"Spare pity, King of Aragon!

I would not hear thee lie:

My lord is looking down from heaven
To see his standard fly."

"Yield, madman, yield! thy horse is down,
Thou hast nor lance nor shield;

Fly! I will grant thee time." "This flag
Can neither fly nor yield!"

They girt the standard round about,
A wall of flashing steel;

But still they heard the battle-cry,
"Olea for Castile!"

And there, against all Aragon,
Full-armed with lance and brand,

Olea fought until the sword
Snapped in his sturdy hand.

Among the foe with that high scorn
Which laughs at earthly fears,
He hurled the broken hilt, and drew
His dagger on the spears.

They hewed the hauberk from his breast,
The helmet from his head;

They hewed the hands from off his limbs;
From every vein he bled.

Clasping the standard to his heart,
He raised one dying peal,

That rang as if a trumpet blew,—

"Olea for Castile!"

George H. Boker.

HER LETTER.

I'm sitting alone by the fire,

Dressed just as I came from the dance,

In a robe even you would admire,—

It cost a cool thousand in France;

I'm be-diamonded out of all reason,
My hair is done up in a cue:
In short, sir, "the belle of the season"
Is wasting an hour on you.

A dozen engagements I 've broken;
I left in the midst of a set;

Likewise a proposal, half spoken,

That waits on the stairs-for me yet. They say he'll be rich,—when he grows up,And then he adores me indeed.

And you, sir, are turning your nose up,
Three thousand miles off, as you read.

"And how do I like my position?"

"And what do I think of New York?" "And now, in my higher ambition,

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk?" "And is n't it nice to have riches,

And diamonds, and silks, and all that?"
"And are n't it a change to the ditches
And tunnels of Poverty Flat?"

Well, yes,—if you saw us out driving
Each day in the park, four-in-hand,-
If you saw poor, dear mamma contriving
To look supernaturally grand,-
If you saw papa's picture as taken
By Brady, and tinted at that,—
You'd never suspect he sold bacon
And flour at Poverty Flat.

And yet, just this moment, when sitting
In the glare of the grand chandelier,-
In the bustle and glitter befitting

The "finest soirée of the year,

In the mists of a gauze de Chambéry,

And the hum of the smallest of talk,

Somehow, Joe, I thought of the "Ferry,"

And the dance that we had on "The Fork;"

Of Harrison's barn, with its muster
Of flags festooned over the wall;

Of the candles that shed their soft luster
And tallow on head-dress and shawl;

Of the steps that we took to one fiddle;
Of the dress of my queer vis-à-vis;
And how I once went down the middle
With the man that shot Sandy McGee;

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping

On the hill, when the time came to go;
Of the few baby peaks that were peeping
From under their bedclothes of snow;
Of that ride,—that to me was the rarest;
Of the something you said at the gate,-
Ah, Joe, then I was n't an heiress

To "the best-paying lead in the State."

Well, well, it's all past; yet it's funny
To think, as I stood in the glare
Of fashion, and beauty, and money,
That I should be thinking, right there,
Of some one who breasted high water,

And swam the North Fork, and all that,
Just to dance with old Folinsbee's daughter,
The Lily of Poverty Flat.

But goodness! what nonsense I'm writing!
(Mamma says my taste still is low,)
Instead of my triumphs reciting,

I'm spooning on Joseph,-heigh-ho!
And I'm to be "finished" by travel,-
Whatever's the meaning of that,-
Oh! why did papa strike pay gravel
In drifting on Poverty Flat?

Good-night, here's the end of my paper; .

Good-night, if the longitude please,

For maybe while wasting my taper,

Your sun's climbing over the trees.

But know if you have n't got riches,

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that,

That my heart 's somewhere there in the ditches, And you've struck it,—on Poverty Flat.

Bret Harte.

THE BUGLE SONG.

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill, or field, or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Lord Tennyson.

THE GREEN GNOME.

Ring, sing! ring, sing! pleasant Sabbath bells!
Chime, rhyme! chime, rhyme! through dales and dells!

And I galloped and I galloped on my palfrey white as milk, My robe was of the sea-green woof, my serk was of the silk;

My hair was golden yellow, and it floated to my shoe; My eyes were like two harebells bathed in little drops of dew;

My palfrey, never stopping, made a music sweetly blent With the leaves of autumn dropping all around me as I went;

And I heard the bells, grown fainter, far behind me peal and play,

Fainter, fainter, fainter, till they seemed to die away;

And beside a silver runnel, on a little heap of sand,

I saw the green gnome sitting, with his cheek upon his hand.

Then he started up to see me, and he ran with cry and bound,

And drew me from my palfrey white and set me on the ground.

O crimson, crimson were his locks, his face was green to see,

But he cried, "O light-haired lassie, you are bound to marry me!"

He clasped me round the middle small, he kissed me on

the cheek,

He kissed me once, he kissed me twice,-I could not stir

or speak;

He kissed me twice, he kissed me thrice,-but when he kissed again,

I called aloud upon the name of Him who died for men.

Sing, sing! ring, ring! pleasant Sabbath bells!

Chime, rhyme! chime, rhyme! through dales and dells!

O faintly, faintly, faintly, calling men and maids to pray,
So faintly, faintly, faintly, rang the bells far away;
And as I named the Blessed Name, as in our need we can,
The ugly green, green gnome became a tall and comely

man:

His hands were white, his beard was gold, his eyes were black as sloes,

His tunic was of scarlet woof, and silken were his hose;
A pensive light from Faëryland still lingered on his cheek,
His voice was like the running brook, when he began to

speak;

"O, you have cast away the charm my step-dame put on me,

Seven years I dwelt in Faëryland, and you have set me free.

O, I will mount thy palfrey white, and ride to kirk with thee,

And, by those little dewy eyes, we twain will wedded be!"'

Back we galloped, never stopping, he before and I behind, And the autumn leaves were dropping, red and yellow, in the wind: