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But thirty brows, inflamed and stern,
Fill high the cups, raise loud the strain !
Loud Guthrum spake, — “Nay, gaze not thus,
Grim sat the chiefs ; one heaved a groan,
Red wounds are lovelier than the rose
The Harper slowly bent his head,
“0, fairer than a field of flowers,
For that slender body was full o' soul,
And the will is mair than shape ;
As the skipper saw when they cleared the berg, The wind it blew, and the ship it flew;
And he heard her quarter scrape. And it was “Hey for hame !
Quo the skipper : “Ye are a lady fair, And ho for hame!” But the skipper cried,
And a princess grand to see ; “ Haud her oot o'er the saut sea faem.”
But ye are a woman, and a man wad sail
To hell in yer company."
She liftit a pale and queenly face ;
“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 Wi' the wind astarn, he crowded sail,
helm, And stood right out to sea.
Until the day did daw;
And the skipper he spak, but what he said Quo the king, “There's treason in this, I vow ; It was said atween them twa.
This is something underhand! 'Bout ship!” Quo the skipper, “Yer grace
| And then the good ship she lay to, forgets
With the land far on the lee; Ye are king but o' the land!”
And up came the king upo' the deck,
Wi' wan face and bluidshot ee. And still he held to the open sea ;
The skipper he louted to the king : And the east-wind sank behind;
“Gae wa', gae wa'," said the king. And the west had a bitter word to say,
Said the king, like a prince, “I was a' wrang, Wi' a white-sea roarin' wind.
Put on this ruby ring."
And he turned her head into the north.
And the wind blew lowne, and the stars cam' oot, Said the king : “Gar fling him o'er.”
And the ship turned to the shore;
1 They saw Scotland ance more.
That day the ship hung at the pier-heid,
And the king he stept on the land. “Skipper, kneel down,” the king he said,
“Hoo daur ye afore me stand ?"
I Now was not this a king's daughter,
And a brave lady beside ?
The skipper he louted on his knee,
The king his blade he drew : Said the king, “How daured ye contre me?
I'm aboard my ain ship noo.
“I canna mak ye a king," said he,
“For the Lord alone can do that; And besides ye took it intil yer ain han'
And crooned yersel' sae pat !
“But wi' what ye will I redeem my ring;
For ance I am at your beck.
Rise up Yerl о' Quarterdeck."
The skipper he rose and looked at the king
In his een for all his croon; Said the skipper, “Here is yer grace's ring,
And yer daughter is my boon.' The reid blude sprang into the king's face, –
A wrathful man to see: “ The rascal loon abuses our grace ;
Gae hang him upon yon tree.”
NORVAL. 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
fied 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, I left my father's house, and took with me A chosen servant to conduct my steps, — | Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master. Journeying with this intent, I passed these
towers, And, Heaven-directed, came this day to do The happy deed that gilds my humble name.
But the skipper he sprang aboard his ship,
And he drew his biting blade ; And he struck the chain that held her fast,
But the iron was ower weel made.
And the king he blew a whistle loud;
And tramp, tramp, down the pier, Cam' twenty riders on twenty steeds,
Clankin' wi' spur and spear.
“He saved your life !” cried the lady fair ;
“ His life ye daurna spill!" “Will ye come atween me and my hate?”
Quo the lady, “And that I will !”
And on cam' the knights wi' spur and spear,
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."
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
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.
| Their haggard looks, and strange soliloquies.
. Once, nor long before, | And truly 't was a gallant thing to see that Alone at day break on the Mettenberg,
crowning show, He slipped, he fell ; and, through a fearful cleft Valor and love, and a king above, and the royal Gliding from ledge to ledge, from deep to deeper, beasts below. Went to the under-world! Long-while he lay Upon his rugged bed, - then waked like one Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughWishing to sleep again and sleep forever!
