And she, the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,—
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's.
One of the few, the immortal names
That were not born to die.

Heroes Die, but Heroism is Eternal.

(EXTRACT FROM MR. MURDOCH'S LECTURES.)

ON the 21st of February, 1862, a battle was fought in Texas between the Federal forces and the Rebels. Captain McRea, of the Federal artillery, was in command of a battery supported by a force of New Mexican levies. The Texan Rangers made a dash for the guns: the infantry gave way and ingloriously fled at the first charge, thus leaving the battery unsupported. Nothing daunted, the gallant McRea fought on until, finding himself surrounded, and seeing no chance of redeeming the fortunes of the day, in defiance of the summons to surrender, he drew his revolvers, and, leaping on one of his guns, maintained the fight, falling in the midst of foes, covered with wounds,thus gallantly sealing with his blood his fidelity to his country's cause. Who would withhold from such valor the meed of praise, or feel his pulse beat sluggishly when the poet sings in glowing strains the gloirous deeds of those who die in defence of country and Government, covered with the benediction of a sorrowing people?

The circumstances attending the glorious death of the hero of our fight, and that of the hero of Mr. Boker's poem, are the property of different ages and of different nations; yet the soul which shines through them belongs to all time and all nations: it is the generous outpouring of that spirit which burns in the bosom of every man loyal to honor, to woman, and to country, and which sustains the possessor in every trial of danger and of suffering, and in the solemn hour of death. True honor and chivalry are the same now as they were in the days of romance, and are always found beneath the banners on which are emblazoned Justice, Truth, and Virtue; and there, till Fame's trump shall sound no more, will be found such glorious and selfsacrificing champions as Olea and McRea.

Count Candespina's Standard.

BY GEORGE H. BOKER.

"THE King of Aragon now entered Castile by way of Soria and Osma with a powerful army; and, having been met by the queen's forces, both parties encamped near Sepulveda, and prepared to give battle.

"This engagement, called, from the field where it took place, de la Espina, is one of the most famous of that age. The dastardly Count of Lara filed at the first shock, and joined the queen at Burgos, where she was anxiously awaiting the issue; but the brave Count of Candespina (Gomez Gonzalez) stood his ground to the last, and died on the field of battle. His standard-bearer, a gentleman of the house of Olea, after having his horse killed under him, and both hands cut off by sabrestrokes, fell beside his master, still clasping the standard in his arms, and repeating his war-cry of 'Olea!"-MRS. GEORGE: Annals of the Queens of Spain.

SCARCE were the splinter'd lances dropp'd,
Scarce were the swords drawn out,

Ere recreant Lara, sick with fear,

Had wheel'd his steed about;

His courser rear'd, and plunged, and neigh'd, Loathing the fight to yield;

But the coward spurr'd him to the bone,

And drove him from the field.

Gonzalez in his stirrups rose:

“Turn, turn, thou traitor knight! Thou bold tongue in a lady's bower, Thou dastard in a fight!"

But vainly valiant Gomez cried
Across the waning fray :
Pale Lara and his craven band
To Burgos scour'd away.

"Now, by the God above me, sirs,

Better we all were dead,

Than a single knight among ye all

Should ride where Lara led!

As

"Yet, ye who fear to follow me,
yon traitor turn and fly;
For I lead ye not to win a field:
I lead ye forth to die.

"Olea, plant my standard here,
Here, on this little mound;
Here raise the war-cry of thy house,
Make this our rallying ground.

"Forget not, as thou hop'st for grace,
The last care I shall have,

Will be to hear thy battle-cry,
And see that standard wave."

Down on the ranks of Aragon
The bold Gonzalez drove,
And Olea raised his battle-cry,
And waved the flag above.

Slowly Gonzalez' little band

Gave ground before the foe;

But not an inch of the field was won
Without a deadly blow;

And not an inch of the field was won
That did not draw a tear

From the widow'd wives of Aragon,
That fatal news to hear.

Backward and backward Gomez fought,
And high o'er the clashing steel,
Plainer and plainer, rose the cry,
"Olea for Castile!"

Backward fought Gomez, step by step,
Till the cry was close at hand,

-Till his dauntless standard shadow'd him

And there he made his stand.

Mace, sword, and axe rang on his mail,
Yet he moved not where he stood,
Though each gaping joint of armor ran
A stream of purple blood.

;

As, pierced with countless wounds, he fell, The standard caught his eye,

And he smiled, like an infant hush'd asleep,

To hear the battle-cry.

Now one by one the wearied knights

Have fallen, or basely flown;

And on the mound where his post was fix'd

Olea stood alone.

"Yield up thy banner, gallant knight!

Thy lord lies on the plain;

Thy duty has been nobly done;

I would not see thee slain."

"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-arm'd with lance and brand,

Olea fought until the sword

Snapp'd in his sturdy hand.

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

They hew'd the hauberk from his breast,

The helmet from his head,

They hew'd 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 !"