And now, upon the turret high,

Was heard the signal drum; And loud the watchman blew his trump, And cried, "They come! they come!" The Cid then raised his sword on high,

And by God's mother swore,
These walls, hard-gotten, he would keep,
Or bathe their base in gore.
"My wife, my daughter, what, in tears!
Nay, hang not thus your head;
For you shall see how well we fight;
How soldiers earn their bread.

"We will go out against the Moors,
And crush them in your sight;"
And all the Christians shouted loud,
May God defend the right!"

He took his wife and daughter's hand,
So resolute was he,

And led them to the highest tower
That overlooks the sea.

They saw how vast a pagan power
Came sailing o'er the brine;
They saw, beneath the morning light,
The Moorish crescents shine.

These ladies then grew deadly pale,
As heart-struck with dismay;
And when they heard the tambours beat,
They turn'd their head away.

The thronged streamers glittering flew,
The sun was shining bright,
"Now cheer," the valiant Cid he cried;
"This is a glorious sight!"

Whilst thus, with shuddering look aghast,
These fearful ladies stood,

The Cid he raised his sword, and cried,
"All this is for your good.

"Ere fifteen days are gone and past,
If God assist the right,

Those tambours that now sound to scare,
Shall sound for your delight."

The Moors who press'd beneath the towers
Now "Allah! Allah!" sung;

Each Christian knight his broad-sword drew,
And loud the trumpets rung.

Then up, the noble Cid bespoke

"Let each brave warrior go, And arm himself, in dusk of morn,

Ere chanticleer shall crow;
"And in the lofty minster church,
On Santiago call,-
That good Bishoppe Hieronymo,*
Shall there absolve you all.

"But let us prudent counsel take,
In this eventful hour:

For yon proud infidels, I ween,
They are a mighty power."

Then Alvar Fanez counsell'd well,
"We will deceive the foe,

And ambush with three hundred men, Ere the first cock does crow:

"And when against the Moorish men
The Cid leads up his powers,—
We, rushing from the hollow glen,
Will fall on them with ours."

This counsel pleased the chieftain well:
He said, it should be so;

And the good bishop should sing mass,
Ere the first cock did crow.

The day is gone, the night is come;
At cock-crow all appear

In Pedro's church to shrive themselves,
And holy mass to hear:

On Santiago there they call'd,
To hear them and to save;
And that good bishop, at the mass,

Great absolution gave.

"Fear not," he cried, "when thousands leed, When horse on man shall roll!

Whoever dies, I take his sins,

And God shall save his soul.

"A boon! a boon !" the bishop cried,
"I have sung mass to-day;

Let me be foremost in the fight,
And lead the bloody fray."

Now Alvar Fanez and his men

Had gain'd the thicket's shade;
And, with hush'd breath and anxious eye,
Had there their ambush laid.

Four thousand men, with trump, and shout,
Forth issued from the gate;

Where my brave Cid, in harness bright,
On Baviéca sate.

They pass'd the ambush on the left,

And march'd o'er dale and down,
Till soon they saw the Moorish camp
Betwixt them and the town.

My Cid then spurr'd his horse, and set
The battle in array.

The first beam on his standard shone
Which Pero bore that day

When this the Moors astonied saw,
"Allah!" began their cry:
The tambours beat, the cymbals rung,
As they would rend the sky.

"Banner, advance!" my Cid cried then,
And raised aloft his sword;

The whole host answer'd with a shout,
"St. Mary, and our Lord!"

That good Bishop, Hieronymo,
Bravely his battle bore;

And cried, as he spurr'd on his resolute steed,
"Hurrah! for the Campeador!"

The Moorish and the Christian host

Mingle their dying cries,

And many a horse along the plain
Without his rider flies.

Now Alvar Fanez, and his men,

Who crouch'd in thickets low, Leap'd up, and, with the lightning glance, Rush'd on the wavering foe.

The Moors, who saw their pennons gay
All waving in the wind,

Fled in despair, for still they fear'd
A greater host behind.

The crescent sinks! Pursue! pursue!
Haste-spur along the plain!

See where they fall-see where they lie, Never to rise again."

Of fifty thousand who, at morn,

Came forth in armour bright,
Scarce fifteen thousand souls were left,
To tell the tale at night.

My Cid then wiped his bloody brow,
And thus was heard to say,
"Well, Baviéca,* hast thou sped,
My noble horse! to-day."

If thousands then escaped the sword,
Let none my Cid condemn;

For they were swept into the sea,
And the surge went over them.
There's many a maid of Tetuan
All day shall sit and weep;
But never see her lover's sail

Shine on the northern deep.

There's many a mother, with her babe,
Shall pace the sounding shore,
And think upon its father's smile,
Whom she shall see no more.

Rock, hoary ocean, mournfully,
Upon thy billowy bed;

For, dark and deep, thy surges sweep
O'er thousands of the dead.

