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;

Till at length the bell at midnight

Sounded from its dark abode,

And, from out a neighbouring farm-yard
Loud the cock Alectry on crowed.

Then, with nostrils wide distended,
Breaking from his iron chain,
And urfolding far his pinions,

To those stars he soared again.
On the morrow, when the village
Woke to all its toil and care,
Lo! the strange steed had departed,
And they knew not when nor where.
But they found upon the greensward
Where his struggling hoofs had trod,
Pure and bright, a fountain flowing
From the hoof-marks in the sod.
From that hour, the fount unfailing
Gladdens the whole region round,
Strengthening all who drink its waters,
While it soothes them with its sound.

TEGNER'S DEATH.

I HEARD a voice that cried, "Balder the Beautiful

Is dead, is dead!"

And through the misty air
Passed like the mournful cry
Of sunward sailing cranes.

I saw the pallid corpse
Of the dead sun

Borne through the Northern sky.
Blasts from Niffelheim
Lifted the sheeted mists
Around him as he passed.

And the voice for ever cried,
"Balder the Beautiful
Is dead, is dead!'

And died away

Through the dreary night,
In accents of despair.

Balder the Beautiful
God of the summer sun,
Fairest of all the Gods!"

Light from his forehead beamed.
Runes were upon his tongue,
As on the warrior's sword.
All things in earth and air
Bound were by magic spell
Never to do him harm;
Even the plants and stones.
All save the mistletoe,
The sacred mistletoe!

Hæder, the blind old God,

Whose feet are shod with silence,
Pierced through that gentle breast
With his sharp spear, by fraud
Made of the mistletoe,
The accursed mistletoe!

They laid him in his ship,
With horse and harness,
As on a funeral pyre,
Odin placed

A ring upon his finger,
And whispered in his ear.
They launched the burning ship,
It floated far away
Over the misty sea,

Till like the sun it seemed,
Sinking beneath the waves
Balder returned no more!

So perished the old Gods!
But out of the sea of Time
Rises a new land of song,
Fairer than the old,
Over its meadows green

Walk the young bards and sing.
Build it again

O ye bards,

Fairer than before!

Ye fathers of the new race,

Feed upon morning dew,

Sing the new Song of Love!

The law of force is dead!
The law of love prevails!
Thor, the thunderer,

Shall rule the earth no more,
No more with threats,
Challenge the meek Christ.

ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKSPERE.
O PRECIOUS evenings! all too swiftly speed!
Leaving us heirs to all the amplest heritages
Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages,
And giving tongues unto the silent dead!
How our hearts glowed and trembled as she
read,

Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages
Of the great poet who foreruns the ages,
Anticipating all that shall be said!

O happy reader! having for thy text

The magic book, whose Sybilline leaves have caught

The rarest essence of all human thought!

O happy Poet! by no critic vext!

How must thy listening spirit now rejoice
To be interpreted by such a voice!

THE SINGERS.

GOD sent his singers upon earth,
With songs of sadness and of mirth,
That they might touch the hearts of men,
And bring them back to heaven again.

The first, a youth, with soul of fire,
Held in his hand a golden lyre;

Through groves he wandered, and by streams,
Playing the music of our dreams.

The second, with a bearded face,
Stood singing in the market-place,
And stirred with accents deep and loud
The hearts of all the listening crowd.

A grey, old man, the third and last,
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast,
While the majestic organ rolled
Contrition from its mouths of gold,

And those who heard the singers three
Disputed which the best might be;
For still their music seemed to start
Discordant echoes in each heart.

But the great Master said, "I see
No best in kind, but in degree;

I gave a various gift to each,

To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.

"These are the three great chords of might,
And he whose ear is tuned aright
Will hear no discord in the three,
But the most perfect harmony.'

SUSPIRIA.

TAKE them, O Death! and bear away
Whatever thou canst call thine own;
Thine image, stamped upon this clay,
Doth give thee that, but that alone!
Take them, O Grave! and let them lie
Folded upon thy narrow shelves,
As garments by the soul laid by,
And precious only to ourselves!
Take them, O great Eternity!
Our little life is but a gust,
That bends the branches of thy tree,
And trails its blossoms in the dust!

HYMN.

FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION.

bloom,

So fair a bride shall leave her home!

Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!'

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden,
With garlands for the bridal jaden!

The sky was blue; without one cloud of gloom,
The sun of March was shining brightly,
And to the air the freshening wind gave lightly
Its breathings of perfume.

When one beholds the dusky hedges blossom,
A rustic bridal, ah! how sweet it is!

To sounds of joyous melodies,

more;

If thou wouldst perfect be,

Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor,

And come and follow me!"

Within this temple Christ again, unseen, Those sacred words hath said,

And his invisible hands to-day have been
Laid on a young man's head.

