'He may send and take by force,' So vigorless our brawny arms,
This paltry sum of gold;
But the goodly gift of liberty Cannot be bought and sold.'
'One of the finest of the historic ballads is that which describes Bernardo's march to Roncesvalles. He sallies forth "with three thousand Leonese and more," to protect the glory and freedom of his native land. From all sides, the peasantry of the land flock to the hero's standard.'
THE peasant leaves his plough afield,
The reaper leaves his hook,
And from his hand the shepherdboy
Lets fall the pastoral crook.
The young set up a shout of joy,
The old forget their years, The feeble man grows stout of heart,
No more the craven fears.
All rush to Bernard's standard,
And on liberty they call;
They cannot brook to wear the
When threatened by the Gaul.
'Has the audacious Frank, forsooth,
Subdued these seas and lands? Shall he a bloodless victory have? No, not while we have hands.
'He shall learn that the gallant Leonese
Can bravely fight and fall, But that they know not how to yield;
They are Castilians all.
Was it for this the Roman pow.
Of old was made to yield Unto Numantia's valiant hosts
On many a bloody field?
'Shall the bold lions that have bathed
Their paws in Libyan gore, Crouch basely to a feebler foe,
And dare the strife no more?
'Let the false king sell town and tower,
But not his vassals free;
For to subdue the free-born soul
No royal power hath he!'
AND when the kings were in the field, their squadrons in array, --
With lance in rest they onward pressed to mingle in the fray;
But soon upon the Christians fell a terror of their foes, -
These were a numerous army,—a little handful those.
And while the Christian people stood in this uncertainty,
Upward to heaven they turned their eyes, and fixed their thoughts or high;
And there two figures they beheld, all beautiful and bright,
Even than the pure new-fallen snow their garments were more white.
They rode upon two horses more white than crystal sheen,
And arms they bore such as before no mortal man had seen;
The one, he held a crosier, -a pontiff's mitre wore;
The other held a crucifix, — such man ne'er saw before.
Their faces were angelical, celestial forms had they,—
And downward through the fields of air they urged their rapid way;
They looked upon the Moorish host with fierce and angry look,
And in their hands, with dire portent, their naked sabres shook.
The Christian host, beholding this, straightway take heart again;
They fall upon their bended knees, all resting on the plain,
And each one with his clenched fist to smite his breast begins,
And promises to God on high he will forsake his sins.
And when the heavenly knights drew near unto the battle-ground,
They dashed among the Moors and dealt unerring blows around;
Such deadly havoc there they made the foremost ranks along,
A panic terror spread unto the hindmost of the throng.
Together with these two good knights, the champions of the sky,
The Christians rallied and began to smite full sore and high;
The Moors raised up their voices and by the Koran swore
That in their lives such deadly fray they ne'er had seen before.
Down went the misbelievers, - fast sped the bloody fight, -
Some ghastly and dismembered lay, and some half dead with fright:
Full sorely they repented that to the field they came,
For they saw that from the battle they should retreat with shame.
Another thing befell them, they dreamed not of such woes,—
The very arrows that the Moors shot from their twanging bows
Turned back against them in their flight and wounded them full sore
And every blow they dealt the foe was paid in drops of gore.
Now he that bore the crosier, and the papal crown had on,
Was the glorified Apostle, the brother of Saint John;
And he that held the crucifix, and wore the monkish hood,
Was the holy San Millan of Cogolla's neighborhood.
SAN MIGUEL DE LA TUMBA is a convent vast and wide;
The sea encircles it around, and groans on every side:
It is a wild and dangerous place, and many woes betide
The monks who in that burial-place in penitence abide.
Within those dark monastic walls, amid the ocean flood,
Of pious, fasting monks there dwelt a holy brotherhood;
To the Madonna's glory there an altar high was placed,
And a rich and costly image the sacred altar graced.
Exalted high upon a throne, the Virgin Mother smiled,
And, as the custom is, she held within her arms the Child;
The kings and wise men of the East were kneeling by her side;
Attended was she like a queen whom God had sanctified.
Descending low before her face a screen of feathers hung, -
A moscader, or fan for flies, 't is called in vulgar tongue;
From the feathers of the peacock's wing 't was fashioned bright and
fair,
And glistened like the heaven above when all its stars are there.
It chanced that, for the people's sins, fell the lightning's blasting stroke:
Forth from all four the sacred walls the flames consuming broke;
The sacred robes were all consumed, missal and holy book;
And hardly with their lives the monks their crumbling walls forsook.
But though the desolating flame raged fearfully and wild,
It did not reach the Virgin Queen, it did not reach the Child;
It did not reach the feathery screen before her face that shone,
Nor injure in a farthing's worth the image or the throne.
The image it did not consume, it did not burn the screen;
Even in the value of a hair they were not hurt, I ween;
Not even the smoke did reach them, nor injure more the shrine
Than the bishop hight Don Tello has been hurt by hand of mine.
In my constancy and pain
I new life should win again,
Thinking that I am not living.
So to me, unconscious lying,
All unknown thy coming be,
Lest the sweet delight of dying
Bring life back again to me.
Unto him who finds thee hateful,
Death, thou art inhuman pain;
But to me, who dying gain,
Life is but a task ungrateful.
Come, then, with my wish comply-
ing,
All unheard thy coming be,
Lest the sweet delight of dying
Bring life back again to me.
GLOVE OF BLACK IN WHITE
HAND BARE
GLOVE of black in white hand
bare,
And about her forehead pale
Wound a thin, transparent veil,
That doth not conceal her hair;
Sovereign attitude and air,
| Cheek and neck alike displayed,
With coquettish charms arrayed,
Laughing eyes and fugitive; -
This is killing men that live,
'T is not mourning for the dead.
FROM THE SWEDISH AND DANISH
PASSAGES FROM FRITHIOF'S SAGA
THREE miles extended around the fields of the homestead, on three sides
Valleys and mountains and hills, but on the fourth side was the ocean.
Birch woods crowned the summits, but down the slope of the hillsides
Flourished the golden corn, and man-high was waving the rye-field.
Lakes, full many in number, their mirror held up for the mountains,
Held for the forests up, in whose depths the high-horned reindeers
Had their kingly walk, and drank of a hundred brooklets.
But in the valleys widely around, there fed on the greensward
Herds with shining hides and udders that longed for the milk-pail.
'Mid these scattered, now here and now there, were numberless flocks of
Sheep with fleeces white, as thou seest the white-looking stray clouds,
Flock-wise spread o'er the heavenly vault, when it bloweth in spring-
time.
Coursers two times twelve, all mettlesome, fast fettered storm-winds,
Stamping stood in the line of stalls, and tugged at their fodder.
Knotted with red were their manes, and their hoofs all white with steel
shoes.
Th' banquet-hall, a house by itself, was timbered of hard fir.
Not five hundred men (at ten times twelve to the hundred)
Filled up the roomy hall, when assembled for drinking, at Yule-tide.
Thorough the hall, as long as it was, went a table of holm-oak,
|