AT BAMBOROUGH CASTLE.†

YE holy towers that shade the wave-worn steep,
Long may ye rear your aged brows sublime,
Though hurrying silent by, relentless time
Assait you, and the winter whirlwind's sweep!
For far from blazing grandeur's crowded halls,
Here Charity hath fix'd her chosen seat,
Oft listening tearful when the wild winds beat
With hollow bodings round your ancient walls;
And Pity, at the dark and stormy hour

Of midnight, when the moon is hid on high,
Keeps her lone watch upon the topmost tower,
And turns her ear to each expiring cry;
Blest if her aid some fainting wretch might save,
And snatch him cold and speechless from the

wave.

SONNET.

TO THE RIVER WENSBECK.‡

WHILE slowly wanders thy sequester'd stream,
Wensbeck! the mossy-scatter'd rocks among,
In fancy's ear still making plaintive song
To the dark woods above, that waving seem

* Tynemouth priory and castle, Northumberland.-The remains of this monastery are situated on a high rocky point, on the north side of the entrance into the river Tyne, about a mile and a half below North-Shields. The exalted rock on which the monastery stood rendered it visible at sea a long way off, in every direction, whence it presented itself as if exhorting the seamen in danger to make their vows, and promise masses and presents to the Virgin Mary and St. Oswin for their deliverance.

This very ancient castle, with its extensive domains, heretofore the property of the family of Forster, whose heiress married Lord Crewe, bishop of Durham, is appropriated by the will of that pious prelate to many benevo lent purposes; particularly that of ministering instant relief to such shipwrecked mariners as may happen to be cast on this dangerous coast, for whose preservation, and that of their vessels, every possible assistance is contrived,

A TEMPESTUOUS VOYAGE.

As slow I climb the cliff's ascending side,
Much musing on the track of terror past,
When o'er the dark wave rode the howling blast,
Pleased I look back, and view the tranquil tide

His favourite horse.

†These sonnets were dedicated "To the Rev. Newton Ogle, D D., Dean of Winchester.-Donhead, Wilts, Nov. 1797 "

the hands of trustees, one of whom, Dr. Sharp, archdeacon of Northumberland, with an active zeal well suited to the nature of the humane institution, makes this castle his chief residence, attending with unwearied diligence to the proper application of the charity.

The Wensbeck is a romantic and sequestered river in Northumberland. On its banks is situated our Lady's Chapel. "The remains of this small chapel, or oratory, (says Grose,) stand in a shady solitude, on the north bank of the Wensbeck, about three-quarters of a mile west of Bothall, in a spot admirably calculated for meditation. It was probably built by one of the Barons Ogle." This

SONNET.

AT DOVER CLIFFS, JULY 20, 1787.

On these white cliffs, that, calm above the flood,
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;
And, whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,

And o'er the distant billows the still eve

Sail'd slow, has thought of all his heart must

leave

To-morrow; of the friends he loved most dear;
Of social scenes, from which he wept to part:
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past

recall,

Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, And brave the wild winds and unhearing tideThe world his country, and his God his guide.

SONNET.

AT OSTEND, LANDING, JULY 21, 1787.

THE orient beam illumes the parting oar-
From yonder azure track, emerging white,
The earliest sail slow gains upon the sight,
And the blue wave comes rippling to the shore-
Meantime far off the rear of darkness flies:

Yet 'mid the beauties of the morn, unmoved,
Like one for ever torn from all he loved,
Towards Albion's heights I turn my longing eyes,
Where every pleasure seem'd erewhile to dwell:
Yet boots it not to think, or to complain,
Musing sad ditties to the reckless main:
To dreams like these, adieu! the pealing bell
Speaks of the hour that stays not-and the day
To life's sad turmoil calls my heart away.

SONNET.

AT OSTEND, JULY 22, 1787.

How sweet the tuneful bells' responsive peal!*
As when, at opening morn, the fragrant breeze
Breathes on the trembling sense of wan disease,
So piercing to my heart their force I feel!

And hark! with lessening cadence now they fall,
And now, along the white and level tide,
They fling their melancholy music wide;
Bidding me many a tender thought recall
Of summer days, and those delightful years

When by my native streams, in life's fair prime, The mournful magic of their mingling chime First waked my wondering childhood into tears! But seeming now, when all those days are o'er, The sounds of joy once heard, and heard no more.

SONNET.

ON THE RIVER RHINE.

'Twas morn, and beauteous on the mountain's

brow

(Hung with the beamy clusters of the vine) Stream'd the blue light, when on the sparkling

Rhine

We bounded, and the white waves round the prow

In murmurs parted ;-varying as we go,

Lo! the woods open, and the rocks retire,

Some convent's ancient walls or glistening spire 'Mid the bright landscape's track unfolding slow. Here dark, with furrow'd aspect, like despair,

Frowns the bleak cliff-there on the woodland's side

The shadowy sunshine pours its streaming tide; Whilst hope, enchanted with the scene so fair, Would wish to linger many a summer's day, Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

SONNET.

AT A CONVENT.

