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Yes, thro' the tempest's roar, the thunder's peal
The hero lifts on high the beaming steel ;
And the loud fury of the whirlwind's ire
But fans the blaze of Richard's darker fire.
Who foremost now the deadly spear to dart,
And strike the jav'lin to the Moslem's heart?
Who foremost now to climb the leaguer'd wall,
The first to triumph, or the first to fall ?
Lo, where the Moslems rushing to the fight,
Back bear their squadrons in inglorious flight:
With plumed helmet and with glitt'ring lance
'Tis Richard bids his steel-clad bands advance ;
'Tis Richard stalks along the blood-dy'd plain,
And views unmoy'd the slaying and the slain ;
'Tis Richard bathes his hands in Moslem blood,
And tinges Jordan with the purple flood.
Yet where the timbrels ring, the trumpets sound,
And tramp of horsemen shakes the solid ground,
Though mid the deadly charge and rush of fight
No thought be their's of terror or of flight ;
Yet ’times a sigh will rise, a tear will flow,
And youthful bosoms melt in silent woe :
For who, of iron frame and harder heart,
Can bid the mem'ry of his home depart?
Tread the dark desert and the thirsty sand,
Nor give one thought to England's smiling land ?
To scenes of bliss and days of other years ;
The Vale of Gladness--and the Vale of Tears,
That, pass'd and vanish'd from their longing sight,
This, 'neath their view, and wrapt in shades of night?
Yet, hark! the battle's harbinger from far
Sounds on the breeze, and summons to the war :
To many a warrior doth that trumpet's breath
Tell the swift doom of horror and of death.
But e'en the craven's breast in ardour glows,
When England rushes on her Moslem foes :
When he, the hero, leads the thick’ning charge,
First in the clash of helmet and of targe :
And Vict'ry, riding on the breeze's wings,
Loud the glad hymn of Richard's triumph sings.
Nor he inglorious, that with tarnish'd crest
Fled from the hardy children of the west :
No, as the bow, receding, can impart
A swifter passage to the winged dart,
So he awhile, in cautious flight, can yield,
Too soon to triumph on that blood-stain'd field;
Too soon on Salem's walls again to raise
The banish'd trophies of victorious days ;
Too soon in glory and in joy to see
The victor bands, the victor monarch flee.
Few suns shall rise, few sink in ocean's wave,
Ere Fortune back shall take what Valour gave :
In vain the foe shall hurl the vengeful dart,
It may not pierce the Lion Warrior's heart ;
But Envy's shafts can inly wound the breast,
And Malice break e'en that unbroken rest.
Lo where the steel-clad sons of haughty Gaul
Back from the field of war's red harvest fall :
Unaided, undefended, and alone,
Still Richard proudly calls that field his own!
Sad is the day, of anguish and of gloom,
That sees him leave the unredeemed tomb :
Then fly the visions of ethereal light
That pierc'd the thick’ning gloom of Salem's night;
E’en Hope, the last that cheer'd them, vanish'd then,
And all was dark and desolate again.
But he must seek in grief his native land,
O'er many a threat'ning sea and hostile strand :
Forget the splendors of a monarch's throne,
And all he fondly had believ'd his own,
That shines to perish, glitters to decay,
And is but valu'd as it flies away.
Full soon the giant limbs, the mighty hand
That wielded once the high-uplifted brand,
Shall bear the captive chain, the chain of woe,
To some sad dungeon of despair shall go.
While all around the birds in freedom play,
Breathe the free air, and see the light of day,
And while the billow of the stormy main
Roars on the strand that bounds it, in disdain :
He of the open hand, the valiant soul,
Sees days and months, and years, in slav'ry roll;
Yet still unbroken and unaw'd can rise,
Still fraud, and guile, and treachery defies;
Still can unmov'd the snares around him see,
In body conquer'd, yet in spirit free.
Ah! was none there to tell of mercy given,
And turn the dying soldier's thoughts to heaven?
None, none to shed the tribute of a tear
O'er the cold relics, and the silent bier :
ye who oft had seen your hero lord
Head the glad charge, and draw the beaming sword,
Ye laid the warrior in his bed of clay,
Then turn'd ye from the mournful place away ;
Nor pass'd the mem'ry of that hour of gloom
Till death had call'd you to the silent tomb.
Deem not, proud man, that human tongue can tell
What doom is his, of heaven or of hell:
Ye know the path, the earthly path he trod,
Yet vengeance, judgment, mercy, are of God.
In silent wonder gaze, nor further dare ;
Pray to be spar'd thyself—thy fellows spare.
We again offer to our readers' notice a short extract from the Bouverie MSS., which we hope they will think worth the reading. We do not hesitate to pronounce this piece superior in plot, in incident, in the unexpected catastrophe, and in the preservation of character throughout, to the one before quoted; as to the execution, the language, and the subordinate parts, we give them leave to judge for themselves :
β. “My dear Mr. Bear,
'Αρκτίδη* κάρα φίλιφόν, “ You are scarcely aware,
Ου γαρ έμπειρος πέφυκας “Of the cost of your tailor's bill: Oιά σου τα γραμματεία “If soon you're not quiet,
Μαρτυρεί τα Στουλζίε. “ I'll shorten your
Είχε μη ταχ' ησυχάζης, “How can you behave so ill ?” Ιαχνανείται σοι το δείπνον:
Πώς γαρ καθ' οπως παράσχης
Σαυτόν ώδ' ανάξιον. 3.
γ. The bear in a rage,
οξεώς δ' ο θήρ χολωθείς Jump'd up on the stage,
Ικρίων έφ' αρμογαΐσι And bit off the keeper's head; Ηλτο κάπίδηξε λύσσα “A fig for your tailor,
Του φυλακτήρος κάρα. “You stupid old gagler,
Είθ' και σος διαρραγένη “No bills are paid by the dead.” Στούλζιος, φύλαξ απάντων
Μώρε μώρων, ου γαρ ουδείς
'Εν τάφω χρέους λόγος. In the first place, we beg the critic to observe the beautiful beginning. There is no unnecessary “circumbendibus," no senseless bombast, no worn-out invocation. We plunge at once into the story; but yet we are not so hurried along as to be called at once to feel for personages of whom we know. no more than their names, if, indeed, so much. The exordium is at once concise, poetical, and to the purpose" There once was a bear.” The second line gives us a very necessary piece of information concerning his character, that he was kept at a fair. The third, and well does it perform its object, is given us to impress us with a becoming