Helmet and turban, scymitar and sword,
Christian and Moor in death promiscuous lay,
Each where they fell; and blood flakes, parch'd
and crack'd,

Like the dry slime of some receding flood;

And half-burnt bodies, which allur'd from far
The wolf and raven, and to impious food
Tempted the houseless dog.

A thrilling pang,

A sweat like death, a sickness of the soul
Came over Roderick. Soon they past away,
And admiration in their stead arose,
Stern joy, and inextinguishable hope,
With wrath, and hate, and sacred vengeance now
Indissolubly link'd. O valiant race,

O people excellently brave, he cried,
True Goths ye fell, and faithful to the last;
Though overpower'd, triumphant, and in death
Unconquer'd! Holy be your memories!
Blessed and glorious now and evermore
Be your heroic names!-Led by the sound,
As thus he cried aloud, a woman came
Toward him from the ruins. For the love
Of Christ, she said, lend me a little while
Thy charitable help!-Her words, her voice,
Her look, more horror to his heart convey'd
Than all the havoc round: for though she spake
With the calm utterance of despair, in tones
Deep-breathed and low, yet never sweeter voice
Pour'd forth its hymns in ecstasy to heaven.
Her hands were bloody, and her garments stain'd
With blood, her face with blood and dust defiled.
Beauty and youth, and grace and majesty,
Had every charm of form and feature given;
But now, upon her rigid countenance
Severest anguish set a fixedness
Ghastlier than death.

She led him through the streets

A little way along, where four low walls,
Heapt rudely from the ruins round, inclosed
A narrow space; and there upon the ground
Four bodies, decently composed, were laid,
Though horrid all with wounds and clotted gore:
A venerable ancient; by his side

A comely matron, for whose middle age
(If ruthless slaughter had not intervened)
Nature it seem'd, and gentle time, might well
Have many a calm declining year in store;
The third an armed warrior, on his breast
An infant, over whom his arms were crost.
There with firm eye and steady countenance,
Unfaultering, she address'd him-there they lie,
Child, husband, parents-Adosinda's all!

I could not break the earth with these poor hands,
Nor other tombs provide-but let that pass-
Auria itself is now but one wide tomb

For all its habitants-what better grave?

What worthier monument ?-Oh cover not
Their blood, thou earth! nor ye, ye blessed souls
Of heroes and of murder'd innocents,

O never let your everlasting cries

Cease round the eternal throne, till the Most High,
For all these unexampled wrongs, hath given
Full, overflowing vengeance.

WAR. (Signs of)

SOUTHEY.

The bay-trees in our country are all wither'd, And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth, And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change; Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap.

SHAKSPEARE.

WAR. (Othello's Farewell to)

Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, That make ambition virtue! O, farewell! Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner: and all quality,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And O you mortal engines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dread clamours counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone.

SHAKSPEARE.

WARNINGS. (Foreboding the Fate of Rosabelle)

O listen, listen, ladies gay!

No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

-Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

"The blackening wave edged with white;
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
The fishers have heard the water-sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

"Last night the gifted seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch:
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day ?"-
""Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
But that my ladye-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

"'Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.”—

O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wond'rous blaze was seen to gleam;
'Twas broader than the watch-fire light,
And redder than the bright moon-beam.
It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,
And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie;
Each baron for a sable shroud,
Sheath'd in his iron panoply.

Seem'd all on fire, within, around,
Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh,
The lordly line of high St Clair.
There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
Lie within that proud chapelle;
Each one the holy vault doth hold-
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle !

And each St Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell,

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

SCOTT.

WARRIOR. (Charles of Sweden, his Fate) On what foundation stands the warrior's pride, How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide; A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,

No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;
- O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain;
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield,

War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;
Behold surrounding kings their pow'r combine,
And one capitulate, and one resign;

Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in

vain;

"Think nothing gain'd," he cries, "" till nought remain,

"On Moscow's walls till Gothic standards fly, "And all be mine beneath the polar sky."

The march begins in military state,

And nations on his eye suspended wait;
Stern famine guards the solitary coast,

And winter barricades the realms of frost ;

He comes, nor want nor cold his course delay ;-
Hide blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day :
The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands,
And shows his miseries in distant lands,
Condemn'd a needy supplicant to wait,
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
But did not chance at length her error mend?
Did no subverted empire mark his end?
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound?
Or hostile millions press him to the ground?
His fall was destin'd to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;

He left the name, at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral, or adorn a tale.

JOHNSON.

N