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ALNWICK CASTLE.

His square-turned joints, and strength of limb,
Showed him no carpet-knight so trim,
But in close fight a champion grim,

In camps a leader sage.

Home of the Percy's high-born race,

Home of their beautiful and brave, Alike their birth and burial place,

Their cradle and their grave ! Still sternly o'er the castle gate Their house's Lion stands in state,

As in his proud departed hours ; And warriors frown in stone on high, And feudal banners “ flout the sky”

Above his princely towers.

Well was he armed from head to heel,
In mail and plate of Milan steel ;
But his strong helm, of mighty cost,
Was all with burnished gold embossed ;
Amid the plumage of the crest,
A falcon hovered on her nest,
With wings outspread, and forward breast;
E'en such a falcon, on his shield,
Soared sable in an azure field :
The golden legend bore aright,
Who checks at me to death is dight.
Blue was the charger's broidered rein;
Blue ribbons decked his arching mane ;
The knightly housing's ample fold
Was velvet blue, and trapped with gold.

A gentle hill its side inclines,

Lovely in England's fadeless green,
To meet the quiet stream which winds

Through this romantic scene
As silently and sweetly still
As when, at evening, on that hill,

While summer's wind blew soft and low,
Seated by gallant Hotspur's side,
His Katherine was a happy bride,

A thousand years ago.

Behind him rode two gallant squires
Of noble name and knightly sires ;
They burned the gilded spurs to claim ;
For well could each a war-horse tame,
Could draw the bow, the sword could sway,
And lightly bear the ring away ;
Nor less with courteous precepts stored,
Could dance in hall, and carve at board,
And frame love-ditties passing rare,
And sing them to a lady fair.

I wandered through the lofty halls

Trod by the Percys of old fame, And traced upon the chapel walls

Each high, heroic name, From him who once his standard set Where now, o'er mosque and minaret,

Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons, To him who, when a younger son, Fought for King George at Lexington,

A major of dragoons.

Four men-at-arms came at their backs,
With halbert, bill, and battle-axe ;
They bore Lord Marmion's lance so strong,
And led his sumpter-mules along,
And ambling palfrey, when at need
Him listed ease his battle-steed.
The last and trustiest of the four
On high his forky pennon bore;
Like swallow's tail, in shape and hue,
Fluttered the streamer glossy blue,
Where, blazoned sable, as before,
The towering falcon seemed to soar.
Last, twenty yeomen, two and two,
In hosen black, and jerkins blue,
With falcons broidered on each breast,
Attended on their lord's behest :
Each, chosen for an archer good,
Knew hunting.craft by lake or wood ;
Each one a six-foot bow could bend,
And far a cloth-yard shaft could send ;
Each held a boar-spear tough and strong,
And at their belts their quivers rung.
Their dusty palfreys and array
Showed they hau marched a weary way.

That last half-stanza, it has dashed

From my warm lip the sparkling cup; The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed,

The power that bore my spirit up Above this bank-note world, is gone; And Alnwick's but a market town, And this, alas ! its market day, And beasts and borderers throng the way ; Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots

Men in the coal and cattle line ; From Teviot's bard and hero land, From royal Berwick's beach of sand, From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and

Newcastle-upon-Tyne.

These are not the romantic times
So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes,

So dazzling to the dreaming boy ;
Ours are the days of fact, not fable,
Of knights, but not of the round table,

Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy ; 'Tis what “Our President," Monroe,

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will : Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still !

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Has called “the era of good feeling ;”
The Highlander, the bitterest foe
To modern laws, has felt their blow,
Consented to be taxed, and vote,
And put on pantaloons and coat,

And leave off cattle-stealing :
Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt,

The Douglas in red herrings ;
And noble name and cultured land,
Palace, and park, and vassal band,
Are powerless to the notes of hand

Of Rothschild or the Barings.

NUREMBERG. In the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad

meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg,

the ancient, stands.

Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old

town of art and soug, Memories haunt thy pointed gables like the rooks

that round them throng :

The age of bargaining, said Burke,
Has come : to-day the turbaned Turk
(Sleep, Richard of the lion heart !
Sleep on, nor from your cerements start

Is England's friend and fast ally ;
The Moslem tramples on the Greek,

And on the Cross and altar-stone,

And Christendom looks tamely on, And hears the Christian maiden shriek,

And sees the Christian father die ; And not a sabre-blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven,

By Europe's craven chivalry.

Memories of the Middle Ages, when the em

perors rough and bolù Had their dwellings in thy castle, time-defying,

centuries old ;

And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in

their uncouth rhyme, That their great, imperial city stretched its hand

to every cline,

In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many

an iron band, Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen

Cunigunde's hand;

You 'll ask if yet the Percy lives

In the armed pomp of feudal state. The present representatives

of Hotspur and his “gentle Kate,” Are some half-dozen serving-men In the drab coat of William Penn;

A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling,

Spoke nature's aristocracy; And one, half groom, half seneschal, Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, From donjon keep to turret wall, For ten-and-sixpence sterling.

