Northern Star, And Warren And Bristol Gazette

The following production from the
pen of Mrs. Hemans, is a touching and
pathetic Ballad, and a fair specimen of
her style and talents. The cele-
brated Spanish champion, Bernardo del
Carpio, having made many ineffectual
efforts to procure the release of his fa-
ther, in despair waged a destructive
war against the government: The king
at the request of his subjects, consented
to release the captive, on condition
that the war should end, and the Chief
surrender the keys of his strong hold.
Bernardo immediately complied with
these terms, and surrendering the cas-
tle, went forth to meet his father:—
In the mean time the tyrant caused the
prisoner to be put to death, and cloth-
ing the body in armour had it placed
upon a war-horse, and in the keeping
of his knights and gentlemen sent it out
to meet the embraces of the son.

The warrior bow’d his crested head
And tamed his heart to fire
And sued the haughty king
To free his long imprisoned sire:
“I bring thee here my fortress keys,
Bring my captive train,
I pledge the faith, my liege, my lord,
Oh break my father’s chain!”

“Rise, rise! e’en now thy father comes,
A ransom’d man this day;
Mount thy good horse, and thou and I
Will meet him on his way.”

Then lightly rose that loyal son,
And bounded on his steed,
And urged, as if with lance in rest,
The charger’s foamy speed.

And lo! from far as on they press’d,
There came a glittering band,
With one that midst them stately rode,
As a leader in the land.

Now haste, Bernardo, haste! For there,
In very truth, is he,
The father whom thy faithful heart
Hath yearn’d so long to see!

His dark eye flash’d—his proud breast heaved—
His changing cheek came and went,
He reach’d that grey-hair’d chieftain’s side,
And there dismounting bent,
A lowly knee to earth he bent,
His father’s hand he took—
What was there in its touch
That all his fiery spirit shook?

That hand was cold—and fix’d and still,
It dropp’d from his like lead—
He look’d upon the face above
The eyes were of the dead:

A plume waved o’er the noble brow’
The brow was white and calm;
He met it last as it had been
But in them was no sight,

Up from the ground he sprang and gazed,
But who could paint that gaze?
They hush’d their very hearts that saw
Its horror and amaze;

They might have chain’d him as before,
That stony form he stood,
For the power was stricken from his arm
And from his lip the blood!

“Father!” at length he murmur’d low,
And wept like childhood then—.
Talk not of grief till thou hast seen
The tears of warlike men!

He thought on all his glorious hopes,
And all his young renown—
He flung the falchion from his side
And in the dust sat down.

Then covering with his steel-glov’d hand
His darkly mournful brow,
“No more, there is no more” he said
“To lift the sword for now!

My king is false, my hope betray’d
My father—oh the worth,
The glory and the loveliness,
Are passed away from earth.

I thought to stand where banners wav’d
My sire! beside thee yet!
I would that there our kindred blood
On Spain’s free soil had met:

Thou would’st have known my spirit then
For thee my fields were won,
And thou hast perish’d in thy chains,
As though thou hadst no son!”

Then starting from the ground once more
He seiz’d the monarch’s rein,
Amidst the pale and wilder’d looks
Of all the courtier-train,

And with a fierce o’ermastering grasp
The rearing war-horse led,
And sternly set them face to face,
The king before the dead.

“Came I not forth upon thy pledge
My father’s hand to kiss?
Be still, and gaze thou on false king?
And tell me what is this?

The voice, the glance, the heart I sought,
Give answer! where are they?
If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul
Bend life through this cold clay

Into these glassy eyes put light!
Be still, keep down your ire
Bid these white lips a blessing speak
This earth is not my sire!

Give me back him for whom I strove,
For whom my blood was shed?
Thou can’st not—and a king! his dust
Be mountains on thy head.

He loosed the steed his slack hand fell
Upon the silent face
He cast one long, deep, troubled look;
Then turn’d from that sad place.

His hope was crush’d, his after-fate
Untold in martial strain,
His banners led the spears no more
Amidst the hills of Spain.