Sinewy strength is in his reins,

And the red blood gallops through his veins -
Richer, redder, never ran

Through the boasting heart of man.

And yet,

he was but friend to one

Who fed him at the set of sun

By some lone fountain fringed with green;
With him, a roving Bedouin,

He lived (none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day), -
And died untamed upon the sands

Where Balkh amidst the desert stands !

BARRY CORNWALL.

THE CID AND BAVIECA.

The king looked on him kindly, as on a vassal true;

Then to the king Ruy Diaz spake, after reverence due,

66

"O king! the thing is shameful, that any man beside The liege lord of Castile himself, should Bavieca ride.

"For neither Spain nor Araby could another charger bring

So good as he, and certes, the best befits my king,

But, that you may behold him, and know him to the

core,

I'll make him go as he was wont when his nostrils smelt the Moor."

With that the Cid, clad as he was, in mantle furred and wide,

;

On Bavieca vaulting, put the rowel in his side And up and down, and round and round, so fierce was his career,

Streamed like a pennon on the wind, Ruy Diaz' mini

vere.

And all that saw them praised them, they lauded man and horse,

As matched well, and rivals for gallantry and force ; Ne'er had they looked on horsemen might to this knight come near,

Nor on other charger worthy of such a cavalier.

Thus, to and fro a-rushing, the fierce and furious steed,

He snapped in twain his nether rein: "God pity now the Cid!

God pity Diaz!" cried the lords, but when they

looked again,

-

They saw Ruy Diaz ruling him with the fragment of his rein;

They saw him proudly ruling with gesture firm and

calm,

Like a true lord commanding, and obeyed as by a

lamb.

And so he led him foaming and panting to the king,

66

But, "No," said Don Alphonso, it were a shameful

thing,

That peerless Bavieca should ever be bestrid

By any mortal but Bivar,
Cid!"

mount, mount again, my

LOCKHART'S Spanish Ballads.

THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.

Word was brought to the Danish king,

(Hurry!)

That the love of his heart lay suffering,

And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (Oh! ride as though you were flying!)

Better he loves each golden curl

On the brow of that Scandinavian girl
Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl;

And his Rose of the Isles is dying.

Thirty nobles saddled with speed;

(Hurry!)

Each one mounted a gallant steed

Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(Oh! ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst:
But ride as they would, the king rode first;
For his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

His nobles are beaten, one by one;

(Hurry!)

They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone;

His little fair page now follows alone,
For strength and for courage trying,
The king looked back at that faithful child:
Wan was the face that answering smiled.
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din:
Then he dropped; and only the king rode in
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying.

The king blew a blast on his bugle horn;
(Silence!)

No answer came, but faint and forlorn
An echo returned on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing.
The castle portal stood grimly wide;
None welcomed the king from that weary
For, dead in the light of the dawning day,
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,
Who had yearned for his voice while dying.

The panting steed with a drooping crest

Stood weary.

ride;

The king returned from her chamber of rest,

The thick sobs choking in his breast;

And that dumb companion eying,

The tears gushed forth, which he strove to check;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck:
"O steed, that every nerve didst strain,
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain,
To the halls where my love lay dying!'

CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON.

Go forth under the open sky and list
To Nature's teachings.

BRYANT.

DO YOU KNOW?

“Yesterday we buried my pretty brown mare under the wildcherry tree. End of poor Bess."

When a human being dies,

Seeming scarce so good or wise,
Scarce so high in scale of mind
As the horse he leaves behind,
"Lo," we cry, "the fleeting spirit
Doth a newer garb inherit;
Through eternity doth soar,
Growing, greatening, evermore.”
But our beautiful dumb creatures
Yield their gentle, generous natures,
With their mute, appealing eyes,
Haunted by earth's mysteries,
Wistfully upon us cast,

Loving, trusting, to the last;
And we arrogantly say,

Has all perished? Was no mind
In that graceful form enshrined?
Can the love that filled those eyes
With most eloquent replies,
When the glossy head close pressing,
Grateful met your hand's caressing;
Can the mute intelligence,

Baffling oft our human sense
With strange wisdom, buried be
"Under the wild-cherry tree?"
Are these elements that spring