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All--from the evening's plaintive sigh,
That hardly lifts the drooping flower, To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry
Breathe forth the language of thy power.
God of the fair and open sky!
How gloriously above us springs The tented dome of heavenly blue,
Suspended on the rainbow's rings! Each brilliant star that sparkles through,
Each gilded cloud that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives
The beauty of its praise to thee.
God of the rolling orbs above!
Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze,
Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun,
And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven,
Were kindled at thy burning throne.
God of the world! the hour must come,
And nature's self to dust return; Her crumbling altars must decay,
Her incense fires shall cease to burn;
Have made man's warmest praises flow;
EXCOMMUNICATION OF THE CID.
It was when from Spain, across the main, the Cid had
come to Rome, He chanced to see chairs four and three beneath Saint
Peter's dome. “Now tell, I pray, what chairs be they?”—“ Seven kings
do sit thereon, As well doth suit, all at the foot of the holy Father's
The Pope he sitteth above them all, that they may kiss
· his toe, Below the keys the Flower-de-lys doth make a gallant
show; For his great puissance, the King of France next to the
Pope may sit, The rest more low, all in a row, as doth their station fit.”
“Ha!" quoth the Cid, “now God forbid ! it is a shame,
I wiss, To see the Castle planted beneath the Flower-de-lys. No harm I hope, good Father Pope, although I move thy
chair.” In pieces small he kicked it all ('twas of the ivory fair).
The Pope's own seat he from his feet did kick it far away, And the Spanish chair he planted upon its place that
day; Above them all he planted it, and laughed right bitterly; Looks sour and bad, I trow he had, as grim as grim might
Now when the Pope was aware of this, he was an angry
man, His lips that night, with solemn rite, pronounced the
awful ban; The curse of God, who died on rood, was on that sinner's
headTo hell and woe man's soul must go, if once that curse be
I wot, when the Cid was aware of this, a woeful man was he, At dawn of day he came to pray, at the blessed Father's
knee: “ Absolve, blessed Father, have pity upon me, Absolve my soul, and penance I for my sin will dree.”
“Who is the sinner," quoth the Pope, “that at my foot
doth kneel ?" “I am Rodrigo Diaz-a poor baron of Castille.”— Much marvelled all were in the hall, when that name
they heard him say. “ Rise up, rise up,” the Pope he said, “I do thy guilt
“I do thy guilt away,” he said, “and my curse I blot it out;
“My ear-rings! my ear-rings ! they've dropt into the well, And what to say to Muça, I cannot, cannot tell.” Twas thus, Granada's fountain by, spoke Albuharez'
daughter,“ The well is deep, far down they lie, beneath the cold
blue water. To me did Muça give them, when he spake his sad farewell, And what to say when he comes back, alas ! I cannot tell.
“My ear-rings ! my ear-rings! they were pearls in silver
That when my Moor was far away, I ne'er should him
forget, That I ne'er to other tongue should list, nor smile on
other's tale, But remember he my lips had kissed, pure as those ear
rings pale. When he comes back, and hears that I have dropped
them in the well, O what will Muça think of me, I cannot, cannot tell.
“My ear-rings! my ear-rings ! he'll say they should have
been, Not of pearl and of silver, but of gold and glittering sheen, Of jasper and of onyx, and of diamond shining clear, Changing to the changing light, with radiance insincere That changeful mind unchanging gems are not befitting
wellThus will he think-and what to say, alas ! I cannot tell.
“He'll think when I to market went, I loitered by the
way; He'll think a willing ear I lent to all the lads might say; He'll think some other lover's hand among my tresses
noosed, From the ears where he had placed them, my rings of
pearl unloosed; He'll think when I was sporting so beside this marble well, My pearls fell in-and what to say, alas! I cannot tell.
“He'll say I am a woman, and we are all the same;
token. My ear-rings! my ear-rings! oh, luckless, luckless well! For what to say to Muga, alas! I cannot tell.
“I'll tell the truth to Muga, and I hope he will believeThat I have thought of him at morning, and thought of
him at eve; That musing on my lover, when down the sun was gone, His ear-rings in my hand I held, by the fountain all alone; And that my mind was o’er the sea, when from my hand
they fell, And that deep his love lies in my heart, as they lie in the