Recoiling, turmoiling, and toiling and boiling, And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping,

And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing, And so never ending, but always descending,

Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,

And this way the water comes down at Lodore. ROBERT SOUTHEY.

EL QUEMADERO.*

THE bell has toll'd the mid-day hour!
There stays no serf in his orange-bower,
There stays no lord in his marble hall;
Out rush prince, peasant, noble, all !
Out pours the city's living tide,
Priest, father, infant, lover, bride;
Unheeding the crowd, or the sultry glare,
All rush to the Quemadero Square :

Last-known by the trumpets and golden vane--
Comes in its pomp Don Philip's train.

First ride the ancient priests and lords,

That bear the crosses and crowns and swords;
Then, cased in mail from head to heel,

Rides thy proud chivalry, Castile,

On jennets that scarce their strength can tame,
With hoofs like the wind and eyes like flame;
And last,-midst shouts that rend the air,
Circled with men of hoary hair,

And breasts on which the scarf and star

Tell of the days of Moorish war,—

*The place at which reputed heretics were burnt at Seville, in Spain.

Rides-brightest of the dazzling ring,
In mail of gold and gems-the King.
Why comes thy pageant, fair Seville ?
Why pours the living torrent still?
Why gaze those myriad eyes aloof,

From wall, and tower, and sculptured roof?
Why waves the flag on Giralda's hall?
Why wakes the trumpet's silvery call ?—
Or peal the cymbal and tambour

For some new triumph o'er the Moor?
Or crowns Don Philip the ivory brows
Of Carlos' sweet Italian spouse?

But all are hush'd: and all their gaze
Is turn'd upon a sullen blaze

Lit in the centre of the square ;

And round it men-with tonsures bare,
And eyes, as if by life forsook,
Fix'd on their legendary book—
Go, circling, each with wither'd hand
Flinging upon the flame his brand.

Anon upon the distance swim

The echoes of a fearful hymn.

There's joy in the lip, and there's pride in the eye, Of thousands who to that hymn reply:

But the eye of the King blazed with fiercer pride,

As he saw the black banner waving wide,
And the sable monks of St. Dominic came,
Leading the living food of the flame;
The remnants of rack and dungeon dim,
With the hollow cheek, and the wasted limb,
And the bleeding foot, and the eye's wild glare,
And the lip that utter'd its dying prayer.
They are ranged around the Quemadero stone,
Their fiery scaffold, and grave, and throne!

Monarch! who saw thy bosom shake,
As each was girded to the stake?
Was in thy soul no fibre wrung,
As yell'd to thee the victim's tongue?
As rose to judging Heaven the groan
As on his pile the torch was thrown ?

No, King! thy cheek was still the same, When round the Martyr burst the flame; When from the dead it sank away, And man and pile were ashes grey; When myriads wept, in woe and fear,— Still was thy brow proud, cold, and clear. But, Monarch! from a loftier throne, An ear has heard the Martyr's groan! Who sows in blood, in blood shall reap; The thunders have slept, they no more shall sleep. Thou shalt know agony by night,— By day, confusion, fear, and flight; Thy land shall be a fruitless field, Her sons against her sons be steel'd; Her crown be rent, her golden soil The foe, the slave, the stranger's spoil; The wind, the wave, shall crush thy pride Go to the grave, dark homicide!

Yet give, whene'er thou wilt, thy form To be the pasture of the worm;

Yet perish as thou wilt, thine eye,

Even from the grave, the wreck shall spy;
See Spain, a field of feud and gore,
Till vengeance quits the lifeless shore;
An Afric waste of plague and sand,—
The lion monarch of the land!

ANONYMOUS.

SUMMER LONGINGS.

AH! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May-
Waiting for the pleasant rambles
Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles,
With the woodbine alternating,
Scent the dewy way.

Ah! my heart is weary waiting,
Waiting for the May.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May-
Longing to escape from study,

To the young face fair and ruddy,
And the thousand charms belonging
To the summer's day.

Ah! my heart is sick with longing,
Longing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May—

Sighing for their sure returning,

When the summer beams are burning, Hopes and flowers, that dead or dying

All the winter lay.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May.

Ah! my heart is pain'd with throbbing,
Throbbing for the May-

Throbbing for the sea-side billows,
Or the water-wooing willows;

Where in laughing and in sobbing

Glide the streams away.

Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,
Throbbing for the May.

Waiting sad, dejected, weary,
Waiting for the May.

Spring goes by with wasted warnings—
Moon-lit evenings, sun-bright mornings;
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary
Life still ebbs away;

Man is ever weary, weary,
Waiting for the May!

ANONYMOUS.

THE COVENANTER'S SCAFFOLD SONG.*

SING with me! sing with me!
Weeping brethren, sing with me!
For now an open heaven I see,
And a crown of glory laid for me.
How my soul this earth despises !
How my heart and spirit rises!
Bounding from the flesh I sever,—
World of sin, adieu for ever!

Sing with me! sing with me!
Friends in Jesus, sing with me!
All my sufferings, all my woe,
All my griefs, I here forego.
Farewell terrors, sighing, grieving,
Praying, hearing, and believing,
Earthly trust, and all its wrongings,
Earthly love, and all its longings.

Sing with me! sing with me!
Blessed spirits, sing with me!

* See M'Crie's account of the martyrdom of M'Kail.