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To the chase goes Rodrigo,* with hound and with hawk;
But what game he desires is revealed in his talk:

“O, in vain have I slaughtered the Infants of Lăra ;
There's an heir in his hall, there's the stripling Mudăra, -
There's the son of the renegade, spawn of Mahoun:
If I meet with Mudăra, my spear brings him down."

old knight.”

While Rodrigo rides on in the heat of his wrath, A stripling, armed cap-à-pee, crosses his path: "Good-morrow, young esquire."—"Good-morrow, "Will you ride with our party, and share our delight?". Speak your name, courteous stranger," the young man replied; Speak your name and your lineage, ere with you I ride."

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"My name is Rodrigo," thus answered the knight;

"Of the line of old Lara, though barred from my right;
For the kinsman of Salas proclaims for the heir
Of our ancestor's castles and forestries fair
A stripling, a renegade's offspring — Mudăra,
Whom I'll send, if I can, to the Infants of Lara.”

"I behold thee, disgrace to thy lineage! with joy
I behold thee, thou murderer!" answered the boy :
"The stripling you curse, you behold him in me;
But his brothers' avenger that stripling shall be.
Draw! for I am the renegade's offspring Mudara, —
We shall see who inherits the life-blood of Lăra !"

"I am armed for the forest chase-not for the fight;
Let me go
for my shield and my sword," cries the knight.
"Now the mercy you dealt to my brothers of old, -
Be the hope of that mercy the comfort you hold!
Die, foeman to Sancha - die, traitor to Lăra !"
As he spake, there was blood on the spear of Mudăra.
LOCKHART (altered).

XX. THE PROGRESS OF MADNESS.

STAY, jailer! stay, and hear my woe!
He is not mad who kneels to thee;
For what I'm now too well I know,

And what I was - and what should be!

The i in this word has the sound of long e, as in me.

THE PROGRESS OF MADNESS.

I'll rave no more in proud despair-
My language shall be mild, though sad;
But yet I'll firmly, truly swear,

I am not mad! I am not mad!

My tyrant foes have forged the tale,
Which chains me in this dismal cell!
My fate unknown my friends bewail
O! jailer, haste that fate to tell!
O! haste my father's heart to cheer;
His heart at once 't will grieve and glad,
To know, though chained a captive here,
I am not mad! I am not mad!

He smiles in scorn he turns the key—
He quits the grate- I knelt in vain!
His glimmering lamp still, still I see —
'Tis gone-and all is gloom again!
Cold, bitter cold! no warmth, no light!
Life, all thy comforts once I had!
Yet here I'm chained, this freezing night,
Although not mad! no, no - not mad!

'Tis sure some dream

-

some vision vain! What! I-the child of rank and wealthAm I the wretch who clanks this chain, Bereft of freedom, friends, and health? Ah! while I dwell on blessings fled,

Which never more my heart must glad,
How aches my heart, how burns my head!
But 't is not mad! it is not mad!

Hast thou, my child, forgot e'er this
A parent's face, a parent's tongue ?

I'll ne'er forget thy parting kiss,

Nor round my neck how fast you clung! Nor how with me you sued to stay,

Nor how that suit my foes forbăde;

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Nor how I'll drive such thoughts away
They'll make me mad! they'll make me mad!

Thy rosy lips, how sweet they smiled!

Thy mild blue eyes, how bright they shone!

None ever saw a lovelier child!

And art thou now for ever gone?

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And must I never see thee more,
My pretty,* gracious, noble lad?-
I will be free! Unbar the door!
I am not mad! I am not mad!

O, hark! what mean those yells and cries?
His chain some furious madman breaks!
He comes! I see his glaring eyes!

Now, now, my dungeon grate he shakes!
Help! help!- he 's gone! O, fearful woe,
Such screams to hear, such sights to see!
My brain, my brain! I know, I know,
I am not mad- but soon shall be!

Yes, soon; for, lo! now, while I speak,

Mark how yon demon's eyeballs glare!
He sees me now, with dreadful shriek,
He whirls a serpent high in air!
Horror! the reptile strikes his tooth

Deep in my heart, so crushed and sad!
Ay, laugh, ye fiends! I feel the truth!
Your task is done - I'm mad! I'm mad!

M. G. LEWIS (altered).

XXI. - SEIZE THE PRESENT HOUR.

ENJOY the present smiling hour,
And put it out of fortune's power!

The tide of business, like the morning stream,
Is sometimes high, and sometimes low,
And always in extreme.

Now with a noiseless gentle course
It keeps within the middle bed;
Anon it lifts aloft the head,

And bears down all before it with impetuous force;

And trunks of trees come rolling down ;
Sheep and their folds together drown:

Both house and homestead into seas are borne ;
And rocks are from their old foundations torn ;

And woods, made thin with winds, their scattered honors mourn.

Happy the man, and happy he alone,

He who can call to-day his own :
He who, secure within, can say,

*Pronounced prit'ty. -See Sargent's Standard Speller, p. 44.

FLORA MACIVOR'S SUMMONS.

TO-MORROW, do thy worst, for I have lived TO-DAY!
Be fair or foul, or rain or shine,

The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not heaven itself upon the past has power;

But what has been, has been, and I have had my
Fortune, that with malicious joy

Does man, her slave, oppress,
Proud of her office to destroy,
Is seldom pleased to bless :
Still various, and inconstant still,

But with an inclination to be ill,

Promotes, degrades, delights in strife,
And makes a lottery of life.

I can enjoy her while she's kind;

But when she dances in the wind,

hour.

And shakes her wings and will not stay,
I puff the runagate away:

The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned:
Content with poverty, my soul I arm;

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And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

What is 't to me, who never sail in her unfaithful sea,
If storms arise, and clouds grow black;

If the mast split, and threaten wreck ?

Then let the greedy merchant fear

For his ill-gotten gain;

And pray to gods that will not hear,
While the debating winds and billows bear
His wealth into the main.
For me, secure from fortune's blows,
Secure of what I cannot lose,
In my small pinnace I can sail.
Contemning all the blustering roar:
And running with a merry gale,
With friendly stars my safety seek
Within some little winding creek,
And see the storm ashore.

DRYDEN.

XXII. - FLORA MACIVOR'S SUMMONS.

THERE is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded - it sank on the land,
It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every hand!

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless clay-more' is but reddened with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.
The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glen-al'adale's peaks are illumed with the rays,
And the streams of Glen-fin'nan leap bright in the blaze.
O, high-minded Mo'ray!- the exiled! the dear! -
In the blush of the dawning the STANDARD uprear!
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!
'Tis the bugle but not for the chase is the call;
'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons - but not to the hall.

'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death,
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath ;
They call to the dirk, the clay-more', and the targe,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore!
Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

XXIII.—THE LORD OF BUTRAGO.

The incident to which the following ballad relates is supposed to have occurred on the famous field of Aljubarrota, where King Juan the First, of Castile, was defeated by the Portuguese. The king, who was at the time in a feeble state of health, exposed himself very much during the action; and, being wounded, had great difficulty in making his escape. The battle was fought A. D. 1385.

"YOUR horse is faint, my king—my lord! Your gallant horse is sick,— His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick ;

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