A rhyme I have for the murd'rers knife,
And one for the bloody fray,

Another yet for love, and still

For repentance, one more lay.
'Tis thus I breathe my soul in verse,
And take no thought of time.
For what to me is the universe,
If I only have my rhyme?
And when ideas begin to fail,
Oh then I seize my lyre,

And make its chords ring merrily out,
Which fools with joy inspire.

Sound out! sound out! my lyre-chord good!

Thou dost ideas supply;

Sound out! sound out! let reason go!

The rhyme's the thing, say I.

CASTELLAN.

Dost thou mock our hospitality, audacious poet! Hast thou not a ready song, a complete melody? We have listened to thee an hour, subjected by turns to the sway of all the various emotions with which thou didst inspire us; and hardly hast thou raised to the skies a pious strain, when thou resumest the tone of a fiend, to laugh at God, at thy fellow men, and at thyself. Sing us, then, at least the song of our country, or we will wrest from thy hands the cup of joy.

CHORUS.

Yes, sing our native lay, or we

The cup of joy will wrest from thee.

STRANGER.

O God of shepherds, hear me! and thou, O Mary, hear!
Thou mother mild of heaven, to whom the simple soul is dear;
O God of young hearts, hear me! and thou, O Mary, hear!
Who dost inspire the lover, and confirm his vow sincere:
O God of battles, hear me! and thou, O Mary, hear!
Who dost preserve the valiant, and fill the foe with fear:
O God of hermits, hear me! and thou, O Mary, hear!
Protectress of the pious, who lov'st the sacred tear:
Oh God of poets, hear me! and thou, O Mary, hear!
Thou most harmonious melody of the celestial sphere!
Sustain the weary pilgrim, conduct the traveller bold,
Preserve the gallant warrior, visit the hermit old;

Smile, smile upon the poet, receive benignantly

The incense of his heart, which now he offers unto thee; Like to the mingled perfume of every flower that grows, Whose odor on this barren earth, thou didst to him disclose.

Well, does the refrain embarrass you? You cannot
follow the measure? Listen then, while I begin again:
I who a youthful goatherd am,
Would give, most willingly.
Full all the flocks th' sierra feeds,

If my fair would smile on me.
I who a dashing scholar am,
Would burn my books thrice o'er,
For a kiss, beneath the balcony,
Of her whom I adore.

I who a happy lover am,

Would give my love's caresses,
For one good blow at a pedant's head,
If e'er he her addresses;

I who a cheated lover am,
My very soul would sell,

To sheathe my poiniard in the heart,
Of him she loves so well!

I who a hunted murd'rer am,
Love, vengeance, all, would give,
If as a glorious conqueror,

I might one moment live;
I who a conq'ring warrior am,
Would give my triumph's palms,
For but an instant of repose

From my troubled conscience' qualms:
I who a pious hermit am,

Would yield my hopes of heaven,
Were, in return, for but an hour,
The poet's phrenzy given;

I who at length a poet am,
My garland of gold so gay,

For but one spark of heavenly fire;
Would gladly give away;

But when my song doth her pinions ope,
And my proud foot spurns the ground,

And the music of the spheres I hope
To hear in the distance sound,

Some fiend accursed, a thick black cloud

Like a gloomy veil, doth roll

All, all around my luckless head,

Around my branded soul!

Lost, gasping, tired, I trembling float

"Twixt hope and grim despair,

"Twixt light from heaven, and shades of hell
"Twixt blasphemy and prayer;
And mourning cry, as to earth fall I,
Back, back to my native clay,
Alas! alas! that cloud-veil black!
My pinions, where are they?'

CHORUS.

Alas! alas! that cloud-veil black!
My pinions, where are they?

CASTELLAN.

Sit down, sit down, noble singer; thou hast conquered us.

DIEGO.

He has not sung the song of our country; not a single verse of it.

LA HERMOSA.

He has sung better than any of us. Stranger, take this branch of red sage; dip it in thy cup, and sing for me.

STRANGER.

I sing for no one, but only to please myself, when the whim takes me. Maiden, I accept thy gift. The spectre waits for me, in the forest. Adieu, credulous host! Adieu, all ye vulgar bacchanals, who ask the poet for sour wine, when he brings you the nectar of heaven. Sing your song of the country by yourselves! For my own part, the country makes me sick, and the wine of the country sicker.

Come, come with me, my poor black dog!

I have no friend but you;

"Tis time, my dog, for us to go:

Ye maidens fair, adieu!

(Exit.)

A strange man!

CASTELLAN.

DIEGO.

A bandit, I'll wager! Let us arrest him, and throw him into prison.

LA HERMOSA.

The walls would fall before his song; the spirits of heaven would descend to loose his chains.

BOY.

My lord, you promised to own him for your friend and countryman, if he sang the song of our country. Hear him now, on the summit of the hill:

STRANGER. (from the hill.)

'I who a contrabandist am,

A noble life I lead;

I scour the mountains night and day,
Or down to the hamlet's speed,
To sport with the lovely maidens there,
And when the guard comes by,

I clap the spur to my good black steed,
And back to the mountains fly:
Huzza! huzza! my good black steed!
The guard is just in view,

Huzza! huzza! my good black steed!
Ye maidens fair, adieu!

DIEGO.

By heavens, I know him now; for he dons his red mantle; he mounts his horse; he tears off his false beard, and no longer disguises his voice! Tis José, the famous Contrabandist; the accursed bandit; and I captain of the guards, who was charged with his arest! After him, my friends! after him!

CASTELLAN.

No, indeed; he is a noble child of the mountains, who was a scholar, a lover, and a poet, and who, it is said, became a bandit chief in consequence of his political sentiments.

DIEGO.

Or in consequence of a murder.

LA HERMOSA.

Or in consequence of a love affair,

CASTELLAN.

No matter; he has tricked you most gloriously, Diego; and while imposing upon us, he has both excited and charmed us. God speed him! and may nothing more trouble this festal day, this day devoted to joy!

CHORUS.

Let nothing more our mirth alloy, Drain we the brimming cups of joy! (They sing in full chorus the song of the Contrabandist.)

FINAL CHORUS.

Rejoice! Rejoice!

Let us strike the full goblets again and again,
Till their roseate lips shall be shattered in twain.
Come wind of the evening from balm-breathing bowers,
And strew on our foreheads the sweet orange flowers.
Fill, fill up the cups! Let us drink and be gay,
And celebrate duly this festival day:

Let one and all rejoice!

STRANGER, (in the distance.)

Amen!

OMNES.

Amen!

WALTER OF ACQUITAINE'S

DEATH-SONG.*

A free translation from the French of L. Picket.

Horse Journal 1853.

COME! I invite you, men of arms, that love the battle's strife,

To hear a mournful history, the last song of my life. Then listen warrior, listen clerk, before my days are sped: My name is Walter of Acquitaine; from Attila's camp I fled. I fled from the camp of Attila, I, Walter of Acquitaines.

*It must not be for otten that the modern poet has changed the catastrophe of the old Monkish epic according to which Walter and Hildegund escaped the pursuit of their evening.