Blushes of joy her cheeks adorn, Which Hume with rapture saw; The priest was call'd that blessed morn, But Langley and his sons with shame, On foot, and slower then he came, 'A boon, earl Percy, I request;' 'For Hume, that thief, hath stole my child, He bore her through the marshes wild, '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 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, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds: See where the victor victim bleeds. 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; All beside thy limpid waters, All beside thy sand so bright, Lords, and dukes, and noble princes, There the hero, brave Alonzo, Full of wounds and glory, died; 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: 'Well I know thee, haughty Christian, 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, 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 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, Cold at length the warrior lay. Near him fighting, great Alonzo Furious press the hostile squadron, Loss of blood at length enfeebles :: Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows, Percy. ALCANZOR AND ZAIDA, A MOORISH TALE: IMI- SOFTLY blow the evening breezes, In yon palace lives fair Zaida, Waiting for th' appointed minute, Stopping now, now moving forwards, Hope and fear alternate tease him, Lovely seems the Moon's fair lustre |