Looked the stars, those heavenly friends, down into the great hall. But round the walls, upon nails of steel, were hanging in order Breastplate and helm with each other, and here and there in among them Downward lightened a sword, as in winter evening a star shoots. More than helmets and swords, the shields in the banquet-hall glistened, White as the orb of the sun, or white as the moon's disc of silver. Ever and anon went a maid round the board and filled up the drink-horns; Ever she cast down her eyes and blushed; in the shield her reflection Blushed too, even as she;-this gladdened the hard-drinking champions. FRITHIOF'S TEMPTATION. FROM THE SWEDISHI. SPRING is coming, birds are twittering, forests leaf, and smiles the sun, Swarming in its gorgeous splendour is assembled all the court; Now the huntsman's band is ready. Hurrah! over hill and dale! * * * * * Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the greensward spread, And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiof's knees his head, Slept, as calmly as the hero sleepeth after war's alarms On his shield, calm as an infant sleepeth in its mother's arms. As he slumbers, hark! there sings a coal-black bird upon a bough: 'Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, close your quarrel at a blow; Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss she gave; Now no human eye beholds thee; deep and silent is the grave.” Frithiof listens; hark! there sings a snow-white bird upon the bough: Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin's eye beholds thee now. Coward, wilt thou murder slumber? a defenceless old man slay? Whatsoe'er thou winn'st, thou canst not win a hero's fame this way." Thus the two wood-birds did warble; Frithiof took his war-sword good, With a shudder hurled it from him, far into the gloomy wood. Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand; but on light unfolded wings, Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding towards the sun upsprings. Straight the ancient king awakens. "Sweet has been my sleep," he said; Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave man's blade. But where is thy sword, Ostranger? Lightning's brother, where is he? Who thus parts you, who should never from each other parted be?" "It avails not," Frithiof answered; "in the North are other swords; Sharp, O monarch, is the sword's tongue, and it speaks not peaceful words; Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Niffelhem, Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger them." THERE was a time when I was very small, When my whole frame was but an ell in height, Sweetly, as I recall it, tears do fall, And therefore I recall it with delight. I sported in my tender mother's arms, And rode a-horseback on best father's knee; Alike were sorrows, passions, and alarms, And gold, and Greek, and love, unknown to me. Then seemed to me this world far less in size, And thought, "O, were I on that island there, Find out how large it is, how round, how fair!" Wondering, I saw God's sun, through western skies, Sink in the ocean's golden lap at night, And yet upon the morrow early rise, And paint the eastern heaven with crimson light; And thought of God, the gracious Heavenly Father, Still to be wise, and good, and follow thee!" So prayed I for my father and my mother, They perished, the blithe days of boyhood perished, BLESSED ARE THE DEAD. FROM THE GERMAN. O, HOW blest are ye whose toils are ended! From the cares which keep us still in prison. We are still as in a dungeon living, Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving; Are but toils, and troubles, and heart-breakings. Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers sleeping, No cross nor trial Hinders your enjoyments with denial. G Christ has wiped away your tears for ever; Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted. Ah! who would not, then, depart with gladness, Longer in bewailing and in anguish ? Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us! With thee, the Anointed, Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed. DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN. FROM THE FRENCH. THE archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, 66 Rest, Sire," he cried, -66 for rest thy suffering needs." In paradise, where the almoners live again, There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain.” Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas! That thrice he swooned upon the thick, green grass. When he revived, with a loud voice cried he, "O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie! 66 My gentle friend !-what parting full of woe! To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore; The archbishop, then,-on whom God's benison rest !-- Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, 'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion ;God grant to him his holy benison ! RONDEL. FROM THE FRENCH. LOVE, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? Naught see I fixed or sure in thee! I do not know thee, -nor what deeds are thine: Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine? Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? RONDEL. FROM THE FRENCH. HENCE away, begone, begone, With your mournful company, |