All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street:

And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet.— A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! "the roof is in a flame!"

From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid, and sire, and dame

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall,

And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawlThe yell of" Allah" breaks above the prayer, and shriek, and roar— Oh, blessed God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore!

Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword; Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored;

Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grandbabes clutching wild; Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child; But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed with splashing heel, While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steelThough virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore!

Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds began to singThey see not now the milking-maids-deserted is the spring! Midsummer day-this gallant rides from distant Bandon's town— These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown; They only found the smoking walls, with neighbours' blood besprent,

And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went— Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cléire, and saw five leagues before

The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore.

Oh! some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed-
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jereed.
Oh! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous Dardanelles;
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey-
She's safe—she's dead—she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai;
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble maid they bore,
She only smiled-O'Driscoll's child-she thought of Baltimore.

'Tis two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearths a larger concourse stand,
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling wretch is seen-
'Tis Hackett of Dungarvan-he, who steered the Algerine!
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer,
For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there-
Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought the Norman o'er-
Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore.

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18.-EXCELSIOR.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

[See page 173.]

THE shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village pass'd
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flash'd like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,

And from his lips escaped a groan,

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Excelsior!

'Try not the Pass!" the old man said;
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!"
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!

"O stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answer'd with a sigh,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's wither'd branch! Beware the awful avalanche!"

This was the peasant's last Good-night,
A voice replied far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Utter'd the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller by the faithful hound
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice,
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

1

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay;
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!

19.-THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET.

ALBERT G. GREENE.

(Mr. Greene was born in Providence, Rhode Island, 1802. He was educated at Brown University, in that city, and graduated 1820. He was admitted to the American Bar, and followed his profession until 1834, when he obtained official employment.]

O'ER a low couch the setting sun

Had thrown its latest ray,
Where in his last strong agony
A dying warrior lay,

The stern old Baron RUDIGER,

Whose frame had ne'er been bent

By wasting pain, till time and toil
Its iron strength had spent.

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They come around me here, and say
My days of life are o'er,

That I shall mount my noble steed

And lead my band no more;

They come, and to my beard they dare

To tell me now, that I,

Their own liege lord and master born,-
That I-ha! ha!-must die.

"And what is death? I've dared him oft
Before the Paynim spear,-
Think ye he's entered at my gate,

Has come to seek me here ?

I've met him, faced him, scorn'd him,
When the fight was raging hot,-

I'll try his might-I'll brave his power;
Defy, and fear him not.

"Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,—

And fire the culverin,—

Bid each retainer arm with speed,

Call every vassal in :

Up with my banner on the wall,—

The banquet board prepare,—
Throw wide the portal of my hall,
And bring my armour there!"

A hundred hands were busy then,—
The banquet forth was spread,-

And rung the heavy oaken floor
With many a martial tread.
While from the rich, dark tracery
Along the vaulted wall,

Lights gleam'd on harness, plume and spear,
O'er the proud old Gothic hall.

Fast hurrying through the outer gate,
The mail'd retainers pour'd

On through the portal's frowning arch,
And throng'd around the board.
While at its head, within his dark,
Carved oaken chair of state,
Arm'd cap-a-pie, stern RUDIGER,
With girded falchion, sate.

"Fill every beaker up, my men,
Pour forth the cheering wine;
There's life and strength in every drop,
Thanksgiving to the vine!

Are

ye all there, my vassals true ?—
Mine eyes are waxing dim ;-

Fill round, my tried and fearless ones,
Each goblet to the brim.

"Ye're there, but yet I see ye not.
Draw forth each trusty sword,—
And let me hear your faithful steel
Clash once around my board.
I hear it faintly :-Louder yet!-
What clogs my heavy breath?
Up all, and shout for RUDIGER,
'Defiance unto Death!"

Bowl rang to bowl,-steel clang'd to steel,
And rose a deafening cry
That made the torches flare around,
And shook the flags on high :-
"Ho! cravens, do ye fear him ?-
Slaves, traitors! have ye flown?

Ho! cowards have ye left me
To meet him here alone!

"But I defy him :-let him come!"
Down rang the massy cup,

While from its sheath the ready blade
Came flashing half-way up;

And with the black and heavy plumes
Scarce trembling on his head,
There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair,
Old RUDIGER sat, dead.

20.-MARSTON MOOR.

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

[Buried in back numbers of periodicals, Mr. Praed's contributions to popular literature seemed likely to be entirely forgotten. It was not until 1865 that his writings appeared, in this country, in a collected form; it is creditable to transAtlantic taste that two editions of them had already been published in America. His comic pieces display a playful tenderness that cannot fail to charm the reader, while his ballad metre has the true ring about it, reminding one of Macaulay and Aytoun. Mr. Praed was in the House of Commons, and was some time member for St. Germain, in Cornwall, for Great Yarmouth, and for Aylesbury; and in 1835 he was secretary to the Board of Control. He died of consumption, at the early age of thirty-seven, in 1839.]

To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the clarion's note is high!
To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas, the big drum makes reply!
Ere this hath Lucas marched, with his gallant cavaliers,
And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter in our ears.
To horse! to horse! Sir Nicholas ! White Guy is at the door,
And the raven whets his beak o'er the field of Marston Moor.

Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken prayer,
And she brought a silken banner down the narrow turret-stair
Oh! many were the tears that those radiant eyes had shed,
As she traced the bright word "Glory" in the gay and glancing
thread;

And mournful was the smile which o'er those lovely features ran,
As she said: "It is your lady's gift; unfurl it in the van !"

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It shall flutter, noble wench, where the best and boldest ride,

'Midst the steel-clad files of Skippon, the black dragoons of Pride; The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel a sicklier qualm,

And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,

When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt proudly on their wing, And hear her loyal soldiers shout, For God and for the King!"

'Tis soon. The ranks are broken, along the royal line
They fly, the braggarts of the court! the bullies of the Rhine!
Stout Langdale's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's helm is
down,

And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and with a frown,
And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in their flight,

"The German boar had better far have supped in York to-night."

The knight is left alone, his steel-cap cleft in twain,

His good buff jerkin crimsoned o'er with many a gory stain;

Yet still he waves his banner, and cries amid the rout,

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For Church and King, fair gentlemen! spur on, and fight it out!"

And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now he hums a stave, And now he quotes a stage-play, and now he fells a knave.