ing jaws; For, looking round, he saw, or thought he saw, They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a Innumerable branches of a cavern,
wind went with their paws ; Winding beneath a solid crust of ice;
With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled With here and there a rent that showed the stars ! on one another, What then, alas, was left him but to die ? | Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a What else in those immeasurable chambers,
thunderous smother ; Strewn with the bones of miserable men, The bloody foam above the bars came whisking Lost like himself! Yet must he wander on, - through the air ; Till cold and hunger set his spirit free! Said Francis then, “Faith, gentlemen, we're And, rising, he began his dreary round;
better here than there." When hark, the noise as of some mighty river Working its way to light! Back he withdrew, De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous But soon returned, and, fearless from despair,
lively dame, Dashed down the dismal channel ; and all day,
With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which If day could be where utter darkness was,
always seemed the same ; Traveled incessantly, the craggy roof
She thought, the Count, my lover, is brave as Just overhead, and the impetuous waves,
brave can be ; Nor broad nor deep, yet with a giant's strength. He surely would do wondrous things to show his Lashing him on. At last the water slept
love of me; In a dead lake, — at the third step he took, King, ladies, lovers, all look on ; the occasion is Unfathomable, — and the roof, that long
divine; Had threatened, suddenly descending, lay I'll drop my glove, to prove his love ; great glory Flat on the surface. Statue-like he stood,
will be mine. His journey ended, when a ray divine Shot through his soul. Breathing a prayer to She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then Ler
looked at him and smiled; Whose ears are never shut, the Blessed Virgin, He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the He plunged, he swam, - and in an instant rose, lions wild ; The barrier past, in light, in sunshine! Through The leap was quick, return was quick, he has A smiling valley, full of cottages,
regained his place, Glittering the river ran; and on the bank Then threw the glove, but not with love, right The young were dancing ('t was a festival-day) | in the lady's face. All in their best attire. There first he saw. “By Heaven," said Francis, “rightly done !" His Madelaine. In the crowd she stood to hear,
and he rose from where he sat ; When all drew round, inquiring; and her face. “No love," quoth he, “but vanity, sets love a Seen behind all, and varying, as he spoke,
task like that."
LEIGH HUNT, With hope and fear and generous sympathy, Subdued him. From that very hour he loved. SAMUEL ROGERS.
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 :
IF ever you should come to Modena,
'T is of a lady in her earliest youth,
Francesco flew to Venice, and, embarking, The last of that illustrious family;
Flung it away in battle with the Turk. Done by Zampieri — but by whom I care not. Orsini lived, — and long might you have seen He who observes it, ere he passes on,
An old man wandering as in quest of something, Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, Something he could not find, he knew not what. That he may call it up when far away.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless, then went to strangers. She sits inclining forward as to speak, Her lips half open, and her finger up,
Full fifty years were past, and all forgotten, As though she said “Beware!” her vest of gold When, on an idle day, a day of search Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to Mid the old lumber in the gallery, foot,
That moldering chest was noticed ; and 't was said An emerald stone in every golden clasp; By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
“Why not remove it from its lurking place?” A coronet of pearls.
'T was done as soon as said ; but on the way But then her face,
It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, The overflowings of an innocent heart,
A golden clasj», clasping a shred of gold ! It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, All else had perished, — save a wedding-ring, Like some wild melody!
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Alone it hangs Engraven with a name, the name of both,
There then had she found a grave! But richly carved by Antony of Trent
| Within that chest had she concealed herself, With Scripture stories from the life of Christ, — Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; A chest that came from Venice, and had held When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, The ducal robes of some old ancestor,
Fastened her down forever!
SAMUEL ROGERS. That, by the way --- it may be true or false — But don't forget the picture ; and you will not When you have heard the tale they told me there.
THE MISTLETOE BOUGH.
She was an only child, - her name Ginevra, The mistletoe hung in the castle hall, The joy, the pride, of an indulgent father; | The holly branch shone on the old oak vall; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
And keeping their Christmas holiday. Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. The baron beheld with a father's pride
His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride ; Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, | While she with her bright eyes seemed to be She was all gentleness, all gayety,
The star of the goodly company. Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; “I'in weary of dancing now," she cried ; Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, “Here tarry a moment, — I'll hide, I 'll hide! The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; And, Lovell, be sure thou 'rt first to trace And, in the luster of her youth, she gave The clew to my secret lurking-place.” Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. Away she ran, — and her friends began
Each tower to search, and each nook to scan; as the joy ; but at the nuptial feast, And young Lovell cried, “O, where dost thou hide ? When all sate down, the bride herself was wanting, I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride." Nor was she to be found! Her father cried, “'T is but to make a trial of our love!”
They sought her that night, and they sought her And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, next day, And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. And they sought her in vain when a week passed 'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, away : Laughing and looking back, and flying still, In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot, Her ivory tooth inprinted on his finger. Young Lovell songht wildly, - but found her not. But now, alas, she was not to be found; And years flew by, and their grief at last Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, Was told as a sorrowful tale long past ; But that she was not!
| And when Lovell appeared, the children cried, Weary of his life, I "See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride."