"And I, too, go: my wound is deep, Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride! "Bear it where, on his battle-plain, Beneath the setting sun, He counts my country's noble slain Say to him-Saxon, think not all is won. "Thou hast laid low the warrior's head, Dreamer! that numberest with the dead The burning spirit of the mountain-land! "Thinkst thou, because the song hath seized, Thinkst thou it woke to crown the feast, It lived beside the ruddy hearth alone? "No! by our wrongs, and by our blood! Though hushed awhile, that sounding flood "We leave it midst our country's woe- Bright and eternal on Eryri's' crest. "We leave it with our fame to dwell Our voice in theirs through time shall swell- He dies; but yet the mountains stand, Yet sweeps the torrent's tide; And this is yet Aneurin's land Winds! bear the spoiler one more tone of pride! THE ROCK OF CADER IDRIS. [It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of the mountain Cader Idris is an excavation resembling a couch; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in the morning either dead, in a frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.] I LAY on that rock where the storms have their dwelling, 1 Eryri, Welsh name for the Snowdon mountains, Around it forever deep music is swelling, The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud. Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan; I lay there in silence-a spirit came o'er me; Man's tongue hath no language to speak what I saw; Though veiled by the mists of mortality's breath; For a strife was within me of madness and death. I saw them-the powers of the wind and the ocean, I saw them-the mighty of ages departed— The dead were around me that night on the hill: From their eyes, as they passed, a cold radiance they darted.— I saw what man looks on, and dies-but my spirit Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour; And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power! Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested, Ánd high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun; But oh! what new glory all nature invested, When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won! SONGS OF THE CID. These ballads are not translations from the Spanish, but are founded upon some of the 66 wild and wonderful traditions preserved in the romances of that ianguage, and the ancient poem of the Cid. THE CID'S DEPARTURE INTO | To march o'er field, and to watch in EXILE. WITH Sixty knights in his gallant train, tent, From his home in good Castile he went; To the wasting siege and the battle's van, The pennons were spread, and the band arrayed, But the Cid at the threshold a moment stayed It was but a moment; the halls were lone, And the gates of his dwelling all open thrown. There was not a steed in the empty stall, Nor a spear nor a cloak on the naked wall, Nor a hawk on the perch, nor a seat at the door, Nor the sound of a step on the hollow floor. Then a dim tear swelled to the war THE CID'S DEATH-BED. IT was an hour of grief and fear Above her marble halls. There were pale cheeks and troubled eyes, And steps of hurrying feet, Where the Zambra's notes were wont to rise, Along the sunny street. It was an hour of fear and grief, The Moor-king's barks were on the deep, With sounds and signs of war; But the Cid was passing to his sleep, In the silent Alcazar. No moan was heard through the towers of state, No weeper's aspect seen, With pale yet steadfast mien. Stillness was round the leader's bed, And banners, o'er his glorious head, And feeble grew the conquering hand, He had fought the battles of the land, And his hour was come to rest. What said the Ruler of the field? -His voice is faint and low; The breeze that creeps o'er his lance and shield Hath louder accents now. "Raise ye no cry, and let no moan Be made when I depart; The Moor must hear no dirge's tone; Be ye of mighty heart! "Let the cymbal-clash and the trumpetstrain From your walls ring far and shrill; And fear ye not, for the saints of Spain Shall grant you victory still. "And gird my form with mail-array, And set me on my steed; So go ye forth on your funeral-way, And God shall give you speed. "Go with the dead in the front of war, All armed with sword and helm, And march by the camp of King Bucar, For the good Castilian realm. "And let me slumber in the soil Which gave my fathers birth; I have closed my day of battle-toil, And my course is done on earth." -Now wave, ye glorious banners! wave! Through the lattice a wind sweeps by, And the arms, o'er the deathbed of the brave, Send forth a hollow sigh. Now wave, ye banners of many a fight? As the fresh wind o'er you sweeps; The wind and the banners fall hushed as night: The Campeador-he sleeps! Sound the battle-horn on the breeze of morn, And swell out the trumpet's blast, Till the notes prevail o'er the voice of wail, For the noble Cid hath passed! But the Christians woke that night. They reared the Cid on his barded steed, Like a warrior mailed for the hour of need, And they fixed the sword in the cold right hand, Which had fought so well for his fathers' land, And the shield from his neck hung bright. There was arming heard on Valencia's halls, There was vigil kept on the rampart walls; Stars had not faded nor clouds turned red, [dead, When the knight had girded the noble And the burial train moved out. With a measured pace, as the pace of one, Was the still death-march of the host begun ; With a silent step went the cuirassed bands, Like a lion's tread on the burning sands; And they gave no battle-shout. When the first went forth, it was midnight deep, In heaven was the moon, in the camp was sleep; When the last through the city's gates had gone, O'er tent and rampart the bright day shone, With a sun-burst from the sea. But the deep hills pealed with a cry ere long, When the Christians burst on the Paynim throng! -With a sudden flash of lance and spear, There were knights five hundred went And a charge of the war-steed in full' armed before, |