His hope was crushed, his after fate untold in martial strain :

His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain.

THE BULL-FIGHT.

SPANISH BALLAD. TRANSLATION OF JOHN G. LOCKHART. EXTRACT.

FROM Guadiana comes he not, he comes not from Xenil, From Guadalarif of the plain, nor Barons of the hill; But where from out the forest burst Xarama's waters

clear,

Beneath the vast trees was he nursed, this proud and stately steer.

Dark is his hide on either side, but the blood within doth boil,

And the dun hide glows as if on fire, as he paws to the turmoil,

His eyes are jet, and they are set in crystal rings of snow; But now they stare with one red glare of brass upon the

foe.

Upon the forehead of the bull the horns stand close and

near,

From out the broad and wrinkled skull like daggers they appear;

His neck is massy, like the trunk of some old, knotted

tree,

Whereon the monster's shaggy mane, like billows curled, ye see.

His legs are short, his hams are thick, his hoofs are black as night ;

Like a strong flail he holds his tail, in fierceness of his might;

Like something molten out of iron, or hewn from forth the rock,

Harpado of Xarama stands, to bide the Alcayde's shock.

Now stops the drum, — close, close they come; thrice meet and thrice give back;

The white foam of Harpado lies on the charger's breast of black;

The white foam of the charger on Harpado's front of

Once more advance upon his lance, once more, thou fearless one!

RIENZI'S ADDRESS TO THE ROMANS.

MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.

FRIENDS,

I come not here to talk. Ye know too well
The story of our thraldom. We are slaves!
The bright sun rises to his course, and lights
A race of slaves! He sets, and his last beam.
Falls on a slave. Not such as, swept along
By the full tide of power, the conqueror leads
To crimson glory and undying fame;
But base, ignoble slaves -slaves to a horde

Of petty despots, feudal tyrants; lords,

Rich in some dozen paltry villages;

Strong in some hundred spearmen, only great
In that strange spell, a name.

Each hour, dark fraud,

Or open rapine, or protected murder,

Cry out against them. But this very day,

An honest man

my neighbor; - there he stands;
Was struck-struck like a dog- by one who wore
The badge of Ursini; because, forsooth,
He tossed not high his ready cap in air,
Nor lifted up his voice in servile shouts,

At sight of that great ruffian. Be we men,
And suffer such dishonor?-men, and wash not
The stain away in blood? Such shames are common.
I have known deeper wrongs,-I that speak to ye.
I had a brother once, a gracious boy,
Full of all gentleness, of calmest hope,
Of sweet and quiet joy. Oh, how I loved
That gracious boy! Younger by fifteen years:
Brother at once and son! He left my side;
A summer-bloom on his fair cheeks, a smile
Parting his innocent lips. In one short hour,
The pretty, harmless boy was slain! I saw
corse, his mangled corse; and then I cried
For vengeance - Rouse ye, Romans! rouse ye, slaves!
Have ye brave sons?-look in the next fierce brawl
To see them die. Have ye fair daughters? — look
To see them live, torn from your arms— -distained,
Dishonored; and if ye dare to call for justice,
Be answered with the lash! Yet this is Rome
That sat on her seven hills,
Of beauty ruled the earth!

His

and from her throne
And we are Romans!

WELL, honor is the subject of my story.
I cannot tell what you, and other men,
Think of this life; but, for my single self,
I had as lief not be, as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself.

I was born free as Cæsar, so were you;
We both have fed as well, and we can both
Endure the winter's cold as well as he:
For once, upon a raw and gusty day,

The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores,
Cæsar said to me, "Dar'st thou, Cassius, now,
Leap in with me into this

angry flood,
And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word,
Accoutred as I was, I plunged in,

And bade him follow; so, indeed, he did.
The torrent roared; and we did buffet it
With lusty sinews, throwing it aside,
And stemming it with hearts of controversy.
But, ere we could arrive the point proposed,
Cæsar cried, Help me, Cassius, or I sink!
I, as Æneas, our great ancestor,

Did, from the flames of Troy, upon his shoulder,

The old Anchises bear, so, from the waves of Tiber,

Did I the tired Cæsar: and this man

Is now become a god; and Cassius is

A wretched creature, and must bend his body,

If Cæsar carelessly but nod on him.

He had a fever when he was in Spain,

And, when the fit was on him, I did mark

How he did shake; 'tis true, this god did shake:
His coward lips did from their color fly ;

And that same eye, whose bend doth awe the world,
Did lose his lustre: I did hear him groan:

Ay, and that tongue of his, that bade the Romans
Mark him, and write his speeches in their books,
Alas! it cried, Give me some drink, Titinius,
As a sick girl. Ye gods, it doth amaze me,
A man of such a feeble temper should

So get the start of the majestic world,
And bear the palm alone!

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a Colossus; and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs, and peep about
To find ourselves dishonorable graves.

Men at some time are masters of their fates:

The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,

But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Brutus and Cæsar: what should be in that Cæsar?
Why should that name be sounded more than yours?
Write them together, yours is as fair a name;
Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well;
Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em,
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar.
Now, in the names of all the gods at once,
Upon what meat doth this our Cæsar feed,

That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed ;
Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!