Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling, And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing, And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, And this way the water comes down at Lodore. ROBERT SOUTHEY. EL QUEMADERO.* THE bell has toll'd the mid-day hour! Last-known by the trumpets and golden vane-- First ride the ancient priests and lords, That bear the crosses and crowns and swords; Rides thy proud chivalry, Castile, On jennets that scarce their strength can tame, And breasts on which the scarf and star Tell of the days of Moorish war,— *The place at which reputed heretics were burnt at Seville, in Spain. Rides-brightest of the dazzling ring, From wall, and tower, and sculptured roof? For some new triumph o'er the Moor? But all are hush'd: and all their gaze Lit in the centre of the square ; And round it men-with tonsures bare, Anon upon the distance swim The echoes of a fearful hymn. There's joy in the lip, and there's pride in the eye, Of thousands who to that hymn reply: But the eye of the King blazed with fiercer pride, As he saw the black banner waving wide, Monarch! who saw thy bosom shake, No, King! thy cheek was still the same, When round the Martyr burst the flame; When from the dead it sank away, And man and pile were ashes grey; When myriads wept, in woe and fear,— Still was thy brow proud, cold, and clear. But, Monarch! from a loftier throne, An ear has heard the Martyr's groan! Who sows in blood, in blood shall reap; The thunders have slept, they no more shall sleep. Thou shalt know agony by night,— By day, confusion, fear, and flight; Thy land shall be a fruitless field, Her sons against her sons be steel'd; Her crown be rent, her golden soil The foe, the slave, the stranger's spoil; The wind, the wave, shall crush thy pride Go to the grave, dark homicide! Yet give, whene'er thou wilt, thy form To be the pasture of the worm; Yet perish as thou wilt, thine eye, Even from the grave, the wreck shall spy; ANONYMOUS. SUMMER LONGINGS. AH! my heart is weary waiting, Ah! my heart is weary waiting, Ah! my heart is sick with longing, To the young face fair and ruddy, Ah! my heart is sick with longing, Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for their sure returning, When the summer beams are burning, Hopes and flowers, that dead or dying All the winter lay. Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Ah! my heart is pain'd with throbbing, Throbbing for the sea-side billows, Where in laughing and in sobbing Glide the streams away. Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing, Waiting sad, dejected, weary, Spring goes by with wasted warnings— Man is ever weary, weary, ANONYMOUS. THE COVENANTER'S SCAFFOLD SONG.* SING with me! sing with me! Sing with me! sing with me! Sing with me! sing with me! * See M'Crie's account of the martyrdom of M'Kail. |