* * * * * SPIRIT OF THE PUBLIC JOURNALS. BLONDEL DE NESLE. "Blondel de Nesle the favourite minstrel of Richard Coeur de Lion, and an attendant upon his person, devoted himself to discover the place of his confinement during the crusade against Saladin, emperor of the Saracens. He wandered in vain from castle to palace, till he learned that a strong and almost inaccessible fortress upon the Danube was watched with peculiar strictness, as containing some state-prisoner of distinction. The minstrel took his harp, and approaching as near the castle as he durst, came so nigh the walls as to hear the melancholy captive soothing his imprisonment with music. Blondel touched his harp; the prisoner heard and was silent: upon this the minstrel played the first part of a tune, or lay, known to the captive; who instantly played the second part; and thus, the faithful servant obtained the certainty that the inmate of the castle was no other than his royal master."--_Tales of a Grandfather_, p 69. The Danube's wide-flowing water lave The captive's dungeon cell, And the voice of its hoarse and sullen wave Breaks forth in a louder swell, And the night-breeze sighs in a deeper gust, For the flower of chivalry droops in dust! A yoke is hung over the victor's neck, And fetters enthral the strong, And manhood's pride like a fearful wreck, Lies the breakers of care among; And the gleams of hope, overshadow'd, seem The phantoms of some distemper'd dream. But the heart--the heart is unconquer'd still-- A host in its solitude! Quenchless the spirit, though fetter'd the will, Of that warrior unsubdued; His soul, like an arrow from rocky ground, Shall fiercely and proudly in air rebound. But the hour of darkness girds him now With a pall of deepest night, Anguish sits throned on his moody brow, And the curse of thy withering blight, Despair, thou dreariest deathliest foe! His senses hath steep'd in a torpid woe. From the dazzling splendour of gloriest past The warrior sickening turns. To list to the sound of the wailing blast, As the wan lamp dimly burns: For the daring might of the lion-hearted With Freedom's soul-thrilling notes hath parted. O'er his harp-string droops his palsied hand, And the fitful strain alone Murmurs the notes of his native land-- Does echo repeat that moan From the dungeon wall so grim and so drear?-- No!--an answering minstrel lingers there. Up starts the listening king--a flash Of memory's gifted lore Bursts on his soul--a deed so rash, What captive would e'er deplore? Since bonds no longer unnerve the free, And valour hath won fidelity. Dark child of sorrow, sweet comfort take, In thy lone heart's widowhood, Some charmed measure may yet awake Arresting affliction's flood, And thy prison'd soul unfetter'd be By the answering spirit of sympathy! _Metropolitan._