As the goblet ringing flies apart,
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall;

And through the rift, the wild flames start;
The guests in dust are scattered all,
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall!

In storms the foe, with fire and sword;
He in the night had scaled the wall,
Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord,
But holds in his hand the crystal tall,
The shattered Luck of Edenhall.

On the morrow the butler gropes alone,
The gray-beard in the desert hall,
He seeks his Lord's burnt skeleton,

He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall

The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.

"The stone wall," saith he, "doth fall aside,

Down must the stately columns fall;
Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride;

In atoms shall fall this earthly ball
One day like the Luck of Edenhall!"

THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR.

FROM PFIZER.

A YOUTH, light-hearted and content,
I wander through the world;
Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent
And straight again is furled.

Yet oft I dream, that once a wife
Close in my heart was locked,
And in the sweet repose of life
A blessed child I rocked.

I wake! Away that dream,-away
Too long did it remain!

So long, that both by night and day

It ever comes again.

The end lies ever in my thought;
To a grave so cold and deep
The mother beautiful was brought;
Then dropt the child asleep.

But now the dream is wholly o'er,

I bathe mine eyes and see;

And wander through the world once more,

A youth so light and free.

Two locks, and they are wondrous fair,—

Left me that vision mild;

The brown is from the mother's hair,

The blond is from the child.

And when I see that lock of gold,
Pale grows the evening-red;

And when the dark lock I behold,

I wish that I were dead.

33

OVER

THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL DOOR

FROM JULIUS MOSEN.

FORMS of saints and kings are standing

The cathedral door above;

Yet I saw but one among them,

Who hath soothed my soul with love.

In his mantle,-wound about him,
As their robes the sowers wind,—
Bore he swallows and their fledglings,
Flowers and weeds of every kind.

And so stands he calm and childlike,
High in wind and tempest wild;

O, were I like him exalted,

I would be like him, a child!

And my songs,-green leaves and blossoms,-
Up to heaven's door would bear,
Calling, even in storm and tempest,

Round me still these birds of air.

THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL.

FROM JULIUS MOSEN.

On the cross the dying Saviour
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
In his pierced and bleeding palm.

And by all the world forsaken,

Sees he how with zealous care

At the ruthless nail of iron

A poor bird is striving there.

Stained with blood and never tiring,

With its beak it doth not cease,

From the cross 't would free the Saviour,

Its Creator's Son release.

And the Saviour speaks in mildness:

"Blest be thou of all the good!

Bear, as token of this moment,

Marks of blood and holy-rood!"