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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 ;
Ere the first cock did crow,
At cock-crow all appear
And holy mass to hear:
To hear them and to save;
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 cried, “They come ! they come !"
And by God's mother swore,
Or bathe their base in gore.
Nay, hang not thus your head ;
How soldiers earn their bread.
And crush them in your sight;" And all the Christians shouted loud,
“ May God defend the right!”
So resolute was he,
That overlooks the sea.
Came sailing o'er the brine;
The Moorish crescents shine.
As heart-struck with dismay;
They turn'd their head away.
The sun was shining bright,
“ This is a glorious sight!”
These fearful ladies stood,
“ All this is for your good.
If God assist the right,
Shall sound for your delight.”
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;
On Santiago call,
Shall there absolve you all.
In this eventful hour:
They are a mighty power.”
“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.
Forth issued from the gate;
On Baviéca sate.
And march'd o'er dale and down,
Betwixt them and the town.
The battle in array.
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 spurt'd on his resolute steed,
“Hurrah ! for the Campeador !" The Moorish and the Christian host
Mingle their dying cries,
Without his rider flies.
• The common phraseology of the old metrical ballad.
That laves the pebbled shore : and now the beam
Of evening smiles on the gray battlement,
And yon forsaken tower* that time has rent:
Soothed by the scene, thus on tired nature's breast
A stillness slowly steals, and kindred rest; While sea-sounds lull her, as she sinks to sleep, Like melodies which mourn upon the lyre, Waked by the breeze, and, as they mourn, expire!
AT BAMBOROUGH CASTLE.
Now Alvar Fanez, and his men,
Who crouch'd in thickets low,
Rushd on the wavering foe.
All waving in the wind,
A greater host behind.
Haste-spur along the plain!
Never to rise again.”
Came forth in armour bright,
To tell the tale at night.
And thus was heard to say,
My noble horse! to-day.”
Let none my Cid condemn;
And the surge went over them.
All day shall sit and weep ;
Shine on the northern deep.
Shall pace the sounding shore,
Whom she shall see no more.
Upon thy billowy bed;
O'er thousands of the dead.
Ye holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep,
Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,
Though hurrying silent by, relentless time Assait şou, and the winter whirlwind's sweep! For far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls,
Here Charity hath fix'd her chosen seat,
Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat With hollow bodings round your ancient walls; And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour
Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
And turns her ear to each expiring cry;
TO THE RIVER WENSBECK.I
Wensbeck! the mossy-scatter'd rocks among,
In fancy's ear still making plaintive song To the dark woods above, that waving seem
* Tynemouth priory and castle, Northumberland - The
remains of this monastery are sitnated on a high rocky SONNE 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 sca a long way off, in every direction, whence IN TWO PARTS.
it presented itself as is 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 iis 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 appro
priated by the will of that pious prelate to many benevoPART I.
lent purposes ; particularly thai of ministering instant 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. Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide
1 The Wensbeck is a romantic and sequestered river 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 sonnets were dedicated “To the Rev. Newcon of the Wensbeck, about three-quarters of a mile west of Ogle, D.D., Dean of Winchester.-Donhead, Wills, Nov. Bothall, in a spot admirably calculated for meditation. 1797."
It was probably built by one of the Barons Ogle." This
ON LEAVING A VILLAGE IN SCOTLAND.
TO THE RIVER TWEED,
To bend o'er some enchanted spot; removed
And bid farewell to each retiring hill,
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.
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
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;
And sorrow, listening to a lost friend's knell,
Long banish'd from the world's insulting throng ;
With thee, and thy unfriended offspring, dwell.
* 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.
ON THE RIVER RHINE.
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
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
'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
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 :
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!
Now, far removed from every earthly ill,
Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.
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;
AT A CONVENT.
On thee I rest my only hope at last,
Of solace, that may bear me on serene,
That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear,
As one who, long by wasting sickness worn,
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;
Or turns his ear to every random song,
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
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,
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
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.
If in such shades, beneath their murmuring,
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.