FITZ-GREENE HALLBCK.

On the square, the oriel window, where in old

heroic days Sat the poet Melchior, singing Kaiser Maximil.

ian's praise.

Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous

world of art ; Fountains wrought with richest sculpture stand

ing in the common mart;

SONNET

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COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, LONDON, 1802. Earth has not anything to show more fair ; Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty : This city now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky, All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill;

In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined

his holy dust, And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from

age to age their trust :

In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix

of sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through

the painted air.

far away,

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

TIere, when art was still religion, with a simple Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my reverent heart,

dreamy eye Lived and labored Albrecht Dürer, the Evan- Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a gelist of Art;

faded tapestry. Tience in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee busy hand,

the world's regard, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the But thy painter, Albrecht Dürer, and Hans Sachs, Better Land.

thy cobbler-bard. Emigravit is the inscription on the tombstone Thus, 0 Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region

where he lies, Dead he is not — but departed — for the artist As he paced thy streets and court-yaruls, sang in never dies :

thought his careless lay ; Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a seems more fair

floweret of the soil, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once The nobility of labor, — the long pedigree of toil.

has breathed its air. Through these streets so broad and stately, these

obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude

ITALY. poetic strains ; From remote and sunless suburbs came they to

O ITALY, how beautiful thou art ! the friendly guild,

Yet I could weep, — for thou art lying, alas ! Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in Low in the dust; and they who come admire spouts the swallows build.

thee

As we admire the beautiful in death. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the Thine was a dangerous gift, the gift of beauty. mystic rhyme,

Would thou hadst less, or wert as once thou wast, And the smith his iron measures hammered to Inspiring awe in those who now enslave thee ! the anvil's chime,

But why despair ? Twice hast thou lived already,

Twice shone among the nations of the world, Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes As the sun shines among the lesser lights the flowers of poesy bloom

Of heaven; and shalt again. The hour shall In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of

come, the loom.

When they who think to bind the ethereal spirit,

Who, like the eagle cowering o'er his prey, Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of Watch with quick eye, and strike and strike again the gentle craft,

If but a sinew vibrate, shall confess Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huge Their wisdom folly.

folios sang and laughed.

FROM "ITALY."

SAMUEL ROGERS.

FROM "ITALY.

But his house is now an alehouse, with a nicely sanded floor,

VENICE. And a garland in the window, and his face above the door,

THERE is a glorious City in the Sea. Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam The Sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, Puschman's song,

Ebbing and flowing ; and the salt sea-weed As the old man gray and dovelike, with his Clings to the marble of her palaces. great beard white and long.

No track of men, no footsteps to and fro,

Lead to hor gates. The path lies o'er the Sea, And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown Invisible ; and from the land we went, his cark and care,

As to a Aoating City, — steering in, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the mas- And gliding up her streets as in a dream, ter's antique chair.

So smoothly, silently, — by many a doma

FROM " ITALY.

came

SAMUEL ROGERS.

Mosque-like, and many a stately portico,

ROME.
The statues ranged along an azure sky;
By many a pile in more than Eastern splendor,
of old the residence of merchant kings ;

I am in Rome ! Oft as the morning ray The fronts of some, though Time haul shattered Visits these eyes, waking at once I cry, them,

Whence this excess of joy? What has befallen Still glowing with the richest hues of art,

me ? As though the wealth within them had run o'er. And from within a thrilling voice replies,

Thou art in Rome ! A thousand busy thoughts

A few in fear, Rush on my mind, a thousand images ;
Flying away from him whose boast it was And I spring up as girt to run a race !
That the grass grew not where his horse had
trod,

Thou art in Rome ! the City that so long
Gave birth to Venice. Like the waterfowl, Reigned absolute, the mistress of the world ;
They built their nests among the ocean waves ; The mighty vision that the prophets saw,
And where the sands were shifting, as the wind 'And trembled ; that from nothing, from the
Blew from tho north, the south ; where they that least,

The lowliest village (what but here and thero Had to make sure the ground they stood upon, A reed-roofed cabin by a river-side ?) Rose, like an exhalation, from the deep, Grew into everything; and, ycar by year, A vast Metropolis, with glittering spires, Patiently, fearlessly working her way With theatres, basilicas adorned ;

O'er brook and field, o'er continent and sea, A scene of light anıl glory, a dominion,

Not like the merchant with his merchandise, That has endured the longest among men. Or traveller with staff and scrip exploring,

But hand to hand and foot to foot through liosts, And whence the talisman by which she rose

Through nations numberless in battle array, Towering? 'T' was found there in the barren sea. Each behind each, each, when the other fell, Want led to Enterprise ; and, far or near,

