NOTES.

Note 1, page 111, line 4.

Bivar, the supposed birthplace of the Cid, was a castle, about two leagues from Burgos.

Note 2, page 112, line 12.

Tornaba la cabeza, e estabalos catando:
Vio puertas abiertas, e uzos sin cañados,
Alcandaras vacias, sin pielles e sin mantos:
E sin falcones, e sin adtores mudados.
Sospirò mio Cid.

Poem of the Cid.

Note 3, page 113, line 3.

The Zambra, a Moorish dance. When Valencia was taken by the Cid, many of the Moorish families chose to remain there, and reside under his government.

Note 4, page 113, line 16.

The calm fortitude of Ximena is frequently alluded to in the romances.

Note 5, page 114, line 16.

Banderas antiguas, tristes
De victorias un tiempo amadas,
Tremolando estan al viento

Y lloran aunque no hablan, &c.

Herder's translation of these romances (Der Cid, nach Spanischen Romanzen besungen) are remarkable for their spirit and scrupulous fidelity.

Note 6, page 114, line 23, and page 116, line 22.

"And while they stood there they saw the Cid Ruy Diez coming up with three hundred knights; for he had not been in the battle, and they knew his green pennon.”—SOUTHEY'S Chronicle of the Cid.

Note 7, page 117, line 23.

Alvar Fañez Minaya, one of the Cid's most distinguished warriors.

Note 8, page 118, line 1.

The Archer Queen.

A Moorish Amazon, who, with a band of female warriors, accompanied King Bucar from Africa. Her arrows were so unerring, that she obtained the name of the Star of Archers.

Una Mora muy gallarda,
Gran maestra en el tirar,
Con Saetas del Aljava,
De los arcos de Turquia
Estrella era nombrada,
Por la destreza que avia
En el herir de la Xára.

Note 9, page 119, line 9.

See SOUTHEY's Chronicle of the Cid, p. 352.

ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD OF GRUTLI. 123

ON A FLOWER FROM THE FIELD
OF GRÜTLI.

WHENCE art thou, flower? from holy ground,
Where freedom's foot hath been!

Yet bugle-blast or trumpet sound
Ne'er shook that solemn scene.

Flower of a noble field! thy birth
Was not where spears have cross'd,
And shiver'd helms have strewn the earth,
'Midst banners won and lost.

But where the sunny hues and showers

Unto thy cup were given,

There met high hearts at midnight hours,
Pure hands were raised to heaven.

And vows were pledged that man should roam
Through every Alpine dell,

Free as the wind, the torrent's foam,

The shaft of William Tell.

And prayer, the full deep flow of prayer,
Hallow'd the pastoral sod,

And souls grew strong for battle there,
Nerved with the peace of God.

Before the Alps and stars they knelt,
That calm devoted band,

And rose, and made their spirits felt
Through all the mountain land.

124 ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

Then welcome Grütli's free-born flower!
Even in thy pale decay

There dwells a breath, a tone, a power,
Which all high thoughts obey.

ON A LEAF FROM THE TOMB OF VIRGIL.

AND was thy home, pale wither'd thing,
Beneath the rich blue southern sky?
Wert thou a nursling of the spring,
The winds and suns of glorious Italy?

Those suns in golden light e'en now,
Look o'er the poet's lovely grave,

Those winds are breathing soft, but thou Answering their whisper, there no more shalt wave.

The flowers, o'er Posilippo's brow,

May cluster in their purple bloom,
But on th' o'ershadowing ilex-bough,

Thy breezy place is void by Virgil's tomb,

Thy place is void; oh! none on earth,
This crowded earth, may so remain,

Save that which souls of loftiest birth
Leave when they part, their brighter home to gain.

Another leaf, ere now, hath sprung

On the green stem which once was thine;
When shall another strain be sung

Like his whose dust hath made that spot a shrine ?

THE CHIEFTAIN'S SON.

YES, it is ours!-the field is won,

A dark and evil field! Lift from the ground my

noble son,

And bear him homewards on his bloody shield!

Let me not hear your trumpets ring,

Swell not the battle-horn!

Thoughts far too sad those notes will bring, When to the grave my glorious flower is borne!

Speak not of victory!-in the name

There is too much of woe!

Hush'd be the empty voice of Fame-
Call me back his whose graceful head is low.

Speak not of victory!—from my halls
The sunny hour is gone!
The ancient banner on my walls,

Must sink erelong—I had but him—but one!

Within the dwelling of my sires

The hearths will soon be cold,

With me must die the beacon-fires

That stream'd at midnight from the mountain-hold.

And let them fade, since this must be,

My lovely and my brave!

Was thy bright blood pour'd forth for me, And is there but for stately youth a grave?