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SONG OF THE SILENT LAND.
INTO the Silent Land !
O Land! O Land!
THE LUCK OF EDENHALL.
[The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the " shards of the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the posBession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cumberland; and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.]
OF Edenhall, the youthful Lord
The butler hears the words with pain,
Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light, " This glass of flashing crystal tall
Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite ;
Farewell then, 0 Luck of Edenhall !
Of the joyous race of Edenhall!
The glorious Luck of Edenhall !
The fragile goblet of crystal tall;
In storms the foe, with fire and sword :
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall. “ The stone wall," saitli he,“ doth fall aside,
Down must the stately columns fall ;
THE TWO LOCKS OF HAIR.
A YOUTH, light-hearted and content,
I wander through the world,
And straight again is furled.
Close in my heart was locked ;
A blessed child I rocked.
I wake! A way that dream-away!
Too long did it remain !
It ever comes again.
To a grave so cold and deep
The mother beautiful was brought;
Then dropped the child asleep.
I bathe mine eyes and see ;
A youth so light and free.
Left me that vision mild ;
The blond is from the child.
And when I see that lock of gold,
Pale grows the evening red;
I wish that I were dead.
THE STATUE OVER THE CATHEDRAL
FROM JULIUS MOSEN,
Forms of saints and kings are standing
The cathedral door above;
Who hath soothed my soul with love.
As their robes the sowers wind-
Flowers and weeds of every kind.
High in wind and tempest wild;
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,
Its Creator's Son release.
• Blest be thou of all the good! Bear, as token of this moment,
Marks of blood and holy rood !"
And that bird is called the crossbill ;
Covered quite with blood so clear, In the groves of pine it singeth
Songs, like legends, strange to hear.