Up and in arms, at length subclued them all. Who met not the Venetian ? - now in Cairo; Ere yet the Califa came, listening to hear Its bells approaching from the Red Sea coast; Now on the Euxine, on the Sea of Azoph, In converse with the Persian, with the Russ,

COLISEUM BY MOONLIGHT. The Tartar; on his lowly deck receiving

FROM "MANFRED," ACT III. SC. 4. Pearls from the gulf of Ormus, gems from Bagdad, Eyes brighter yet, that shed the light of love The stars are forth, the moon above the tops From Georgia, from Circassia. Wandering round, of the snow-shining mountains. - Beautiful ! When in the rich bazaar he saw, displayed,

I linger yet with Nature, for the night Treasures from unknown climes, away he went,

Hath been to me a more familiar face And, travelling slowly upward, drew erelong

Than that of man; and in her starry shade From the well-head supplying all below;

Of dim and solitary loveliness Making the Imperial City of the East

I learned the language of another world. Herself his tributary.

I do remember me, that in my youtlı,

When I was wandering, — upon such a night
Thus did Venice rise,

I stood within the Coliseum's wall,
Thus flourish, till the unwelcome tidings came, Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome.
That in the Tagus had arrived a fleet

The trees which grew along the broken arches From India, from the region of the Sun,

Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars Fragrant with spices, -- that a way was found, Shone through the rents of ruin ; from afar A channel opened, and the golden stream The watch-dog bayed beyond the Tiber; and Turned to enrich another. Then she felt More near, from out the Cæsars' palace came Her strength departing, and at last she fell, The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, Fell in an instant, blotted out and razed ;

Of distant sentinels the fitful song She who had stood yet longer than the longest Begun and died upon the gentle wind. Of the Four Kingdoms, -- who, as in an Ark, Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach Had floated down amid a thousand wrecks, Appeared to skirt the horizon, yet they stood Uninjured, from the Old World to the New Within a bowshot, — where the Cæsars dwelt,

And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst

SAMUEL ROGERS.

A grove which springs through levelled battle

ments, And twines its roots with the imperial hearths. Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth ;But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands, A noble wreck in ruinous perfection, While Cæsar's chambers and the Augustan halls Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon All this, and cast a wide and tender light, Which softened down the hoar austerity Of rugged desolation, and filled up, As 't were anew, the gaps of centuries, Leaving that beautiful which still was so, And making that which was not, till the place Became religion, and the heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old ! The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.

his eyes

I see before me the Gladiator lie;
He leans upon his hand, his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head siuks gradually low,
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now

The arena swims around him, – he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the

wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not, Were with his heart, and that was far away. He recked not of the life he lost nor prize, But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, There were his young barbarians all at play, There was their Dacian mother, - he, their sire, Butchered to make a Roman holiday ! All this rushed with his blood. - Shall he

expire, And unavenged ? Arise, ye Goths, and glut your

ire ! But here, where Murder breathed her bloody

steam, And here, where buzzing nations choked the

ways, And roared or murmured likea mountain stream Dashing or winding as its torrent strays; Here, where the Roman millions' blame or praise Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, My voice sounds much, — and fall the stars'

LORD BYRON.

THE COLISEUM.

FROM "CHILDE HAROLD," CANTO IV.

ARCHES on arches ! as it were that Rome, Collecting the chief trophies of her line, Would build up all her triumphs in one dome, Her Coliseum stands ; the moonbeams shine As 't were its natural torches, for divine Should be the light which streams here, to

illume This long-explored, but still exhaustless, mine

Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom Of an Italian night, where the deep skies assume

faint rays

mass

Hues wbich have words, and speak to ye of

heaven, Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monument, And shadows forth its glory. There is given Uuto the things of earth, which Time hath bent, A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power And magic in the ruined battlement,

For which the palace of the present hour Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its

dower.

On the arena void, seats crushed, walls bowed, And galleries, where my steps seem echoes strange

ly loud. A ruin, — yet what ruin ! from its mi Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been reared ; Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, And marvel where the spoil could have appeared. Hath it indeed been plundered, or but cleared ! Alas ! developed, opens the decay, When the colossal fabric's form is neared ;

It will not bear the brightness of the day, Which streams too much on all years, man, have

reft away. But when the rising moon begins to climb Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; When the stars twinkle through the loops of

time, And the low night-breeze waves along the air The garland-forest, which the gray walls wear, Like laurels on the bald first Cæsar's head; When the light shines serene, but doth not

glare, – Then in this magic circle raise the dead ; Heroes have trod this spot, - 't is on their dust

And here the buzz of eager nations ran,
In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause,
As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man.
And wherefore slaughtered ? wherefore, but

because
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws,
And the imperial pleasure. – Wherefore not ?
What matters where we fall to fill the maws

Of worms, - on battle-plains or listed spot ? Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.

ye tread.

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