Chapter 11

In his hand he took the goblet: but awhile the draught forbore, Seeming doubtfully the purpose of the foeman to explore.

Well might then have paused the bravest--for, around him, angry foes With a hedge of naked weapons did the lonely man enclose.

"But what fear'st thou?" cried the caliph; "is it, friend, a secret blow? Fear it not! our gallant Moslems no such treacherous dealing know.

"Thou may'st quench thy thirst securely, for thou shalt not die before Thou hast drunk that cup of water--this reprieve is thine--no more!"

Quick the satrap dashed the goblet down to earth with ready hand, And the liquid sank forever, lost amid the burning sand.

"Thou hast said that mine my life is, till the water of that cup I have drained; then bid thy servants that spilled water gather up!"

For a moment stood the caliph as by doubtful passions stirred-- Then exclaimed: "For ever sacred must remain a monarch's word. Bring another cup, and straightway to the noble Persian give: Drink, I said before, and perish--now I bid thee drink and live!"

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

* * * * *

BATTLE SCENE.

FROM "THE CID."

Then cried my Cid--"In charity, as to the rescue--ho!" With bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointing low, With stooping crests and heads bent down above the saddle-bow, All firm of hand and high of heart they roll upon the foe. And he that in a good hour was born, his clarion voice rings out, And clear above the clang of arms is heard his battle shout: "Among them, gentlemen! Strike home for the love of charity! The champion of Bivar is here--Ruy Diaz--I am he!" Then bearing where Bermuez still maintains unequal fight, Three hundred lances down they come, their pennons flickering white; Down go three hundred Moors to earth, a man to every blow; And when they wheel, three hundred more, as charging back they go. It was a sight to see the lances rise and fall that day; The shivered shields and riven mail, to see how thick they lay; The pennons that went in snow-white came out a gory red; The horses running riderless, the riders lying dead; While Moors call on Mohammed, and "St. James!" the Christians cry, And sixty score of Moors and more in narrow compass lie.

From the Spanish. Translation of JOHN ORMSBY.

* * * * *

THE LORD OF BUTRAGO.

"Your horse is faint, my King, my Lord! your gallant horse is sick,-- His limbs are torn, his breast is gored, on his eye the film is thick; Mount, mount on mine, O mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly! Or in my arms I'll lift your Grace,--their trampling hoofs are nigh!

"My King, my King,! you're wounded sore,--the blood runs from your feet; But only lay a hand before, and I'll lift you to your seat; Mount, Juan, for they gather fast!--I hear their coming cry,-- Mount, mount, and ride for jeopardy,--I'll save you though I die!

"Stand, noble steed! this hour of need,--be gentle as a lamb; I'll kiss the foam from off thy mouth,--thy master dear I am,-- Mount, Juan, mount; whate'er betide, away the bridle fling, And plunge the rowels in his side.--My horse shall save my King!

"Nay, never speak; my sires, Lord King, received their land from yours, And joyfully their blood shall spring, so be it thine secures; If I should fly, and thou, my King, be found among the dead, How could I stand 'mong gentlemen, such scorn on my gray head?

"Castile's proud dames shall never point the finger of disdain, And say there's one that ran away when our good lords were slain! I leave Diego in your care,--you'll fill his father's place; Strike, strike the spur, and never spare--God's blessing on your Grace!"

So spake the brave Montañez, Butrago's lord was he; And turned him to the coming host in steadfastness and glee; He flung himself among them, as they came down the hill,-- He died, God wot! but not before his sword had drunk its fill.

From the Spanish. Translation of JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

* * * * *

HAKON'S DEFIANCE.

FROM "HAKON JARL."

[Olaf Trygvesön from Ireland is trying to introduce Christianity, and reclaim his father's kingdom, in Norway, and has invaded the realm of Earl Hakon, a formidable heathen usurper, who, after defeat in battle, unsuccessfully attempts to have King Olaf assassinated by Thorer Klake, one of his adherents. But Olaf slays Klake, and now visits Hakon, lying hid in a peasant's hut.]

_Enter_ OLAF TRYGVESÖN, _muffled up in a gray cloak, with a broad hat on his head._

HAKON [_without looking up_].-- My valiant Thorer Klake, hast come at last? Hast been successful? Dost thou bring to me What thou didst promise? Answer, Thorer Klake.

OLAF.--All things have happened as they should, my lord; But pardon Thorer that he does not come And bring himself King Olaf's head to thee-- 'Twas difficult for him. Thor knows he had A sort of loathing that himself should bring it, And so he sent me.

HAKON.--Well, 'tis good; away, And deeply bury it in the dark earth. I will not look on it myself: my eye Bears not such sights,--they reappear in dreams. Bury the body with it. Tell thy lord That he shall come at once.

OLAF.--He is asleep.

HAKON.--Asleep?

OLAF.--A midday slumber; he lies stretched Stiffly beneath a shadowy elder-tree.

HAKON.--Then wake him up. [_Aside._] Asleep, Asleep, and after such A deed--Ha! Thorer, I admire thee; Thou hast rare courage. [_Aloud._] Thrall, go wake him up.

OLAF.--But wilt thou first not look at Olaf's head?

HAKON.--No; I have said no.

OLAF.--Thou dost think, my lord, That perhaps it is a horrid frightful sight: It is not so, my lord; for Olaf's head Looks fresh and sound as any in the land.

HAKON.--Away, I tell thee!

OLAF.--I ne'er saw the like: I always heard that Hakon was a hero, Few like him in the North,--and does he fear To see a lifeless and a corpseless head? How wouldst thou tremble then, my lord, if thou Shouldst see it on his body?

HAKON [_turning round angrily_].-- Thrall, thou darest! Where hast thou got it?

OLAF [_takes his hat off, and throws off his cloak_].-- On my shoulders, Earl. Forgive me that I bring it thee myself In such a way: 'twas easiest for me.

HAKON.--What, Olaf! Ha! what treachery is here?

OLAF.--Old gray-beard, spare thy rash, heroic wrath. Attempt not to fight Olaf, but remember That he has still his head upon his body, And that thy impotent, gray-bearded strength Was only fitting for the headless Olaf.

HAKON [_rushes at him_].-- Ha, Hilfheim!

OLAF [_strikes his sword, and says in a loud voice_].-- So, be quiet now, I say, And sheathe thy sword again. My followers Surround the house; my vessels are a match For all of thine, and I myself have come To win the country in an honest fight. Thyself hast urged me with thy plots to do it. Thou standest like a despicable thrall In his own pitfall caught at last; but I Will make no use of these advantages Which fate has granted me. I am convinced That I may boldly meet thee face to face. Thy purpose, as thou seest, has wholly failed, And in his own blood does thy Thorer swim. Thou seest 'twere easy for me to have seized thee; To strike thee down were even easier still: But I the Christian doctrine do confess, And do such poor advantages despise. So choose between two courses. Still be Earl Of Hlade as thou wast, and do me homage, Or else take flight; for when we meet again 'Twill be the time for red and bleeding brows.

HAKON [_proudly and quietly_].-- My choice is made. I choose the latter, Olaf. Thou callest me a villain and a thrall; That forces up a smile upon my lips. Olaf, one hears indeed that thou art young; It is by mockery and arrogance That one can judge thy age. Now, look at me Full in the eyes; consider well my brow: Hast thou among the thralls e'er met such looks? Dost think that cunning or that cowardice Could e'er have carved these wrinkles on my brow? I did entice thee hither. Ha! 'tis true I knew that thou didst wait but for a sign To flutter after the enticing bait; That in thy soul thou didst more highly prize Thy kinship with an extinct race of kings Than great Earl Hakon's world-renownèd deeds; That thou didst watch the opportunity To fall upon the old man in his rest. Does it astonish thee that I should wish Quickly to rid myself of such a foe? That I deceived a dreamer who despised The mighty gods,--does that astonish thee? Does it astonish thee that I approved My warrior's purpose, since a hostile fate Attempted to dethrone, not only me, But all Valhalla's gods?

OLAF.--Remember, Hakon,-- Remember, Hakon, that e'en thou thyself Hast been a Christian; that thou wast baptized By Bishop Popo, and that thou since then Didst break thy oath. How many hast thou broken?

HAKON.--Accursed forever may that moment be When by the cunning monk I was deceived, And let myself be fooled by paltry tricks. He held a red-hot iron in his hand, After by magic he had covered it With witches' ointment.

