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And ambush with three hundred men,

Ere the first cock does crow :

“And when against the Moorish men

The Cid leads up his powers, We, rushing from the hollow glen,

Will fall on them with ours.”

This counsel pleased the chieftain well:

He said, it should be so;
And the good bishop should sing mass,

Ere the first cock did crow.
The day is gone, the night is come;

At cock-crow all appear
In Pedro's church to shrive themselves,

And holy mass to hear:
On Santiago there they call'd,

To hear them and to save;
And that good bishop, at the mass,

Great absolution gave. “ Fear not,” he cried, “when thousands yleed,

When horse on man shall roll! Whoever dies, I take his sins,

And God shall save his soul.

And now, upon the turret high,

Was heard the signal drum;
And loud the watchman blew his trump,

And cried, “ They come ! they come!”
The Cid then raised his sword on high,

And by God's mother swore,
These walls, hard-gotten, he would keep,

Or bathe their base in gore.
“My wife, my daughter, what, in tears !

Nay, hang not thus your head ;
For you shall see how well we fight;

How soldiers earn their bread.
“ We will go out against the Moors,

And crush them in your sight;" And all the Christians shouted loud,

“May God defend the right!”
He took his wife and daughter's hand,

So resolute was he,
And led them to the highest tower

That overlooks the sea.
They saw how vast a pagan power

Came sailing o'er the brine;
They saw, beneath the morning light,

The Moorish crescents shine.
These ladies then grew deadly pale,

As heart-struck with dismay;
And when they heard the tambours beat,

They turn'd their head away.
The thronged streamers glittering flew,

The sun was shining bright,
“Now cheer,” the valiant Cid he cried;

“This is a glorious sight!"
Whilst thus, with shuddering look aghast,

These fearful ladies stood,
The Cid he raised his sword, and cried,

“ All this is for your good.
“ Ere fifteen days are gone and past,

If God assist the right,
Those tambours that now sound to scare,

Shall sound for your delight.”
The Moors who press'd beneath the towers

Now “ Allah! Allah !" sung; Each Christian knight his broad-sword drew,

And loud the trumpets rung. Then up, the noble Cid bespoke

“ Let each brave warrior go, And arm himself, in dusk of morn,

Ere chanticleer shall crow;
“And in the lofty minster church,

On Santiago call,
That good Bishoppe Hieronymo,*

Shall there absolve you all.
“ But let us prudent counsel take,

In this eventful hour:
For yon proud infidels, I ween,

They are a mighty power."
Then Alvar Fanez counsellid well,

“ We will deceive the foe,

"A boon! a boon !" the bishop cried,

“I have sung mass to-day; Let me be foremost in the fight,

And lead the bloody fray.” Now Alvar Fanez and his men

Had gain’d the thicket's shade; And, with hush'd breath and anxious eye,

Had there their ambush laid.
Four thousand men, with trump, and shout,

Forth issued from the gate;
Where my brave Cid, in harness bright,

On Baviéca sate.

They pass'd the ambush on the left,

And march'd o'er dale and down, Till soon they saw the Moorish camp

Betwixt them and the town. My Cid then spurr'd his horse, and set

The battle in array. The first beam on his standard shone

Which Pero bore that day

When this the Moors astonied saw,

“Allah !” began their cry: The tambours beat, the cymbals rung,

As they would rend the sky.

“ Banner, advance !” my Cid cried then,

And raised aloft his sword; The whole host answer'd with a shout,

“St. Mary, and our Lord!”

That good Bishop, Hieronymo,

Bravely his battle bore; And cried, as he spurr'd on his resolute steed,

“Hurrah! for the Campeador !" The Moorish and the Christian host

Mingle their dying cries,
And many a horse along the plain

Without his rider flies.

The common phraseology of the old metrical ballad.

Now Alvar Fanez, and his men,

That laves the pebbled shore: and now the beam Who crouch'd in thickets low,

Of evening smiles on the gray battlement,
Leap'd up, and, with the lightning glance, And yon forsaken tower* that time has rent:
Rush'd on the wavering foe.

The lifted oar far off with silver gleam
The Moors, who saw their pennons gay

Is touch'd, and hush'd is all the billowy deep!
All waving in the wind,

Soothed by the scene, thus on tired nature's breast Fled in despair, for still they fear'd

A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest;

While sea-sounds lull her, as she sinks to sleep,
A greater host behind.

