He drew the falchion from the sheath, And held it up on high; And all the hall was still as death;-- Cries Bernard, "Here am I-- And here's the sword that owns no lord, Excepting Heaven and me; Fain would I know who dares its point,-- King, Condé or Grandee." Then to his mouth his horn he drew-- It hung below his cloak-- His ten true men the signal knew, And through the ring they broke; With helm on head, and blade in hand, The knights the circle break, And back the lordlings 'gan to stand, And the false king to quake. "Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, "What means this warlike guise? Ye know full well I jested-- Ye know your worth I prize!" But Bernard turned upon his heel, And, smiling, passed away:-- Long rued Alphonso and his realm The jesting of that day! J. G. Lockhart. CLXXVI. THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. One more unfortunate, Weary of breath, Rashly importunate, Gone to her death! Take her up tenderly Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly Young, and so fair! Look at her garments Clinging like cerements; Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing: Take her up instantly, Loving, not loathing. Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully Gentle and humanly; Not of the stains of her-- All that remains of her Now is pure womanly. Make no deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful: Past all dishonor, Death has left on her Only the beautiful. Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses; While wonderment guesses Where was her home?