His helm, his breast-plate were of gold,
And graved with many a dent that told
Of many a soldier's deed;

The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danced his snow-plume on the gale.

But now he stood chain'd and alone,
The headsman by his side,

The plume, the helm, the charger, gone;
The sword which had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near;
And yet no sign or sound of fear
Came from that lip of pride;
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than his did now.

He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncover'd eye;

A wild shout from the numbers broke
Who throng'd to see him die.
It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame,
A nation's funeral cry,

Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot, and her latest one.

L. E. LANDON.

THE CURFEW SONG OF ENGLAND.

HARK! from the dim church-tower,
The deep slow Curfew's chime!-
A heavy sound unto hall and bower
In England's olden time!

Sadly 'twas heard by him who came
From the fields of his toil at night,

And who might not see his own hearth-flame
In his children's eyes make light.

Sternly and sadly heard,

As it quenched the wood-fire's glow,

Which had cheered the board with the mirthful word,
And the red wine's foaming flow;
Until that sullen boding knell,

Flung out from every fane,
On harp, and lip, and spirit fell,
With a weight and with a chain.

Woe for the pilgrim then

In the wild-deer's forest far!
No cottage lamp to the haunts of men
Might guide him, as a star.

And woe for him whose wakeful soul,
With lone aspirings filled,

Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were stilled!

And yet a deeper woe

For the watcher by the bed,

Where the fondly-loved in pain lay low,
In pain and sleepless dread!

For the mother, doomed unseen to keep
By the dying babe her place,

And to feel its sleeping pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness in chieftain's hall!
Darkness in peasant's cot!

While Freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.

Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize!
For blood hath flowed like rain,
Poured forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again.

Heap the yule-faggots high

Till the red light fills the room!

It is Home's own hour when the stormy sky
Grows thick with evening gloom.

Gather ye round the holy hearth!

And by its gladdening blaze,

Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, With a thought of the olden days.

F. D. HEMANS.

THE SICILIAN VESPERS.

SILENCE o'er sea and earth

With the veil of evening fell,
Till the convent tower sent deeply for th
The chime of its vesper bell.
One moment, and that solemn sound
Fell heavily on the ear;

But a sterner echo passed around,
Which the boldest shook to hear.

The startled monks thronged up
In the torchlight cold and dim;
And the priest let fall his incense-cup,
And the virgin hushed her hymn;
For a boding clash, and a clanging tramp,
And a summoning voice were heard,
And fretted wall and tombstone damp
To the fearful echo stirred.

The peasant heard the sound

As he sat beside his hearth;

And the song and the dance were hushed around, With the fireside tale of mirth.

The chieftain shook in his bannered hall

As the sound of war drew nigh;

And the warder shrank from the castle wall

As the gleam of spears went by.

Woe, woe to the stranger, then,
At the feast and flow of wine,
In the red array of mailèd men,
Or bowed at the holy shrine;
For the wakened pride of an injured land
Had burst its iron thrall;

From the plumèd chief to the pilgrim band,
Woe, woe to the sons of Gaul!

Proud beings tell that hour

With the young and passing fair,

And the flame went up from dome and tower,
The avenger's arm was there!

The stranger priest at the altar stood,
And clasped his beads in prayer;

But the holy shrine grew dim with blood,—
The avenger found him there!

Woe, woe to the sons of Gaul,

To the serf and mailèd lord;

They were gathered darkly, one and all,
To the harvest of the sword;

And the morning sun, with a quiet smile,
Shone out o'er hill and glen,

O'er ruined temple, and mouldering pile,
And the ghastly forms of men.

Ay, the sunshine sweetly smiled,
As its early glance came forth;
It had no sympathy with the wild
And terrible things of earth;

And the man of blood that day might read
In a language, freely given,

How ill his dark and midnight deed

Became the light of heaven.

J. G. WHITTIER.

ADIEU.

LET time and chance combine, combine,

Let time and chance combine ;

The fairest love from heaven above,
That love of yours was mine,

My dear,

That love of yours was mine.

The past is fled and gone, and gone,
The past is fled and gone;

If naught but pain to me remain,
I'll fare in memory on,

My dear,

I'll fare in memory on.

The saddest tears must fall, must fall,
The saddest tears must fall;

In weal or woe, in this world below,
I love you ever and all,

My dear,

I love you ever and all.

A long road full of pain, of pain,

A long road full of pain;

One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to part,—

We ne'er can meet again,

Hard fate will not allow, allow,
Hard fate will not allow ;

We blessed were as the angels arc,—

Adieu forever now,

My dear,

Adieu forever now.

T. CARLYLE.