But thirty brows, inflamed and stern,

Soon bent on him their gaze,
While calm he gazed, as if to learn

Who chief deserved his praise.

Fill high the cups, raise loud the strain ! When chief and monarch fall,

Their names in song shall breathe again, And thrill the feastful hall."

Loud Guthrum spake,
Thou Harper weak and poor!
By Thor who bandy looks with us
Must worse than looks endure.

Sing high the praise of Denmark's host,
High praise each dauntless Earl;
The brave who stun this English coast
With war's unceasing whirl."

The Harper slowly bent his head,
And touched aloud the string;
Then raised his face, and boldly said,
"Hear thou my lay, O King!
High praise from every mouth of man
To all who boldly strive,

Who fall where first the fight began,
And ne'er go back alive.

"Fill high your cups, and swell the shout, At famous Regnar's name!

Who sank his host in bloody rout,
When he to Humber came.

His men were chased, his sons were slain,
And he was left alone.

They bound him in an iron chain
Upon a dungeon stone.

"With iron links they bound him fast;
With snakes they filled the hole,
That made his flesh their long repast,
And bit into his soul.

"Great chiefs, why sink in gloom your eyes? Why champ your teeth in pain?

Still lives the song though Regnar dies!
Fill high your cups again.!

Ye too, perchance, O Norseman lords!
Who fought and swayed so long,
Shall soon but live in minstrel words,
And owe your names to song.

"This land has graves by thousands more
Than that where Regnar lies.

When conquests fade, and rule is o'er,
The sod must close your eyes.

How soon, who knows? Not chief, nor bard;
And yet to me 't is given,

To see your foreheads deeply scarred,

And guess the doom of Heaven.

"I may not read or when or how,

But, Earls and Kings, be sure
I see a blade o'er every brow,
Where pride now sits secure.

His iron mace was grasped by one,

By one his wine was shed.

And Guthrum cried, "Nay, bard, no more

We hear thy boding lay;

Make drunk the song with spoil and gore!

Light up the joyous fray!”

"Quick throbs my brain,"
"To hear the strife once more.
The mace, the ax, they rest too long;
Earth cries, My thirst is sore.
More blithely twang the strings of bows
Than strings of harps in glee;

-so burst the song,

Red wounds are lovelier than the rose
Or rosy lips to me.

"O, fairer than a field of flowers, When flowers in England grew,

Would be the battle's marshaled powers, The plain of carnage new.

With all its deaths before my soul

The vision rises fair;

Raise loud the song, and drain the bowl!

I would that I were there!"

Loud rang the harp, the minstrel's eye Rolled fiercely round the throng;

It seemed two crashing hosts were nigh, Whose shock aroused the song.

A golden cup King Guthrum gave

To him who strongly played;

And said, "I won it from the slave

Who once o'er England swayed."

King Guthrum cried, "T'was Alfred's own;

Thy song befits the brave :

The King who cannot guard his throne

Nor wine nor song shall have."
The minstrel took the goblet bright,
And said, "I drink the wine

To him who owns by justest right
The cup thou bid'st be mine.

"To him, your Lord, O shout ye all !
His meed be deathless praise!

The King who dares not nobly fall,
Dies basely all his days."

"The praise thou speakest," Guthrum said, "With sweetness fills mine ear;

For Alfred swift before me fled,

And left me monarch here.

The king crept down the cabin-stair, To drink the gude French wine.

And up she came, his daughter fair,

And luikit ower the brine.

She turned her face to the drivin' hail,
To the hail but and the weet;
Her snood it brak, and, as lang's hersel',
Her hair drave out i' the sleet.

She turned her face frae the drivin' win' "What's that ahead?" quo she.

The skipper he threw himsel' frae the win', And he drove the helm a-lee.

"Put to yer hand, my lady fair!

Put to yer hand," quo he; "Gin she dinna face the win' the mair, It's the waur for you and me."

For the skipper kenned that strength is strength,
Whether woman's or man's at last.

To the tiller the lady she laid her han',
And the ship laid her cheek to the blast.

For that slender body was full o' soul,
And the will is mair than shape;
As the skipper saw when they cleared the berg,
And he heard her quarter scrape.

Quo the skipper: "Ye are a lady fair,
And a princess grand to see;
But ye are a woman, and a man wad sail
To hell in yer company."

She liftit a pale and queenly face;

66

Her een flashed, and syne they swim.

And what for no to heaven?" she says,

And she turned awa' frae him.

But she took na her han' frae the good ship's

helm,

Until the day did daw;

And the skipper he spak, but what he said It was said atween them twa.

And then the good ship she lay to,
With the land far on the lee;
And up came the king upo' the deck,
Wi' wan face and bluidshot ee.

The skipper he louted to the king:

"Gae wa', gae wa'," said the king. Said the king, like a prince, "I was a' wrang, Put on this ruby ring."

