KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN.

WITLAF, a king of the Saxons,

Ere yet his last he breathed,

To the merry monks of Croyland
His drinking-horn bequeathed,--

That, whenever they sat at their revels, And drank from the golden bowl,

They might remember the donor,

And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas,
And bade the goblet pass;

In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,

And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached His holy word.

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs Of the dismal days of yore,

And as soon as the horn was empty

They remembered one Saint more.

KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN.

And the reader droned from the pulpit,

Like the murmur of many bees,

The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Basil's homilies;

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Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,

Guthlac and Bartholomæus,

Proclaimed the midnight hour.

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, And the Abbot bowed his head,

And the flamelets flapped and flickered, But the Abbot was stark and dead.

Yet still in his pallid fingers

He clutched the golden bowl,

In which, like a pearl dissolving,

Had sunk and dissolved his soul.

But not for this their revels

The jovial monks forbore,

For they cried, " Fill high the goblet! We must drink to one Saint more!"

GASPAR BECERRA.

By his evening fire the artist

Pondered o'er his secret shame;

Baffled, weary, and disheartened,

Still he mused, and dreamed of fame.

"T was an image of the Virgin

That had tasked his utmost skill;

But alas! his fair ideal

Vanished and escaped him still.

From a distant eastern island

Had the precious wood been brought;

Day and night the anxious master
At his toil untiring wrought;

Till, discouraged and desponding,

Sat he now in shadows deep,

And the day's humiliation

Found oblivion in sleep.

Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master!

From the burning brand of oak

Shape the thought that stirs within thee!”

And the startled artist woke,—

PEGASUS IN POUND.

Woke, and from the smoking embers

Seized and quenched the glowing wood;

And therefrom he carved an image,

And he saw that it was good.

O thou sculptor, painter, poet!

Take this lesson to thy heart:

That is best which lieth nearest ;

Shape from that thy work of art.

PEGASUS IN POUND.

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ONCE into a quiet village,

Without haste and without heed,

In the golden prime of morning,

Strayed the poet's winged steed.

It was Autumn, and incessant

Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,

And, like living coals, the apples

Burned among the withering leaves.

Loud the clamorous bell was ringing

From its belfry gaunt and grim ;

'Twas the daily call to labour,

Not a triumph meant for him.

K

Not the less he saw the landscape,

In its gleaming vapour veiled;

Not the less he breathed the odours
That the dying leaves exhaled.

Thus, upon the village common,

By the schoolboys he was found;

And the wise men, in their wisdom,
Put him straightway into pound.

Then the sombre village crier,

Ringing loud his brazen bell, Wandered down the street proclaiming There was an estray to sell.

And the curious country people,

Rich and poor, and young and old,

Came in haste to see this wondrous
Winged steed, with mane of gold.

Thus the day passed, and the evening
Fell, with vapours cold and dim;

But it brought no food nor shelter,
Brought no straw nor stall, for him.

Patiently, and still expectant,

Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape,

Saw the tranquil, patient stars;