THREE YEARS. A LORDLY castle on a moor, A hundred turrets spouting fire, Wavers above it. Hark! there went A shriek as from a martyr sent! A ruin on a thirsty waste A tottering wall, a winding stair; Hangs, grey, by lightning struck, and bare, THE CID'S STIRRUP CUP. "BRING me the great gold flagon,' Cried the baron from his horse, "And leap, my page, on my roan of roans, For the Saracen's out in force, Fill up the spiced old Cyprus wine, With the scent that would rouse a corse. "Here's a cup to the good Saints John and Jude, And one to my father dead; Hail brave Saint James, whose steed of white Hath wings all crimson red, With the blood that spun from a sultan's wound The day that Ali bled." Then he drained the flagon huge and long, And struck it with his fist; For they cried, that they saw the crescents shine, Gold spots against the mist: Then he threw in the air his laughing child, And its eyes and forehead kissed. How grim he shook the moths and dust He laughed at the red spots on the folds, He flung his lance as high as the gate, It made his roan curvet, And strike ou drifts of the fire-bright sparks. In his state war-saddle set, He clashed his breast with his rough mailed hand, At last, down the flinty mountain path, And a hymn mixed verse for verse; Feather and banner, and housing and robe, Y NIGHTMARES. A DUMB man struggling with the dark, A blind slave in a distant land, A wretch that, like a mad dog's chased Bolted and barred, and clamped and braced! A miner hanging down a cleft, A YEAR AGO; OR, THE DEAD TWELVEMONTH. WHERE's the maiden with downcast eyes, And voice all whispers, murmurs and sighs, Breath like the flowers, when the west winds blow? God o' mercy! why, lord, I trow (Other men have broken a vow), She's dead and buried a year ago! Where's the friend, so gentle and calm, With his soft hand pressing your sturdier arm, And his ready greeting and clasp, I trow ? God o' mercy! why death, sir, broke That friend's meek heart with a sudden stroke! Then where's the child I saw you kiss, |