Like melodies which mourn upon the lyre,
The crescent sinks " Pursue ! pursue !

Waked by the breeze, and, as they mourn, expire!
Haste-spur along the plain!
See where they fall-see where they lie,
Never to rise again.”

Of fifty thousand who, at morn,
Came forth in armour bright,

Scarce fifteen thousand souls were left,

Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep, To tell the tale at night.

Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime, My Cid then wiped his bloody brow,

Though hurrying silent by, relentless time And thus was heard to say,

Assail you, and the winter whirlwind's sweep! « Well, Baviéca,* hast thou sped,

For far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls, My noble horse! to-day.”

Here Charity hath fix'd her chosen seat, If thousands then escaped the sword,

Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat Let none my Cid condemn;

With hollow bodings round your ancient walls; For they were swept into the sea,

And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour
And the surge went over them.

Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,

Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower, There's many a maid of Tetuan

And turns her ear to each expiring cry;
All day shall sit and weep ;

Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save, But never see her lover's sail

And snatch him cold and speechless from the Shine on the northern deep.

wave. There's many a mother, with her babe,

Shall pace the sounding shore,
And think upon its father's smile,

Whom she shall see no more.

Rock, hoary ocean, mournfully,

While slowly wanders thy sequester'd stream, Upon thy billowy bed;

Wensbeck! the mossy-scatter'd rocks among, For, dark and deep, thy surges sweep

In fancy's ear still making plaintive song
O'er thousands of the dead.

To the dark woods above, that waving seemn


* Tynemouth priory and castle, Northumberland.-The

remains of this monastery are sitnated on a high rocky SONNETS WRITTEN CHIEFLY DU- point, on the north side of the entrance into the river RING VARIOUS JOURNEYS. *

Tyne, about a mile and a half below North-Shields. The exalted rock on which the monastery stood rendered it

visible at sea a long way off, in every direction, whence IN TWO PARTS.

it presented itself as if exhorting the seamen in danger to

make their vows, and promise inasses and presents to the Cantantes, licet usque, minus via lædet, eamus,

Virgin Mary and St. Oswin for their deliverance.

+ This very ancient castle, with its extensive domains, Still let us soothe our travel with a strain.

heretofore the property of the family of Forster, whose Warton.

heiress married Lord Crewe, bishop of Durham, is appropriated by the will of that pious prelate to many benerd

lent purposes; particularly that of ministering instant PART I.

relief to such shipwrecked mariners as may happen to be

cast on this dangerous coast, for whose preservation, and SONNET.

that of their vessels, every possible assistance is contrived, WRITTEN AT TYNEMOUTH, NORTHUMBERLAND, AFTER

and is at all times ready. The whole estate is vested in A TEMPESTUOUS VOYAGE.

the hands of trustees, one of whom, Dr. Sharp, archdeacon

of Northumberland, with an active zeal well suited to the As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,

nature of the humane institution, makes this castle his Much musing on the track of terror past,

chief residence, attending with unwearied diligence to When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast, the proper application of the charity.

The Wensbeck is a romantic and sequestered river Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide

in Northumberland. On its banks is situated our Lady's

Chapel. “ The remains of this small chapel, or oratory, * His favourite horse.

(says Grose,) stand in a shady solitude, on the north bank + These sonnels were dedicated "To the Rev. Newton of the Wensbeck, about three-quarters of a mile west of Ogle, D.D., Dean of Winchester.-Donhead, Wilts, Nov. Bothall, in a spot admirably calculated for meditation. 1797."

It was probably built by one of the Barons Ogle." This



To bend o'er some enchanted spot; removed
From life's vain coil, I listen to the wind,

And think I hear meek sorrow's plaint, reclined
O'er the forsaken tomb of one she loved !
Fair scenes ! ye lend a pleasure, long unknown, CŁYSDALE, as thy romantic vales I leave,
To him who passes weary on his way-

And bid farewell to each retiring hill,
The farewell tear, which now he turns to pay, Where fond attention seems to linger still,
Shall thank you ;--and whene'er of pleasures flown Tracing the broad bright landscape ; much I grieve
His heart some long-lost image would renew, That, mingled with the toiling crowd, no more
Delightful haunts! he will remember you.

