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They hear the crackling grass and sedge,
The flames as they whir and rave,
They are breast-deep in the wave; And lifting their little one high o'er the tide, “We are saved, thank God, we are saved !" they cried.
XXXIII.-THE DYING CHIEF.
Where night-winds were deeply sighing ;
Lay a youthful Chieftain-dying !
There were hands which came to bind his wound,
There were eyes o'er the warrior weeping ;
Where the land's high hearts were sleeping!
And “Away !”' he cried ;— your aid is vain,
My soul may not brook recalling,
Like the autumn vine-leaves falling !
“I have seen the Moorish banners wave
O'er the halls where my youth was cherished; I have drawn a sword that could not save ;
I have stood where my king hath perished !
“Leave me to die with the free and brave,
On the banks of my own bright river !
By the chainless Guadalquiver !”
XXXIV.-HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE.
T, B, MACAULAY,
HE Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. “ Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down ; And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town?"
Then out spoke brave Horatius, the captain of the gate ;
In yon straight path a thousand may well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?!
Then out spake Spurius Lartius—a Ramnian proud was he-
And out spake strong Herminius—of Titian blood was he—
Horatius,' quoth the Consul, “as thou sayest, so let it be,'
But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied,
Back, Lartius ! back Herminius ! back, ere the ruin fall !”
Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back;
But, with a crash like thunder, fell every loosened beam,
And, like a horse unbroken when first he feels the rein,
Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind ;
Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see ;
“O, Tiber! father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray,
No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank ;
But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain ;
Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case,
“ Curse on him !” quoth false Sextus; will not the villian drown? But for this stay, ere close of day we should have sacked the town! “ Heaven help him !" quoth Lars Porsena, “and bring him safe to shore; For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before.”'
And now he feels the bottom ;—now on dry earth he stands ;
XXXV.-GERTRUDE VON DER WART.
ER hands were clasped, her dark eyes raised, the breeze threw
back her hair;
“And bid me not depart,” she cried, “my Rudolph, say not so
“ I have been with thee in thine hour of glory and of bliss;
And were not these high words to flow from woman's breaking heart?
The wind rose high, but with it rose her voice that he might hear :
Oh ! lovely are ye, Love and Faith, enduring to the last !
Pierce me when leading the hosts of the Lord,
Thou who art bearing my buckler and bow,
Farewell to others; but never we part,
XXXVII.---THE LEGAND BEAUTIFUL.
H. W. LONGFELLOW.
ADST thou stayed, I must have fled !” that is what the Vision said.—In his
chamber, all alone, kneeling on the floor of stone, prayed the Monkin deep contrition for his sins of indecision; prayed for greater self-denial in temptation and in trial :--it was noonday by the dial, and the Monk was all alone. Suddenly, as if it lightened, an unwonted splendor brightened all within him and without him, in that rarrow cell of stone ; and he saw the Blessed Vision of our Lord,—with light Elysian like a vesture wrapped about him, like a garment round him thrown ! Not as crucified and slain, not agonies of pain, not with bleeding hands and feet, did the Monk his Master see; but as—in the village-street, in the house or harvest-field, --halt and lame and blind he healed, when he walked in Galilee.
In an attitude imploring, hands upon his bosom crossed, wondering, worshipping, adoring, knelt the Monk in rapture lost. “ Lord,” he thought, “in heaven that reignest, who am I, that thus Thou deignest to reveal Thyself to me? Who am I, that, from the centre of Thy glory, Thou shoudst enter this poor cell, my guest to be?" Then, amid his exaltation, loud the Convent-bell, appalling, from its belfry calling, calling, rang through the court and corridor, with persistent iteration he had never heard before.
It was now the appointed hour, when,-alike in shine or shower, winter's cold or summer's heat,--to the Convent-portals came all the blind and halt and lame, all the beggars of the street, for their daly dole of food dealt them by the Brotherhood; and their Almoner was he who, upon his bended knee, rapt in silent ecstasy of divinist self-surrender, saw the Vision and the Splendor. Deep distress and hesitation mingled with his adoration : should he go, or should he stay? Should he leave the poor to wait hungry at the Convent-gate, till the Vision passed away? Should he slight his radiant Guest-slight his Visitant Celestial, for a crowd of ragged, bestial beggars at the Convent-gate? Would the Vision there remain ? Would the Vision come again ? ... Then a voice within his breast whispered, audible and clear, as if to the outward ear, “Do thy duty; that is best : leave unto thy Lord the rest ?”
Straightway to his feet he started, and, with longing look intent, on the Blessed Vision bent, slowly from his cell departed-slowly on his errand went. At the