“Close let my sheaf of arrows stand; My mighty battle-axe now bring; My ashen spear place in my hand; Around my neck my buckler sling. Let my white locks once more be pressed By the old cap of Milan steel; Such soldier’s gear becomes them best-- They love their old defence to feel. “’Tis well! Now buckle to my waist My well-tried gleaming blade of Spain My old blood leaps in joyful haste To feel it on my thigh again. And here this pendent loop upon, Suspend my father’s dagger bright; My spurs of gold, too, buckle on-- Or Seward dies not like a knight.” ’Twas done. No tear bedimmed his eyes-- His manly heart had ne’er known fear; It answered not the deep-fetched sighs Of friends and comrades standing near. Death was upon him: that grim foe Who smites the craven as the brave. With patience Seward met the blow-- Prepared and willing for the grave. The manner of the death, or rather of the dying of Seward, Earl of Northumberland, was in part, unconsciously, imitated by the great Mansfeldt. When the career of the latter was nearly at its close, his fragile frame was already worn out by excess of action--his once stout soul irritated by disappointment, and his former vigorous constitution shattered by the ravages of a disease which had long preyed on it in secret. The erst gallant knight lay helpless in the miserable village of Zara, in Dalmatia. As he found his last moment drawing near, he put on one of his richest uniforms, and girded his favorite sword to his side. It was the one he most constantly carried in battle. Thus accoutred, he summoned his chief officers to attend him. He was held up by the two whom he most wished to distinguish, because of their unwavering fidelity. Thus upheld, he exhorted all to go on, unwearied, in the path of glory; and, living or dying, never to bate a breath of inveterate hatred for Austria--whose government has been accursed in all time, since there has been an Austria, for its unmitigated infamy. “With the indifference of a man preparing for a journey of no extraordinary importance,” thus speaks Naylor, when describing the scene, “he continued tranquilly to converse with his friends to the latest moment of his existence. His body was interred with military pomp at Spalatio, in Dalmatia, at the expense of the Venetians. Thus was the emperor delivered from an enemy who, though often defeated, never ceased to be formidable; and whose transcendent genius was so fertile in resources, that, without the smallest funds to support the expenses of war, he maintained an honorable contest during seven campaigns against the most powerful monarchs in Europe.” His hour at length is come: The hero of a hundred fields, Who never yielded, only yields To Him who rules the tomb. He whose loud trumpet’s blast, Carried upon the trembling gale The voice of death o’er hill and dale, Is struck himself at last.