Ir chance some pensive stranger, hither led, (His bosom glowing from majestic views, The gorgeous dome, or the proud landscape's hues,)

Should ask who sleeps beneath this lowly bed'Tis sor Matilda!—To the cloister'd scene,

A mourner, beauteous and unknown, she came, To shed her tears unmark'd, and quench the flame

fruitless love: yet was her look serene

Falling at intervals upon the ear

In cadence sweet, now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where memory slept. Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,
And with it all its pleasures and its pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,
That in a few short moments I retrace
(As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years.
Cowper's Task, book vi.

Her voice was soft, which yet a charm could

lend,

Like that which spoke of a departed friend And a meek sadness sat upon her smile! Now, far removed from every earthly ill, Her woes are buried, and her heart is still.

SONNET.

O TIME! Who know'st a lenient hand to lay Softest on sorrow's wound, and slowly they (Lulling to sad repose the weary sense) The faint pang stealest unperceived away;

On thee I rest my only hope at last,

And think, when thou hast dried the bitter tear That flows in vain o'er all my soul held dear, I may look back on every sorrow past, And meet life's peaceful evening with a smileAs some lone bird, at day's departing hour, Sings in the sunbeam, of the transient shower Forgetful, though its wings are wet the while:Yet ah! how much must that poor heart endure, Which hopes from thee, and thee alone, a cure!

SONNET.

LANGUID, and sad, and slow, from day to day
I journey on, yet pensive turn to view
(Where the rich landscape gleams with softer hue)
The streanis, and vales, and hills, that steal away.
So fares it with the children of the earth:

For when life's goodly prospect opens round,
Their spirits beat to tread that fairy ground,
Where every vale sounds to the pipe of mirth.
But them vain hope and easy youth beguiles,

And soon a longing look, like me, they cast Back on the pleasing prospect of the past: Yet fancy points where still far onward smiles Some sunny spot, and her fair colouring blends, Till cheerless on their path the night descends.

SONNET.

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF ENGLAND.

AH! from mine eyes the tears unbidden start,
As thee, my country, and the long-lost sight
Of thy own cliffs, that lift their summits white
Above the wave, once more my beating heart
With eager hope and filial transport hails!

Scenes of my youth, reviving gales ye bring,
As when erewhile the tuneful morn of spring
Joyous awoke amidst your blooming vales,
And fill'd with fragrance every painted plain :
Fled are those hours, and all the joys they gave!
Yet still I gaze, and count each rising wave
That bears me nearer to your haunts again;
If haply, 'mid those woods and vales so fair,
Stranger to peace, I yet may meet her there.

Of solace, that may bear me on serene,
Till eve's last hush shall close the silent scene.

PART II.

SONNET.

As one who, long by wasting sickness worn, Weary has watch'd the lingering night, and

heard

Heartless the carol of the matin bird Salute his lonely porch, now first at morn Goes forth, leaving his melancholy bed;

He the green slope and level meadow views, Delightful bathed with slow-ascending dews; Or marks the clouds, that o'er the mountain's head In varying forms fantastic wander white;

Or turns his ear to every random song, Heard the green river's winding marge along, The whilst each sense is steep'd in still delight. With such delight, o'er all my heart I feel, Sweet hope! thy fragrance pure and healing incense steal!

SONNET.

OCTOBER, 1792.

Go then, and join the roaring city's throng!
Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears,
To busy fantasies, and boding fears,
Lest ill betide thee: but 'twill not be long,
And the hard season shall be past: till then
Live happy; sometimes the forsaken shade
Remembering, and these trees now left to fade;
Nor 'mid the busy scenes and "hum of men,"
Wilt thou my cares forget: in heaviness

To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow, Till, mournful autumn past, and all the snow Of winter pale! the glad hour I shall bless, That shall restore thee from the crowd again, To the green hamlet in the peaceful plain.

SONNET.

TO THE RIVER CHERWELL, OXFORD. CHERWELL! how pleased along thy willow'd hedge Erewhile I stray'd, or when the morn began To tinge the distant turret's gleamy fan, Or evening glimmer'd o'er the sighing sedge! And now reposing on thy banks once more, I bid the pipe farewell, and that sad lay Whose music on my melancholy way I woo'd: amid thy waving willows hoar Seeking a while to rest-till the bright sun Of joy return, as when heaven's beauteous bow Beams on the night-storm's passing wings below: Whate'er betide, yet something have I won

SONNET.

NOVEMBER, 1792.

THERE is strange music in the stirring wind, When lowers the autumnal eve, and all alone To the dark wood's cold covert thou art gone, Whose ancient trees on the rough slope reclined Rock, and at times scatter their tresses sear.

If in such shades, beneath their murmuring, Thou late hast pass'd the happier hours of spring, With sadness thou wilt mark the fading year; Chiefly if one, with whom such sweets at morn Or eve thou'st shared, to distant scenes shall stray.

O, spring, return! return, auspicious May!
But sad will be thy coming, and forlorn,
If she return not with thy cheering ray,
Who from these shades is gone, gone far away.