Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when thus he heard him say, And all for ire commanded he should be led away;

Away unto the dungeon-keep, beneath its vault to lie,

With fetters bound in darkness deep, far off from sun and sky.

With iron bands they bound his hands: that sore, unworthy plight

Might well express his helplessness, doomed never more to fight.

Again, from cincture down to knee, long bolts of iron he bore,

Which signified the knight should ride on charger never

more.

Three times alone, in all the year, it is the captive's doom
To see God's daylight bright and clear, instead of dungeon-

gloom;

Three times alone they bring him out, like Samson long ago,
Before the Moorish rabble-rout to be a sport, and show.

On three high feasts they bring him forth, a spectacle to be,-
The feast of Pasque, and the great day of the Nativity,
And on that morn, more solemn yet, when maidens strip the

bowers,

And gladden mosque and minaret with the firstlings of the flowers.

Days come and go of gloom and show: seven years are come

and gone;

And now doth fall the festival of the holy Baptist John; Christian and Moslem tilts and jousts, to give it homage due, And rushes on the paths to spread, they force the sulky Jew.

Marlotes, in his joy and pride, a target high doth rear, Below the Moorish knights must ride, and pierce it with the

spear;

But 'tis so high up in the sky, albeit much they strain,
No Moorish lance so far may fly, Marlotes' prize to gain.

Wroth waxed King Marlotes, when he beheld them fail;
The whisker trembled on his lip,-his cheek for ire was pale;
And heralds proclamation made, with trumpets, through the

town,

"Nor child shall suck, nor man shall eat, till the mark be tumbled down."

The cry of proclamation, and the trumpet's haughty sound, Did send an echo to the vault where the admiral was bound. Now, help me, God!" the captive cries, "what means this din so loud?

66

O Queen of Heaven! be vengeance given on these thy haters proud!

"O, is it that some pagan gay doth Marlotes' daughter wed, And that they bear my scornéd fair in triumph to his bed? Or is it that the day is come,-one of the hateful three,When they with trumpet, fife, and drum, make heathen game of me?"

These words the jailer chanced to hear, and thus to him he said:

"These tabors, lord, and trumpets clear, conduct no bride to bed;

Nor has the feast come round again, when he that has the

right

Commands thee forth, thou foe of Spain, to glad the people's

sight.

"This is the joyful morning of John the Baptist's day,

When Moor and Christian feasts at home, each in his nation's

way;

But now our king commands that none his banquet shall begin,

Until some knight, by strength or sleight, the spearman's prize do win."

Then out and spake Guarinos: "O, soon each man should

feed,

Were I but mounted once again on my own gallant steed:
O, were I mounted as of old, and harnessed cap-a-pie,
Full soon Marlotes' prize I'd hold, whate'er its price may be!

"Give me my horse, mine old gray horse, so be he is not

dead,

All gallantly caparisoned, with plate on breast and head, And give the lance I brought from France; and if I win it not,

My life shall be the forfeiture,-I'll yield it on the spot."

The jailer wondered at his words: thus to the knight said he, "Seven weary years of chains and gloom have little humbled thee;

There's never a man in Spain, I trow, the like so well might

bear,

And if thou wilt, I with thy vow will to the king repair."

The jailer put his mantle on, and came unto the king,-
He found him sitting on the throne, within his listed ring;
Close to his ear he planted him, and the story did begin,
How bold Guarinos vaunted him, the spearman's prize to
win.

That, were he mounted but once more on his own gallant

gray,

And armed with the lance he bore on Roncesvalles' day, What never Moorish knight could pierce, he would pierce it at a blow,

Or give with joy his life-blood fierce, at Marlotes' feet to flow.

Much marveling, then said the king: “Bring Sir Guarinos forth,

And in the grange go seek ye for his gray steed of worth; His arms are rusty on the wall,-seven years have gone, I judge,

Since that strong horse has bent his force to be a carrion

drudge;

"Now this will be a sight indeed, to see the enfeebled lord Essay to mount that ragged steed, and draw that rusty

sword,

And for the vaunting of his phrase he well deserves to die,So, jailer, gird his harness on, and bring your champion

nigh."

They have girded on his shirt of mail, his cuisses well they've clasped,

And they've barred the helm on his visage pale, and his hand the lance hath grasped,

And they have caught the old gray horse, the horse he loved of yore,

And he stands pawing at the gate,-caparisoned once more.

When the knight came out, the Moors did shout, and loudly laughed the king,

For the horse he pranced and capered, and furiously did fling;

But Guarinos whispered in his ear, and looked into his face,Then stood the old charger like a lamb, with a calm and gentle grace.

O, lightly did Guarinos vault into the saddle-tree,

And, slowly riding down, made halt before Marlotes' knee; Again the heathen laughed aloud: “All hail, sir knight,” quoth he,

"Now do thy best, thou champion proud: thy blood I look

to see."

With that, Guarinos, lance in rest, against the scoffer rod", Pierced at one thrust his envious breast, and down his turpan trode.

Now ride, now ride, Guarinos,-nor lance nor rowel spare,— Slay, slay, and gallop for thy life: the land of France lies there!

Ex. CXLVII.—P YRAMUS AND THIS BE.

J. G. SAXE.

THIS tragical tale, which, they say, is a true one,
Is old; but the manner is wholly a new one.
One Ovid, a writer of some reputation,
Has told it before in a tedious narration;
In a style, to be sure, of remarkable fullness,
But which nobody reads on account of its dullLess

Young PETER PYRAMUS-I call him Peter,
Not for the sake of the rhyme or the meter,
But merely, to make the name completer-
For Peter lived in the olden times,
And in one of the worst of pagan climes
That flourish now in classical fame,
Long before

Either noble or boor

Had such a thing as a Christian name—
Young PETER, then, was a nice young beau
As any young lady would wish to know;
In years, I ween,

He was rather green,

That is to say, he was just eighteen,
A trifle too short, and a shaving too lean,
But "
a nice young man" as ever was seen,
And fit to dance with a May-day queen!

Now PETER loved a beautiful girl
As ever ensnared the heart of an earl,
In the magical trap of an auburn curl,—
A little MISS THISBE, who lived next door,
(They slept, in fact, on the very same floor,
With a wall between them, and nothing more,-
Those double dwellings were common of yore,)
And they loved each other, the legends say,
In that very beautiful, bountiful way,
That every young maid,

And every young blade,

Are wont to do before they grow staid,
And learn to love by the laws of trade.
But (a-lack-a-day, for the girl and boy!)
A little impediment checked their joy,
And gave them awhile, the deepest annoy,
For some good reason which history cloaks,
The match did n't happen to please the old folks!

So THISBE's father and PETER'S mother
Began the young couple to worry and bother,
And tried their innocent passion to smother,
By keeping the lovers from seeing each other!
But who ever heard

Of a marriage deterred,

Or even deferred,

By any contrivance so very absurd

As scolding the boy, and caging his bird?—
Now, PETER, who was not discouraged at all
By obstacles such as the timid appall,
Contrived to discover a hole in the wall,
Which was n't so thick

But removing a brick

Ma de a passage-though rather provokingly small.
Through this little chink the lover could greet her,
And secrecy made their courting the sweeter,

While PETER kissed THISBE, and THISBE kissed PETER,—

For kisses, like folks with diminutive souls,

Will manage to creep through the smallest of holes'