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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;
But still her grand and lovely scenes

Have made man's warmest praises flow;
For hearts grow holier as they trace
The beauty of the world below.

PEABODY.

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

throne.

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

be.

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

laid.

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

away :

“I do thy guilt away,” he said, “and my curse I blot it out;
God save Rodrigo Diaz, my Christian champion stout;
I trow, if I had known thee, my grief it had been sore,
To curse Ruy Diaz de Bivar, God's scourge upon the Moor.”

LOCKHART.

ZARA'S EAR-RINGS.

“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

set,

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;
He'll say I loved when he was here to whisper of his flame-
But when he went to Tunis my virgin troth had broken,
And thought no more of Muça, and cared not for his

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

well.

LOCKHART.

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