Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has rolled

away;

And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of

gray.

Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels;

There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels.

"Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance!

Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance!

Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall;

Like a plowshare in the fallow, through them plows the Northern ball."

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on:

Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost and who has won?

"Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall, O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all!"

"Lo! the wind, the smoke is lifting: Blest Mother save my brain!

I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain.

Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise;

Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!"

"Oh, my heart's love! oh, my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee;

Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me! canst thou see?

Oh, my husband, brave and gentle! Oh, my Bernal, look

once more

On the blest cross before thee! mercy! mercy! all is o'er!"

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;

Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast;

Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said;

To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a sold

ier lay,

Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his

life away;

But, as tenderly before him, the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol belt.

With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her

head;

With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her

dead;

But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain,

And she raised the cooling water to his parched lips again.

Whispered low the dying soldier, prest her hand and faintly smiled:

Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child?

All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied;

With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and died!

"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth, From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!"

Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead,

And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled.

Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the wind

Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind;

Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive;

Hide your faces, holy angels! Oh, thou Christ of God, forgive!"

Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;

Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled,

In its sheath the saber rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food;

Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung,

And the dying foeman blest them in a strange and Northern tongue.

Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers;

From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer,

And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air!

THE BENEDICTION

BY FRANCOIS COPPÉE

It was in eighteen hundred-yes-and nine,
That we took Saragossa. What a day

Of untold horrors! I was sergeant then.
The city carried, we laid siege to houses,

All shut up close, and with a treacherous look,

Raining down shots upon us from the windows.

""Tis the priest's doing!" was the word passed round;
So that altho since daybreak under arms,
Rattled the musketry with ready aim,

If shovel hat and long black coat were seen
Flying in the distance. Up a narrow street
My company worked on. I kept an eye
On every house-top, right and left, and saw
From many a roof flames suddenly burst forth,
Coloring the sky, as from the chimney-tops
Among the forges. Low our fellows stooped,
Entering the low-pitched dens. When they came out,
With bayonets dripping red, their bloody fingers
Signed crosses on the wall; for we were bound,
In such a dangerous defile, not to leave

Foes lurking in our rear.

There was no drum-beat, No ordered march. Our officers looked grave; The rank and file uneasy, jogging elbows

As do recruits when flinching.

All at once,
Rounding a corner, we were hailed in French
With cries for help. At double-quick we join
Our hard-prest comrades. They were grenadiers,
A gallant company, but beaten back

Inglorious from the raised and flag-paved square,
Fronting a convent. Twenty stalwart monks
Defended it, black demons with shaved crowns,
The cross in white embroidered on their frocks,

Barefoot, their sleeves tucked up, their only weapons
Enormous crucifixes, so well brandished

Our men went down before them. By platoons
Firing we swept the place; in fact, we slaughtered
This terrible group of heroes, no more soul
Being in us than in executioners.

There in the background solemnly the church
Loomed up, its doors wide open.

We went in.

It was a desert. Lighted tapers starred

The inner gloom with points of gold. The incense
Gave out its perfume. At the upper end,
Turned to the altar, as tho unconcerned
In the fierce battle that had raged, a priest,
White-haired and tall of stature, to a close
Was bringing tranquilly the mass. So stamped
Upon my memory is that thrilling scene,
That, as I speak, it comes before me now,—
The convent built in old time by the Moors;
The huge brown corpses of the monks; the sun
Making the red blood on the pavement steam;
And there, framed in by the low porch, the priest;
And there the altar brilliant as a shrine;

And here ourselves, all halting, hesitating,

Almost afraid.

"Shoot him!" our captain cried.

Not a soul budged. The priest beyond all doubt
Heard; but, as tho he heard not, turning round,
He faced us with the elevated Host,

Having that period of the service reached
When on the faithful benediction falls.

His lifted arms seemed as the spread of wings;
And as he raised the pyx, and in the air
With it described the cross, each man of us
Fell back, aware the priest no more was trembling
Than if before him the devout were ranged.
But when, intoned with clear and mellow voice.