd to those

O'er whom his shadow rested, till thine eye

Hath changed its giancing sunbeam for a still,

Deep, solemn radiance, and thy brow hath caught

A wild and high expression, which at times
Fades into desolate calmness, most unlike

What youth's bright mien should wear. My gentle child!
I look on thee in fear!

Xim.

Thou hast no cause
To fear for me. When the wild clash of steel,
And the deep tambour, and the heavy step
Of armed men, break on our morning dreams!
When, hour by hour, the noble and the brave
Are falling round us, and we deem it much
To give them funeral-rites, and call them blest
If the good sword, in its own stormy hour,
Hath done its work upon them, ere disease
Had chill'd their fiery blood;-it is no time
For the light mien wherewith, in happier hours,
We trode the woodland mazes, when young leaves
Were whisp'ring in the gale.-My father comes-
I would not shade
Oh! speak of me no more.
His princely aspect with a thought less high
Than his proud duties claim.

Elm.

[GONZALEZ enters.

My noble lord!

Welcome from this day's toil!-It is the hour