THREE YEARS.

A LORDLY castle on a moor,
Its hundred windows, row by row,
With blood-red sunset all of a glow;
(No king a statelier house could show,)
With its fifty banners all of a blow.

A hundred turrets spouting fire,
Four black walls, gaping, split and rent;
A crimson cloud that like a tent

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;
A parapet that high in air

Hangs, grey, by lightning struck, and bare,
Though still the starling nestles there.

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
From the great flag of Castile,

He laughed at the red spots on the folds,
Then looked at the spurs on his heel;
Loud through the window he cursed the knights,
Lagging at their last meal.

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,
In his chafe and burning fret.

At last, down the flinty mountain path,
He dashed with a stormy curse;
Singing the song of Charles the Great,

And a hymn mixed verse for verse;

Feather and banner, and housing and robe,
Black as the plumes of a hearse.

Y

NIGHTMARES.

A DUMB man struggling with the dark,
Straining to bawl, or sob, or scream,
The sullen anger of the stream
Choking him slowly hour by hour.

A blind slave in a distant land,
Hearing a voice not heard for years;
Striving to call through stifling tears,
For one to put in his—her hand.

A wretch that, like a mad dog's chased
With swords and torches-how he shrieks,
Finding the friendly door he seeks

Bolted and barred, and clamped and braced!

A miner hanging down a cleft,
The fire-damp spreading to his feet;
While round the pit-mouth rebels meet,
Ready to stab him to the heft.

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!
He's dead and buried this year ago!

Then where's the child I saw you kiss,
Your old face flushed with a father's bliss,
As he on your knees leaped to and fro ?
O God o' mercy! the turf's still green
Over the youngster's grave, I ween;
He's dead and buried a year ago!