OLAF.--O thou blind old man! Thy silver hair does make me pity thee.

HAKON.--Ha! spare thy pity; as thou seest me here, Thou seest the last flash and the latest spark Of ancient Northern force and hero's life; And that, with all thy fever-stricken dreams, Proud youth, thou shalt be powerless to quench. I well do know it is the Christian custom To pity, to convert, and to amend. Our custom is to heartily despise you, To ruminate upon your fall and death, As foes to gods and to a hero's life. That Hakon does, and therein does consist His villainy. By Odin, and by Thor, Thou shalt not quench old Norway's warlike flame With all thy misty dreams of piety.

OLAF.--'Tis well: fate shall decide. We separate, And woe to thee when next we meet again.

HAKON.--Aye, woe to me if then I crush thee not.

OLAF.--Heaven shall strike thee with its fiery might!

HAKON.--No, with his hammer Thor the cross will smite!

From the Danish of ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER. Translation of SIR FRANK C. LASCELLES.

* * * * *

A DANISH BARROW

ON THE EAST DEVON COAST.

Lie still, old Dane, below thy heap! A sturdy-back and sturdy-limb, Whoe'er he was, I warrant him Upon whose mound the single sheep Browses and tinkles in the sun, Within the narrow vale alone.

Lie still, old Dane! This restful scene Suits well thy centuries of sleep: The soft brown roots above thee creep, The lotus flaunts his ruddy sheen, And,--vain memento of the spot,--The turquoise-eyed forget-me-not.

Lie still! Thy mother-land herself Would know thee not again: no more The Raven from the northern shore Hails the bold crew to push for pelf, Through fire and blood and slaughtered kings 'Neath the black terror of his wings.

And thou,--thy very name is lost! The peasant only knows that here Bold Alfred scooped thy flinty bier, And prayed a foeman's prayer, and tost His auburn head, and said, "One more Of England's foes guards England's shore,"

And turned and passed to other feats, And left thee in thine iron robe, To circle with the circling globe, While Time's corrosive dewdrop eats The giant warrior to a crust Of earth in earth, and rust in rust.

So lie: and let the children play And sit like flowers upon thy grave And crown with flowers,--that hardly have A briefer blooming-tide than they;-- By hurrying years urged on to rest, As thou within the Mother's breast.

FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE.

* * * * *

HERMANN AND THUSNELDA.

Ha! there comes he, with sweat, with blood of Romans, And dust of the fight all stained! Oh, never Saw I Hermann so lovely! Never such fire in his eyes!

Come! I tremble for joy; hand me the Eagle And the red dripping sword! come, breathe, and rest thee; Rest thee here in my bosom; Rest from the terrible fight!

Rest thee, while from thy brow I wipe the big drops, And the blood from thy cheek!--that cheek, how glowing! Hermann! Hermann! Thusnelda Never so loved thee before!

No, not then, when thou first in old oak shadows, With that manly brown arm didst wildly grasp me! Spell-bound I read in thy look That immortality then

Which thou now hast won. Tell to the forests, Great Augustus, with trembling, amidst his gods now, Drinks his nectar; for Hermann, Hermann immortal is found!

"Wherefore curl'st thou my hair? Lies not our father Cold and silent in death? Oh, had Augustus Only headed his army,-- _He_ should lie bloodier there!"

Let me lift up thy hair; 'tis sinking, Hermann: Proudly thy locks should curl above the crown now! Sigmar is with the immortals! Follow, and mourn him no more!

From the German of FREIDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK.

* * * * *

THE BATTLE-SONG OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS.

Fear not, O little flock! the foe Who madly seeks your overthrow, Dread not his rage and power; What though your courage sometimes faints? His seeming triumph o'er God's saints Lasts but a little hour.

Be of good cheer; your cause belongs To him who can avenge your wrongs, Leave it to him, our Lord. Though hidden now from all our eyes, He sees the Gideon who shall rise To save us, and his word.

As true as God's own word is true, Not earth or hell with all their crew Against us shall prevail. A jest and by-word are they grown; God is with us, we are his own, Our victory cannot fail.

Amen, Lord Jesus; grant our prayer! Great Captain, now thine arm make bare; Fight for us once again! So shall the saints and martyrs raise A mighty chorus to thy praise, World without end! Amen.

