Hark! 'tis bellowed from the caves No voice of life was there- Rule, Britannia," sang the crew Ne'er had failed. Bright rose the laughing morn- And the storm-lights faintly burn, As they toss upon her stern, From the lonely beacon's height, But no mortal power shall now In a hurricane of snow, And the track beneath her prow Warrior-cross, the union flag, the national ensign of Great Britain. There are spirits of the deep, High the eddying mists are whirled, O'er Swilly's rocks they soar, The dread behest is past! All is silent as the grave; One shriek was first and last Scarce a death-sob drank the blast, Beneath the wave. "Britannia rules the waves!" T. SHERIDAN. BERNARDO AND KING ALPHONSO. WITH Some good ten of his chosen men, Before them all in the palace hall, The lying king to beard. With cap in hand and eye on ground, But ever and anon he frowned, "A curse upon thee,” cries the king, "Who com'st unbid to me! But what from traitor's blood should spring, His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart,— May think it were a pious part "Whoever told this tale, The king hath rashness to repeat," No treason was in Sancho's blood- Below the throne, what knight will own Ye swore upon your kingly faith To set Don Sancho free; But, curse upon your paltering breath! He died in dungeon cold and dim, By Alphonso's base decree; And visage blind, and mangled limb, The king that swerveth from his word, But noble vengeance shall be mine, The king hath injured Carpio's line, "Seize-seize him!" loud the king doth scream: 66 'There are a thousand here; Let his foul blood this instant stream; What! caitiffs, 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 its sheath, And all the hall was still as death!- And here's the sword that owns no lord, Fain would I know who dares its point— Then to his mouth his horn he drew- His ten true men the signal knew, And through the ring they broke. "Ha! Bernard!" quoth Alphonso, J. G. LOCKHART. THE BATTLE OF HASTINGS. ACROSS the ocean's troubled breast The brightest swords of his father's land, What doth the foe on England's field? But, lo! in regal pride Stern Harold comes again, With the waving folds of his banner dyed In the blood of the hostile Dane. The song, the prayer, the feast were o'er, And many a brow was bared once more At length the sun's bright ray And all along each crowded tract Till the polished armour sent him back Still flashed the silver sheen Along the serried lines, Where the deadly wood of spears was seen To rise like forest-pines. In either host was silence deep, Save the falchion's casual ring, |