I may return your varied views to mark,

Of rocks amid the sunshine towering dark, of rivers winding wild,* and mountains hoar,

Or castle gleaming on the distant steep

For this a look back on thy hills I cast,

And many a soften'd image of the past O TWEED! a stranger, that with wandering feet

Pleased I combine, and bid remembrance keep,

To soothe me with fair views and fancies rude, O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile

When I pursue my path in solitude.
(If so his weary thoughts he might beguile,)
Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet.
The waving branches that romantic bend
O’er thy tall banks,* a soothing charm bestow;

The murmurs of thy wandering wave below
Seem to his ear the pity of a friend.

TO THE RIVER ITCHIN, NEAR WINTON. Delightful stream ! though now along thy shore,

Itchin,t when I behold thy banks again, When spring returns in all her wonted pride,

Thy crumbling margin, and thy silver breast, The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more,

On which the selfsame tints still seem'd to rest, Yet here with pensive peace could I abide,t

Why feels my heart the shivering sense of pain ? Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,

Is it—that many a summer's day has past To muse upon thy banks at eventide.

Since, in life's morn, I caroll'd on thy side ?

Is it—that oft, since then, my heart has sigh'd,

As youth, and hope's delusive gleams, flew fast? SONNET.

Is it—that those, who circled on thy shore, EVENING, as slow thy placid shades descend,

Companions of my youth, now meet no more? Veiling with gentlest hush the landscape still,

Whate'er the cause, upon thy banks I bend, The lonely battlement, and farthest hill

Sorrowing, yet feel such solace at my heart, And wood, I think of those that have no friend, As at the meeting of some long-lost friend, Who now, perhaps, by melancholy led,

From whom, in happier hours, we wept to part. From the broad blaze of day, where pleasure

Retiring, wander ’mid thy lonely haunts

Unseen; and watch the tints that o'er thy bed
Hang lovely, to their pensive fancy's eye

O POVERTY! though from thy haggard eye, Presenting fairy vales, where the tired mind Thy cheerless mien, of every charm bereft,

Might rest, beyond the murmurs of mankind, Thy brow that hope's last traces long have left, Nor hear the hourly moans of misery !

Vain fortune's feeble sons with terror fly; Ah! beauteous views, that hope's fair gleams the I love thy solitary haunts to seek :while

For pity, reckless of her own distress ; Should smile like you, and perish as they smile! And patience, in the pall of wretchedness,

That turns to the bleak storn her faded cheek ; siver is thus beautifully characterized by Akenside, who And piety, that never told her wrong; was horn near it:

And meek content, whose griefs no more rebel ; “Oye Northumbrian shades, which overlook

And genius, warbling sweet her saddest song;
The rocky pavement, and the mossy falls
Or solitary Wensbeck's limpid stream!

And sorrow, listening to a lost friend's knell,
How gladly I recall your well known seats

Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng ;
Beloved of old, and that delightful time

With thee, and thy unfriended offspring, dwell.
When all alone, for many a summer's day,
I wander'd through your calm recesses, led

* There is a wildness almost fantastic in the view of In silence by some powerful hand unseen.”

the river from Stirling Castle, the course of which is seea Writlen on passing the Tweed at Kelso, where the for many miles, making a thousand turnings. scenery is much more picturesque than it is near Berwick, † The Itchin is a river running from Winchester to the more general route of travellers into Scotland. It was Southampton, the banks of which have been the scene of a beautiful and still autumnal eve when we passed. many a holiday sport. The lines were composed on an

† Alluding to the simple and affecting pastoral strains evening in a journey from Oxford to Southampton, the first for which Scotland has been so long celebrated. I need time I had seen the Itchin since I left school. pot mention Lochaber, the braes of Ballendine, Tweed. * We remember them as friends from whom we were side etc.

sorry ever to have parted. Smith's Theory.


And hark ! with lessening cadence now they fall, SONNET.

And now, along the white and level tide,

They fing their melancholy music wide;

Bidding me many a tender thought recall
On these white clill's, that, calm above the flood,

Of summer days, and those delightful years Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,

When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,

The mournful magic of their mingling chime Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;

First waked my wondering childhood into tears! And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,

But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, And o'er the distant billows the still eve

The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more. Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must

To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear;
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part:

But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,

brow And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide- (Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine) The world his country, and his God his guide. Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling

We bounded, and the white waves round the


In murmurs parted ;-varying as we go,

Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,

Some convent's ancient walls or glistening spire The orient beam illumes the parting oar

'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. From yonder azure track, emerging white,

Here dark, with surrow'd aspect, like despair, The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight,

Frowns the bleak cliff—there on the woodland's And the blue wave comes rippling to the shore

side Meantime far off the rear of darkness flies :

The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Yet ’mid the beauties of the morn, unmoved, Whilst hope, enchanted with the scene so fair, Like one for ever torn from all he loved,

Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Towards Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes,

Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away. Where every pleasure seem'd erewhile to dwell:

Yet boots it not to think, or to complain,

Musing sad ditties to the reckless main :
To dreams like these, adieu! the pealing bell

Speaks of the hour that stays not-and the day
To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.

