PELAYO:

OR,

THE CAVERN OF COVADONGA.

CANTO FOURTH.

PELAYO:

OR,

THE CAVERN OF COVADONGA.

CANTO FOURTH.

I.

What name on earth, or heaven, can be,
So dear to man, as liberty!

Cold is the heart that does not bound,
Whene'er that spirit-stirring sound

Is heard so cold, that Nature never made a heart
To which that one, inspiring word, could not impart
A thrill of joy !---by her just laws, all-all--are

free--

Nor lordly man---nor lowly beast---knows slavery!
The very reptile, spurned beneath our feet,
By instinct, feels that liberty is sweet-
Who---that hath lived 'neath heaven's wide ex-
panse---

Hath breathed at large the freshened air--And felt life's buoyant current lightly dance

Through all his veins-though pallid care Hath plough'd her iron fingers on his brow---though

mean

His state--deserted---desolate---and poor---as e'en
If misery---that ragged God---
With pestilential step had trod

His dwelling---hath not felt that freedom's name Was dearer, far, than wealth, or empty fame?

IL.

The warrior who draws his steel

To shield his country's danger'd weal, Feels not the coward pulse of fear-high 'mid the

fight

The form of Liberty, is ever in his sight!

One hand the banner of freedom rears

But the visage of Death in her other
Like the lightning, swift-

He seizes her gift

Nor cares which he may reach—

There's liberty in each !—

appears--

But he, whose wrongs no blood can wash away--Whose chains, no struggle break

For in the dungeon's wall-'neath despot's swayWhat vengeance may he wreak ?—

'Tis there 't is there-that slavery galls the

most

To him, the very name of Vengeance, lost!

He cannot have the sweet relief,

That she will ever give—
In sighs alone can vent his grief,
In bondage still must live !—

III.

The stilly hour of midnight came again,

And came-scarce known-scarce reck'd-by those who'd lain

For many a weary night and day, Uncheer'd by hope's sweet gladd'ning ray Within the dungeon's loathsome wall,With heavy hearts, and heavier thrall. "Twas there 'mid clouds of low'ring gloom, The Christian youths waited their doom ;The taper's blue and flickering light Told them alone 't was dead of night; For faint the sun of day could come Within their dismal dungeon's home; And now, the waning taper burnt so dim, That (as the moonbeam stole across the flame,) It shed a spectral light on all around— While Fancy in each dreary corner found

A pallid face-or ghostly shadow of some form That in that deep vault's horrid gloom, till death, had worn

Its chains-and there-had ling'ring lived-unpitied died

Victim perchance of worldly tyranny, and pride!

IV.

Midnight her sceptre sways-it is the fearful hour, When the mind of man loses its firmer tone and

power;

When the sage, who jests at unseen sprites, A spectral shape in every niche will see— And the warrior start at shadowy sights, He laughs to scorn, as fantasies, by dayBut there were two who heeded not how near, Time's laggard wing had brought that hour of

fear