Blushes of joy her cheeks adorn,

Which Hume with rapture saw;

The priest was call'd that blessed morn,
And sanction'd love with law.

But Langley and his sons with shame,
From out the water rise;

On foot, and slower then he came,
To Percy now he hies-

'A boon, earl Percy, I request;'
'What boon?' said Percy, 'then!'
'That all in glitt'ring armour dress'd,
Invade the Scottish men.

'For Hume, that thief, hath stole my child,
My pleasure and my pride :

He bore her through the marshes wild,
With Murray by his side.

'Who, as we cross'd the Tweed, took aim,

Most like a traitor Scot,

And all our horses in the stream,

With his sharp arrows shot.

'God's blood!' quoth Percy, 'wicked Cain!

To steal thy Rosaline!

Hath Hume thy bonny daughter ta'en?

I would he had taken mine.

'For, though my foe, I love him well, And prize his martial fire;

Langley, in sooth I shall not mell,

Would he could call me sire.'

Anonymous.

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

THE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hands on kings:
Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds:
Upon Death's purple altar now

See where the victor victim bleeds.
All heads must come

To the cold tomb:

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom, in the dust.

James Shirley.

A WAR SONG. FROM THE SPANISH.

GENTLE river, gentle river,

Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore;
Many a brave and noble captain
Floats along thy willow'd shore.

All beside thy limpid waters,

All beside thy sand so bright,
Moorish chiefs, and Christian warriors,
Join'd in fierce and mortal fight.

Lords, and dukes, and noble princes,
On thy fatal banks were slain:
Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter
All the pride and flow'r of Spain!

There the hero, brave Alonzo,

Full of wounds and glory, died;
There the fearless Urdiales
Fell a victim by his side.

Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra

Through their squadrons slow retires;

Proud Seville his native city,

Proud Seville his worth admires.

Close behind, a renegado

Loudly shouts, with taunting cry:
"Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra!
Dost thou from the battle fly?

'Well I know thee, haughty Christian,
Long I liv'd beneath thy roof;
Oft I've in the lists of glory

Seen thee win the prize of proof.

'Well I know thy aged parents,

Well thy blooming bride I know;

Seven years I was thy captive,
Seven years of pain and woe.

May our Prophet grant my wishes, Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine: Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow Which I drank when I was thine.'

Like a lion turns the warrior,
Back he sends an angry glare:
Whizzing came the Moorish javelin,
Vainly whizzing through the air.

Back the hero full of fury

Sent a deep and mortal wound: Instant sunk the renegado

Mute and lifeless on the ground.

With a thousand Moors surrounded,
Brave Saavedra stands at bay:
Wearied out, but never daunted,

Cold at length the warrior lay.

Near him fighting, great Alonzo
Stout resists the paynim bands;
From his slaughter'd steed dismounted,
Firm intrench'd behind him stands.

Furious press the hostile squadron,
Furious he repels their rage.

Loss of blood at length enfeebles ::
Who can war with thousands wage?

Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows,
Close beneath its foot retir'd,
Fainting sunk the bleeding hero,
And without a groan expir'd.

Percy.

ALCANZOR AND ZAIDA, A MOORISH TALE: IMI-
TATED FROM THE SPANISH.

SOFTLY blow the evening breezes,
Softly fall the dews of night;
Yonder walks the Moor, Alcanzor,
Shunning ev'ry glare of light.

In yon palace lives fair Zaida,
Whom he loves with flame so pure:
Loveliest she of Moorish ladies,
He a young and noble Moor.

Waiting for th' appointed minute,
Oft he paces to and fro:

Stopping now, now moving forwards,
Sometimes quick, and sometimes slow.

Hope and fear alternate tease him,
Oft he sighs with heartfelt care.
See, fond youth, to yonder window
Softly steps the tim❜rous fair.

Lovely seems the Moon's fair lustre
To the lost benighted swain,
When all silvery bright she rises,
Gilding mountain, grove, and plain.