If chance some pensive stranger, hither led,

(His bosom glowing from majestic views, SONNET.

The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's

hues,) AT OSTEND, JULY 22, 1787.

Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bedHow sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal !* 'Tis poor Matilda !--To the cloister'd scene,

As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came,

Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease, To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the So piercing to my heart their force I feel !


Of fruitless love: yet was her look serene * Written on landing at Ostend, and hearing, very early As the pale moonlight in the midnight aisle; in the morning, the carillons.

Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could The effect of bells has been often described, but by none lend, more beautifully than Cowper :

Like that which spoke of a departed friend How soft the music of those village bells,

And a meek sadness sat upon her smile!
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet, now dying all away,

Now, far removed from every earthly ill,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,

Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,

And with it all its pleasures and its pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit lakes, O TIME! who know'st a lenient hand to lay
That in a few short moments I retrace

Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly thence (As in a map the voyager his course) The windings of my way through many years.

(Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) Corper's Task, book vi. | The faint pang stealest unperceived away;


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On thee I rest my only hope at last,

Of solace, that may bear me on serene,
And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear Till eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.

That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
I may look back on every sorrow past,
And meet life's peaceful evening with a smile
As some lone bird, at day's departing hour,

Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower
Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:-

Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure,
Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

As one who, long by wasting sickness worn,
Weary has watch'd the lingering night, and


Heartless the carol of the matin bird

Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn

Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed ; LANGUID, and sad, and slow, from day to day

He the green slope and level meadow views, I journey on, yet pensive turn to view

Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews; (Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue) Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head The streanis, and vales, and hills, that steal away.

In varying forms fantastic wander white;
So fares it with the children of the earth:

Or turns his ear to every random song,
For when life's goodly prospect opens round, Heard the green river's winding marge along,
Their spirits beat to tread that fairy ground,

The whilst each sense is stecp'd in still delight. Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth.

With such delight, o'er all my heart I feel, But them vain hope and easy youth beguiles,

Sweet hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense
And soon a longing look, like me, they cast

Back on the pleasing prospect of the past:
Yet fancy points where still far onward smiles
Some sunny spot, and her fair colouring blends,
Till cheerless on their path the night descends.



Go then, and join the roaring city's throng!

Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears,

To busy fantasies, and boding fears,

Lest ill betide thee: but 'twill not be long,
An! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start, And the hard season shall be past: till then

As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight Live happy; sometimes the forsaken shade

Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white Remembering, and these trees now left to fade; Above the wave, once more my beating heart Nor 'mid the busy scenes and “hum of men,” With eager hope and filial transport hails ! Wilt thou my cares forget: in heaviness Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring,

To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow, As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring Till, mournful autumn past, and all the snow Joyous awoke amidst your blooming vales,

Of winter pale! the glad hour I shall bless, And fill'd with fragrance every painted plain : That shall restore thee from the crowd again,

Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave! To the green hamlet in the peaceful plain.

Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave
That bears me nearer to your haunts again ;
If haply, ?mid those woods and vales so fair,
Stranger to peace, I yet may meet her there.




THERE is strange music in the stirring wind,

When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone TO THE RIVER CHERWELL, OXFORD.

To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone, CHERWELL! how pleased along thy willow'd hedge Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined

Erewhile I stray'd, or when the morn began Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sear.
To tinge the distant turret's gleamy fan,

If in such shades, beneath their murmuring,
Or evening glimmerd o'er the sighing sedge! Thou late hast pass'd the happier hours of spring,
And now reposing on thy banks once more, With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year;
I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay

Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn Whose music on my melancholy way

Or eve thou'st shared, to distant scenes shall I woo'd: amid thy waving willows hoar

stray. Seeking a while to rest-till the bright sun

O, spring, return! return, auspicious May! Of joy return, as when heaven's beauteous bow But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn,

Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below: If she return not with thy cheering ray, Whate'er betide, yet something have I won Who from these shades is gone, gone far away.

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