And the wind blew lowne, and the stars cam' oot,
And the ship turned to the shore;
And, afore the sun was up again,
They saw Scotland ance more.

and spear,

And on cam' the knights wi' spur
For they heard the iron ring.
"Gin ye care na for yer father's grace,
Mind ye that I am the king."

"I kneel to my father for his grace,
Right lowly on my knee;

But I stand and look the king in the face,
For the skipper is king o' me."

She turned and she sprang upo' the deck,
And the cable splashed in the sea.
The good ship spread her wings sae white,
And away with the skipper goes she.

FROM THE TRAGEDY OF "DOUGLAS."

My name is Norval: on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain,
Whose constant cares were to increase his store,
And keep his only son, myself, at home.
For I had heard of battles, and I longed
To follow to the field some warlike lord:
And Heaven soon granted what my sire denied.
This moon which rose last night, round as my
shield,

Had not yet filled her horn, when, by her light,
A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills,
Rushed like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks and herds.
The shepherds

fled

For safety and for succor. I alone,
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hovered about the enemy, and marked
The road he took, then hastened to my friends,
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,

I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumbered foe.
We fought and conquered. Ere a sword was
drawn

An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief,
Who wore that day the arms which now I wear.
Returning home in triumph, I disdained
The shepherd's slothful life; and having heard
That our good king had summoned his bold peers
To lead their warriors to the Carron side,

JORASSE was in his three-and-twentieth year; Graceful and active as a stag just roused; Gentle withal, and pleasant in his speech, Yet seldom seen to smile. He had grown up Among the hunters of the Higher Alps; Had caught their starts and fits of thoughtful

ness,

Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies.

Once, nor long before,
Alone at daybreak on the Mettenberg,

He slipped, he fell; and, through a fearful cleft
Gliding from ledge to ledge, from deep to deeper,
Went to the under-world! Long-while he lay
Upon his rugged bed, then waked like one
Wishing to sleep again and sleep forever!
For, looking round, he saw, or thought he saw,
Innumerable branches of a cavern,

Winding beneath a solid crust of ice;

With here and there a rent that showed the stars!
What then, alas, was left him but to die?
What else in those immeasurable chambers,
Strewn with the bones of miserable men,
Lost like himself? Yet must he wander on,
Till cold and hunger set his spirit free!
And, rising, he began his dreary round;
When hark, the noise as of some mighty river
Working its way to light! Back he withdrew,
But soon returned, and, fearless from despair,
Dashed down the dismal channel; and all day,
If day could be where utter darkness was,
Traveled incessantly, the craggy roof
Just overhead, and the impetuous waves,

And truly 't was a gallant thing to see that crowning show,

Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.

Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws;

They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws;

With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another,

Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother;

The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air;

Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."

De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame,

With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same;

She thought, the Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be ;

Lashing him on.

In a dead lake,

Unfathomable,

At last the water slept

at the third step he took, and the roof, that long

Had threatened, suddenly descending, lay Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood, His journey ended, when a ray divine

love of me ;

King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine;

I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.

Ler

Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin,
He plunged, he swam, and in an instant rose,
The barrier past, in light, in sunshine! Through
A smiling valley, full of cottages,
Glittering the river ran; and on the bank
The young were dancing ('t was a festival-day)
All in their best attire. There first he saw
His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,
When all drew round, inquiring; and her face,
Seen behind all, and varying, as he spoke,
With hope and fear and generous sympathy,
Subdued him. From that very hour he loved.

SAMUEL ROGERS.

looked at him and smiled;

He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the

lions wild ;

The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place,

Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.

"By Heaven," said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat ; "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."

LEIGH HUNT.

THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS.

KING FRANCIS was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,

And one day, as his lions fought, sat looking on the court.

The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride,

And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed :*

GINEVRA.

If ever you should come to Modena, Where among other trophies may be seen Tassoni's bucket (in its chain it hangs Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina), Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate, Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, Will long detain you; but, before you go, Enter the house- forget it not, I pray— And look awhile upon a picture there.

'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth, The last of that illustrious family;

Done by Zampieri - but by whom I care not.
He who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,

That he may call it up when far away.

She sits inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up,

As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,

An emerald stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls.

But then her face,

So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,

The overflowings of an innocent heart,

Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, When, on an idle day, a day of search Mid the old lumber in the gallery, That moldering chest was noticed; and 't was said By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, "Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" 'T was done as soon as said; but on the way It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton,

With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold!

She was an only child, — her name Ginevra, The joy, the pride, of an indulgent father; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,

And a small seal, her mother's legacy, Engraven with a name, the name of both, "Ginevra."

There then had she found a grave! Within that chest had she concealed herself, Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, Fastened her down forever!

SAMUEL ROGERS.

THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.

Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gayety,

Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum;
And, in the luster of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the nuptial feast, When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting, Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, "T is but to make a trial of our love!" And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. 'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back, and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. But now, alas, she was not to be found; Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, But that she was not! Weary of his life,

His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride; While she with her bright eyes seemed to be The star of the goodly company.