And evermore beside him on his way
The unseen Christ shall move,
That he may lean upon his arm and say,
"Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?"

Beside him at the marriage feast shall be,
To make the scene more fair;
Beside him in the dark Gethsemane
Of pain and midnight prayer.

O holy trust! O endless sense of rest!
Like the beloved John

To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast,
And thus to journey on!

THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL-CUILLE.
FROM THE GASCON OF JASMIN.

Only the Lowland tongue of Scotland might
Rehearse this little tragedy aright;
Let me attempt it with an English quill:
And take, O Reader, for the deed the will.

I.

AT the foot of the mountain height
Where is perched Castêl-Cuillè,

When the apple, the plum, and the almond-tree,
In the plain below were growing white,
This is the song one might perceive

On a Wednesday morn of Saint Joseph's Eve:
"The roads should blossom, the roads should
bloom,

So fair a bride should leave her home!
Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day!"

bosom,

A band of maidens
Gayly frolicking,

A band of youngsters
Wildly rollicking!
Kissing,
Caressing,

With fingers pressing,
Till in the veriest

Madness of mirth, as they dance,

They retreat and advance,

Trying whose laugh shali be loudest and merriest;

While the bride, with roguish eyes.

Sporting with them, now escapes and cries: "Those who catch me

Married verily

This year shall be !"

And all pursue with eager haste,
And all attain what they pursue,

And touch her pretty apron fresh and new,
And the linen kirtle round her waist.

Meanwhile, whence comes it that among
These youthful maidens fresh and fair,
So joyous, with such laughing air.
Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue?
And yet the bride is fair and young!
Is it Saint Joseph would say to us all,
That love, o'erhasty precedeth a fall?
Oh, no! for a maiden frail, I trow,
Never bore so lofty a brow!
What lovers! they give not a single caress
To see them so careless and cold to-day,
These are grand people, one would say.
What ails Baptiste? what grief doth him op-
press?

It is, that half-way up the hill,
In yon cottage, by those walls
Stand the cart-house and the stalls,
Dwelleth the blind orphan still,
Daughter of a veteran old;
And you must know, one year ago,
That Margaret, the young and tender,
Was the village pride and splendour,
And Baptiste her lover bold.

Love, the deceiver, then ensnared;
For them the altar was prepared;
But, alas! the summer's blight,
The dread disease that none can stay,
The pestilence that walks by night,
Took the young bride's sight away.

All at the father's stern command was changed; Their peace was gone, but not their love estranged.

Wearied at home, ere long the lover fled;
Returned but three short days ago,

The golden chain they round him throw,
He is enticed, and onward led

To marry Angela, and yet

Is thinking ever of Margaret.

Then suddenly a maiden cried,

Anna, Theresa, Mary, Kate!

Here comes the cripple Jane!" And by a foun

tain's side

A woman, bent and grey with years,
Under the mulberry-tree appears,
And ail towards her run, as fleet
As had they wings upon their feet,
It is that Jane, the cripple Jane,
Is a soothsayer, wary and kind.
She telleth fortunes, and none complain,
She promises one a village swain,
Another a happy wedding-day,

And the bride a lovely boy straightway.
All comes to pass as she avers;
She never deceives, she never errs.

But for this once the village seer
Wears a countenance severe,

And from beneath her eyebrows thin and white
Her two eyes flash like cannons bright
Aimed at the bridegroom in waistcoat blue,
Who like a statue stands in view;
Changing colour, as well he might,
When the beldame wrinkled and gray

Takes the young bride by the hand,

And, with the tip of her reedy wand

Making the sign of the cross doth say:"Thoughtless Angela, beware!

Lest, when thou weddest this false bride

For ever night! for ever night!
When he is gone 'tis dark! my soul is sad!
I suffer! O my God! come, make me glad.
When he is near, no thoughts of day intrude:
Day has blue heavens, but Baptiste has blue
eyes:

Within them shines for me a heaven of love,
A heaven all happiness, like that above,
No more of grief! no more of lassitude!
Earth I forget,-and heaven, and all distresses,
When seated by my side my hand he presses;
But when alone, remember all!
Where is Baptiste? he hears not when I call!
A branch of ivy, dying on the ground,
I need some bough to twine around!
In pity come! be to my suffering kind!
True love, they say, in grief doth more abound!
What then-when one is blind?

"Who knows? perhaps I am forsaken! Ah! woe is me! then bear me to my grave!

O God! what thoughts within me waken!
Away! he will return! I do but rave!

He will return! I need not fear!
He swore it by our Saviour dear:
He could not come at his own will;
Is weary, or perhaps is ill!

Perhaps his heart, in this disguise,
Prepares for me some sweet surprise!

But some one comes! Though blind my heart can see!

