Perchance the bald old eagle

On gray Beth-peor's height, Out of his lonely eyrie

Look'd on the wondrous sight; Perchance the lion stalking,

Still shuns that hallow'd spot,

For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior dieth,

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drum,

Follow his funeral car;

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,
While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

We lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honor'd place,

With costly marble drest,

In the great minster transept

Where lights like glories fall,

And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings Along the emblazon'd wall.

This was the truest warrior

That ever buckled sword,

This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;

And never earth's philosopher

Traced, with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor,—
The hillside for a pall,

To lie in state while angels wait
With stars for tapers tall,

And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave,

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in the grave?

In that strange grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffin'd clay

Shall break again, O wondrous thought!
Before the judgment day,

And stand with glory wrapt around

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life
With the Incarnate Son of God.

O lonely grave in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-peor's hill!
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,

And teach them to be still.

God hath His mysteries of grace,

Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep

Of him He loved so well.

CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER.

BERNARDO AND ALPHONSO.

WITH Some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath appeared

Before them all in the palace hall, the lying King to

beard;

With cap in hand and eye on ground, he came in reverend guise,

But ever and anon he frowned, and flame broke from his eyes.

"A curse upon thee," cries the King, "who comest unbid to me;

But what from traitor's blood should spring, save traitors like to thee?

His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart; perchance our

champion brave

May think it were a pious part to share Don Sancho’s grave.”

“Whoever told this tale the King hath rashness to repeat,"

Cries Bernard, "here my gage I fling before THE LIAR'S feet!

No treason was in Sancho's blood, no stain in mine

doth lie;

Below the throne what knight will own the coward calumny?

"The blood that I like water shed, when Roland

did advance,

By secret traitors hired and led, to make us slaves of France;

The life of King Alphonso I saved at Roncesval,—— Your words, Lord King, are recompense abundant for it all.

"Your horse was down,—your hope was flown,—I saw the falchion shine,

That soon had drunk your royal blood, had I not ventured mine;

But memory soon of service done deserteth the in

grate;

You've thanked the son for life and crown by the father's bloody fate.

"Ye swore upon your kingly faith, to set Don Sancho free;

But, curse upon your paltering breath, the light he ne'er did see;

He died in dungeon cold and dim, by Alphonso's base decree,

And visage blind, and stiffened limb, were all they gave to me.

"The King that swerveth from his word hath stained his purple black;

No Spanish lord will draw the sword behind a liar's back;

But noble vengeance shall be mine, an open hate I'll show,

The King hath injured Carpio's line and Bernard is

his foe."

"Seize, seize him!" loud the King doth scream; "there are a thousand here!

Let his foul blood this instant stream. What! cai

tiffs, do ye fear?

Seize, seize the traitor!"-But not one to move a finger dareth,

Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his sword he bareth.

He drew the falchion from the sheath, and held it up on high,

And all the hall was still as death; cries Bernard: "Here am I,—

And here is the sword that owns no lord, excepting heaven and me;

Fain would I know who dares his point,-King, Conde, or Grandee."

Then to his mouth the horn he drew (it hung below his cloak);

His ten true men the signal knew, and through the ring they broke ;

With helm on head, and blade in hand, the knights the circle brake,

And back the lordlings 'gan to stand and the false King to quake.

"Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, "what means this warlike guise?

Ye know full well I jested,—ye know your worth I

prize."