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BLONDEL'S SONG UNDER THE PRISON WINDOW OF RICHARD CŒUR-DE-LION.

SEDAINE. TRANSLATED BY THE EDITORS.

O RICHARD, O my King,

The world forgets thee!

I, only I, lament

That ill besets thee.

I, in the wide world only I,

Would break the chains that bind thee.

The universe forgets, and I

Alone would seek and find thee.

O Richard, O my King,

The world forgets thee!

I, only I, lament

That ill besets thee.

Yet sure one heart beside

Must sore regret thee.
Ah, yes! thy true love's heart
Must feel this bitter smart

That ills beset thee!

Monarch, thy truest friends

The laurel's glory wear not;

They who the myrtle bear

Their loyal love forswear not!

In weal or woe,
In joy or pain,
With no mean hope

Of selfish gain

The troubador is leal to thee
With faith and love and constancy.

O Richard, O my King,

The world forgets thee!

I, only I, lament

That ill besets thee.

O Richard, O my King,

The world forgets thee!
While I, thy Blondel, weep
That ill besets thee.

O Richard, can it be

That all the world forgets thee?

Must I alone lament

That ill besets thee?

TO THE NEAPOLITANS.

THOMAS Moore.

Ay, down to the dust with them, slaves as they are!
From this hour let the blood in their dastardly veins,

That shrunk at the first touch of liberty's war
Be wasted for tyrants, or stagnate in chains.

On, on like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er —
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails

From each slave-mart of Europe, and shadow their shore !

Let their fate be a mock-word, let men of all lands

Laugh out with a scorn that shall ring to the poles, When each sword, that the cowards let fall from their hands,

Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls.

And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
Base slaves! let the whet of their agony be,

To think as the doomed often think of that heaven

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They had once within reach that they might have been free.

When the world stood in hope-when a spirit that breathed

The fresh hour of the olden time, whispered about; And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheathed,

But waited one conquering cry to flash out!

When around you the shades of your mighty in fame,
Filicajas and Petrarchs seemed bursting to view,
And their words, and their warnings, like tongues of
bright flame

Over Freedom's apostles, fell kindling on you!

Oh, shame! that in such a proud moment of life,
Worth ages of history, when had you but hurled

One bolt at your tyrant invader, that strife Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world,

That then-oh! disgrace upon manhood-even then You should falter, should cling to your pitiful breath;

Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood

men,

And prefer the slave's life of prostration to death.

It is strange, it is dreadful! shout, Tyranny, shout Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er!"

If there lingers one spark of her life, tread it out, And return to your empire of darkness once more.

SWEDISH BATTLE-SONG.

ALTENBURG.

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 yet 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,
Nor earth, nor hell, with all their crew,
Against us shall prevail,—

A jest and byword 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 thy saints and martyrs raise

A mighty chorus to Thy praise,

World without end. Amen.

THE LORD OF BUTRAGO.

SPANISH BALLAD.

TRANSLATION OF JOHN GIBSON LOCKHART.

"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, oh, mount apace, I pray thee, mount and fly!

Or in my arms I'll lift Your Grace. Their trampling hoofs are nigh!

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