--"Seize, seize him!" loud the King doth scream; "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 the sheath, And held it up on high; And all the hall was still as death;-- Cries Bernard, "Here am I-- And here's the sword that owns no lord, Excepting Heaven and me; Fain would I know who dares its point,-- King, Conde or Grandee."

Then to his mouth his horn he drew-- It hung below his cloak-- His ten true men the signal knew, And through the ring they broke; With helm on head, and blade in hand, The knights the circle break, And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, And the false king to quake.

"Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, "What means this warlike guise?

Ye know full well I jested-- Ye know your worth I prize!"

But Bernard turned upon his heel, And, smiling, pa.s.sed away:-- Long rued Alphonso and his realm The jesting of that day!

J. G. Lockhart.

CLXXVI.

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.

One more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing: Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing.

Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully Gentle and humanly; Not of the stains of her-- All that remains of her Now is pure womanly.

Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful.

Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; While wonderment guesses Where was her home?

Who was her father?

Who was her mother?

Had she a sister?

Had she a brother?

Or was there a dearer one Still, and a nearer one Yet, than all other?

Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!

Oh! it was pitiful Near a whole city full Home she had none!

Sisterly, brotherly Fatherly, motherly Feelings had changed: Love by harsh evidence, Thrown from its eminence; Even G.o.d's providence Seeming estranged.

When the lamps quiver So far in the river, With many a light From window and cas.e.m.e.nt, From garret to bas.e.m.e.nt, She stood with amazement Houseless by night.

The bleak winds of March Made her tremble and shiver But not the dark arch, Of the black flowing river.

Mad from life's history Glad to death's mystery Swift to be hurled-- Anywhere, anywhere, Out of the world-- In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran.

Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly, Decently, kindly, smooth, and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!

Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity, As when with the daring Last look of despairing Fixed on futurity,

Perishing gloomily, Spurred by contumely Cold inhumanity, Burning insanity, Into her rest.

--Cross her hands humbly As if praying dumbly, Over her breast!

Owning her weakness, Her evil behavior, And leaving, with meekness, Her sins to her Saviour!

T. Hood.

CLXXVII.

SONG OF THE SHIRT.

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread,-- St.i.tch! st.i.tch! st.i.tch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the "Song of the Shirt."

"Work! work! work!

While the c.o.c.k is crowing aloof!

And work,--work,--work, Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's, oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work!

"Work,--work,--work!

Till the brain begins to swim, Work,--work,--work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the b.u.t.tons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream!

"Oh! men, with sisters dear!

Oh! men with mothers and wives!

--It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives!

St.i.tch,--st.i.tch,--st.i.tch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt.

"But why do I talk of death, That Phantom of grizzly bone?

I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own; It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, G.o.d! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work,--work,--work!

My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread,--and rags.-- That shattered roof,--and this naked floor,-- A table,--a broken chair,-- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there!

"Work,--work,--work!

From weary chime to chime!

Work,--work,--work, As prisoners work for crime!

Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

"Work,--work,--work, In the dull December light, And work,--work,--work, When the weather is warm and bright; While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the Spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweets-- With the sky above my head And the gra.s.s beneath my feet; For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel Before I knew the woes of want, And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! for but one short hour, A respite, however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart; But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread-- St.i.tch!--st.i.tch! st.i.tch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,-- Would that its song could reach the rich!-- She sang this "Song of the Shirt."