but beware that you are not marked by the archers beneath – Look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm.”

With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had employed in mental devotion, Rebecca again took post at the lattice, sheltering herself, however, so as not to be visible from beneath.

“What dost thou see, Rebecca?” again demanded the wounded knight.

“Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them.

" That cannot endure,” said Ivanhoe; “if they press not right on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the Knight of the Fetterlock, fair Rebecca, and see how he bears himself; for as the leader is, so will his followers be.”

I see him not,” said Rebecca.

“ Foul craven!” exclaimed Ivanhoé; “ does he blench from the helm when the wind blows highest?”

“ He blenches not! he blenches not!” said Rebecca. “I see him now; he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the barbican. — They pull down the piles and palisades; they hew down the barriers with axes. · His high black plume floats abroad over the throng, like a raven over the field of the slain. — They have made a breach in the barriers – they rush in – they are thrust back! -Frontde-Bæuf heads the defenders; I see his gigantic form above the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is disputed hand to hand, and man to man. God of Jacob! it is the meeting of two fierce tides - the conflict of two oceans moved adverse winds! "

She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable longer to endure a sight so terrible.

“ Look forth again, Rebecca,” said Ivanhoe, mistaking the cause of her retiring; "the archery must in some degree have ceased, since they are now fighting hand to hand. — Look again; there is now less danger."

Rebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed,

Holy prophets of the law! Front-de-Bæuf and the Black Knight fight hand to hand on the breach, amid the roar of their followers, who watch the progress of the strife. - Heaven strike with the cause of the oppressed and of the captive!” She then uttered a loud shriek, and exclaimed, “ He is down! - he is down!”

“Who is down?” cried Ivanhoe; “for our dear Lady's sake, tell me which has fallen?”

" The Black Knight,” answered Rebecca, faintly; then instantly again shouted with joyful eagerness

- but no!- the name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed! – he is on foot again, and fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his single arm - His sword is broken he snatches an axe from a yeoman - he presses Front-deBæuf with blow on blow – The giant stoops and totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman he falls he falls !"

66 But no

“ Front-de-Bæuf?” exclaimed Ivanhoe.

“ Front-de-Bæuf!” answered the Jewess; “his men rush to the rescue, headed by the haughty Templar — their united force compels the champion to pause They drag Front-de-Bæuf within the walls."

" The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?” said Ivanhoe. " They have they have!” exclaimed Rebecca

" and they press the besieged hard upon the outer wall; some plant ladders, some swarm like bees, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of each other — down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men supply their places in the assault — Great God! hast thou given men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the hands of their brethren!”

6. Think not of that,” said Ivanhoe; “this is no time for such thoughts – Who yield ? - who push their way?”

“ The ladders are thrown down,” replied Rebecca, shuddering; “the soldiers lie grovelling under them like crushed reptiles – The besieged have the better.”

“ Saint George strike for us !” exclaimed the knight; “do the false yeomen give way?"

“No!” exclaimed Rebecca, “ they bear themselves right yeomanly – the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge axe - the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all the din and shouts of the battle — Stones and beams are hailed down on the bold champion — he regards them no more than if they were thistle-down or feathers ! ”

“By Saint John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising himself joyfully on his couch, "methought there was but one man in England that might do such a deed!”

“ The postern gate shakes,” continued Rebecca; “it crashes — it is splintered by his blows — they rush in – the outwork is won — 0 God! — they hurl the defenders from the battlements — they throw them into the moat O men, if ye be indeed men, spare them that can resist no longer!”

“The bridge – the bridge which communicates with the castle have they won that pass?” exclaimed Ivanhoe.

“No,” replied Rebecca, “the Templar has destroyed the plank on which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped with him into the castle - the shrieks and cries which you hear tell the fate of the others - Alas! I see it is still more difficult to look upon victory than

upon battle.”



LORD BYRON. 1788-1824. (Manual, pp. 396–404.) )

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,

And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?- No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet
But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before !
Arm! Arm! it is - it is - the cannon's opening roar!!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;

He rushed into the field, and; foremost fighting, fell. i The sound of the cannon decided the Duke of Wellington to appear at the ball, where he remained till three o'clock in the morning, that he might calm, by his apparent indifference, the fears of his supporters in Brussels, and depress the hopes of the well-wishers to the French.

2 The Duke of Brunswick was killed at Quatre Bras on the 16th of June. His father received the wounds, of he afterwards died, at the battle of Jena, in 1806.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who could guess

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;

While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips — The foe! They come! they


265. Rone.
O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee,
Lone mother of dead empires! and control
In their shut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance? Come and see
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye,

Whose agonies are evils of a day —
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.

The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe;
An empty urn within her withered hands,
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago;
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers : dost thou flow,

Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress.

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 sinks 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 whic hailed the wretch who won.

He heard it, but he heeded not his eyes
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!


There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,

To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean - roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin - his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

His steps are not upon thy paths, - thy fields
Are not a spoil for him, – thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies

His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth : there let him lay.

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