From the German of MICHAEL ALTENBURG.

* * * * *

SWORD SONG.

Sword, on my left side gleaming, What means thy bright eye's beaming? It makes my spirit dance To see thy friendly glance. Hurrah!

"A valiant rider bears me; A free-born German wears me: That makes my eye so bright; That is the sword's delight." Hurrah!

Yes, good sword, I _am_ free, And love thee heartily, And clasp thee to my side, E'en as the plighted bride. Hurrah!

"And I to thee, by Heaven, My light steel life have given; When shall the knot be tied? When wilt thou take thy bride?" Hurrah!

The trumpet's solemn warning Shall hail the bridal morning, When cannon-thunders wake, Then my true-love I take. Hurrah!

"O blessèd, blessèd meeting! My heart is wildly beating: Come, bridegroom, come for me; My garland waiteth thee." Hurrah!

Why in the scabbard rattle, So wild, so fierce for battle? What means this restless glow? My sword, why clatter so? Hurrah!

"Well may thy prisoner rattle; My spirit yearns for battle. Rider, 'tis war's wild glow That makes me tremble so." Hurrah!

Stay in thy chamber near, My love; what wilt thou here? Still in thy chamber bide; Soon, soon I take my bride. Hurrah!

"Let me not longer wait: Love's garden blooms in state, With roses bloody-red, And many a bright death-bed." Hurrah!

Now, then, come forth, my bride! Come forth, thou rider's pride! Come out, my good sword, come! Forth to thy father's home! Hurrah!

"O, in the field to prance The glorious wedding dance! How, in the sun's bright beams, Bride-like the clear steel gleams!" Hurrah!

Then forward, valiant fighters! And forward, German riders! And when the heart grows cold, Let each his love infold. Hurrah!

Once on the left it hung, And stolen glances flung; Now clearly on your right Doth God each fond bride plight. Hurrah!

Then let your hot lips feel That virgin cheek of steel; One kiss,--and woe betide Him who forsakes the bride. Hurrah!

Now let the loved one sing; Now let the clear blade ring, Till the bright sparks shall fly, Heralds of victory! Hurrah!

For, hark! the trumpet's warning Proclaims the marriage morning; It dawns in festal pride; Hurrah, thou Iron Bride! Hurrah!

From the German of KARL THEODOR KÖRNER. Translation of CHARLES TIMOTHY BROOKS.

* * * * *

THE TROOPER'S DEATH.

The weary night is o'er at last! We ride so still, we ride so fast! We ride where Death is lying. The morning wind doth coldly pass, Landlord! we'll take another glass, Ere dying.

Thou, springing grass, that art so green, Shall soon be rosy red, I ween, My blood the hue supplying! I drink the first glass, sword in hand, To him who for the Fatherland Lies dying!

Now quickly comes the second draught, And that shall be to freedom quaffed While freedom's foes are flying! The rest, O land, our hope and faith! We'd drink to thee with latest breath, Though dying!

My darling!--ah, the glass is out! The bullets ring, the riders shout-- No time for wine or sighing! There! bring my love the shattered glass-- Charge! On the foe! no joys surpass Such dying!

From the German of GEORG HERWEGH. Translation of ROSSITER W. RAYMOND.

* * * * *

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, and he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen,--at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around, To hear my mournful story, in that pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun; And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,-- The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,-- And one had come from Bingen,--fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age; For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would,--but kept my father's sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen,--calm Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die; And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine) For the honor of old Bingen,--dear Bingen on the Rhine.

"There's another,--not a sister; in the happy days gone by You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye; Too innocent for coquetry,--too fond for idle scorning,-- O friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her the last night of my life (for, ere the moon be risen, My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison),-- I dreamed I stood with _her_, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen,--fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"I saw the blue Rhine sweep along,--I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounding, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine,-- But we'll meet no more at Bingen,--loved Bingen on the Rhine."

His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse,--his grasp was childish weak,-- His eyes put on a dying look,--he sighed and ceased to speak; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled,-- The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen,--fair Bingen on the Rhine.

CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON.

* * * * *

HOHENLINDEN.

[1800.]

On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed, To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rushed the steeds to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stainèd snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

* * * * *

IVRY.

[1590.]

Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let raptures light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joys; For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war! Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; An as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.