And that deceives me not! 'tis he! 'tis he!"
And the door ajar is set,

And poor, confiding Margaret

Rises, with outstretch'd arms, but sightless eyes; Tis only Paul, her brother, who thus cries:

"Angela the bride has passed!

I saw the wedding guests go by;

Tell me, my sister, why were we not asked?
For all are there but you and I!"

"Angela married! and not send
To tell her secret unto me!

Oh, speak! who may the bridegroom be?"
"My sister, 'tis Baptiste, thy friend!"

A cry the blind girl gave, but nothing said:
A milky whiteness spreads upon her cheeks,
An icy hand, as heavy as lead,

Descending, as her brother speaks,
Upon her heart, that has ceased to beat,
Suspends awhile its life and heat.

She stands beside the boy, now sore distressed,
A wax Madonna as a peasant dressed.
At length, the bridal song again

Brings her back to her sorrow and pain.
"Hark! the joyous airs are ringing!
Sister, dost thou hear them singing?
How merrily they laugh and jest!
Would we were bidden with the rest!

I would don my hose and homespun gray,
And my doublet of linen striped and gay;
Perhaps they will come; for they do not wed
Till to-morrow at seven o'clock, it is said!"
"I know it!" answered Margaret;
Whom the vision, with aspect black as jet,
Mastered again; and its hand of ice
Held her heart crushed, as in a vice!
"Paul, be not sad! "Tis a holiday;
To-morrow put on thy doublet gay!
But leave me now for a while alone."
Away, with a hop and a jump, went Paul,
And, as he whistled along the hall,
Entéred Jane, the crippled crone.

"Holy Virgin! what dreadful heat! I am faint, and weary, and out of breath! But thou art cold,-art chill as death; My little friend! what ails thee, sweet?" "Nothing! I heard them singing home the bride;

And, as I listened to the song,

I thought my turn would come ere long,

Thou knowest it is at Whitsuntide,
Thy cards forsooth can never lie,
To me such joy they prophecy.
Thy skill shall be vaunted far and wide
When they behold him at my side.
And, poor Baptiste, what sayest thou?
It must seem long to him;-methinks I see him
now!"

Jane, shuddering, her hand doth press:
Thy love I cannot all approve;

We must not trust too much to happiness;
Go, pray to God, that thou mayst love him less!"
The more I pray the more I love!

It is no sin, for God is on my side!"
It was enough; and Jane no more replied.
Now to all hope her heart is barred and cold;
But to deceive the beldame old
She takes a sweet, contented air;
Speaks of foul weather or of fair,
At every word the maiden smiles!
Thus the beguiler she beguiles;
So that departing, at the evening's close,

She says, "She may be saved! she nothing
knows!"

Poor Jane, the cunning sorceress! Now that thou wouldst, thou art no prophetess; This morning, in the fulness of thy heart,

Thou wast so, far beyond thine art!

III.

Now rings the bell, nine times reverberating,
And the white daybreak, stealing up the sky,
Sees in two cottages two maidens waiting,
How differently!

Queen of a day, by flatterers caressed,

The one puts on her cross and crown,
Decks with a huge bouquet her breast,
And flaunting, fluttering up and down,
Looks at herself, and cannot rest.

The other, blind, within her little room,
Has neither crown nor flower's perfume;
But in their stead for something gropes apart,
That in a drawer's recess doth lie,
And, 'neath her bodice of bright scarlet dye,
Convulsive clasps it to her heart.

The one, fantastic, light as air,
'Mid kisses ringing,

And joyous singing,

Forgets to say her morning prayer!

The other, with cold drops upon her brow, Joins her two hands, and kneels upon the floor,

And whispers, as her brother opes the door,
"O God! forgive me now!"

And then the orphan, young and blind,
Conducted by her brother's hand,
Towards the church, through paths

scanned,

With tranquil air her way doth bind. Odours of laurel, making her faint and pale,

Round her at times exhale,

And in the sky as yet no sunny ray,
But brumal vapours gray.

Near that castle, fair to sec,

Crowded with sculpture old, in every part Marvels of nature and of art,

And proud of its name of high degree,

A little chapel, almost bare

At the base of the rock, is builded there;
All glorious that it lifts aloof,

Above each jealous cottage roof,

Its sacred summit, swept by autumn gales, And its blackened steeple, high in air,

un

Round which the osprey screams and sails. "Paul, lay thy noisy rattle by!"

Thus Margaret said. Where are we? we ascend!"

"Yes: seest thou not our journey's end? Hearest thou not the osprey from the belfry

cry

The hideous bird. that brings ill luck, we know
Dost thou remember when our father said,
The night we watched beside his bed,
O daughter, I am weak and low;
Take care of Paul; I feel that I am dying!'
And thou, and he, and I, all fell to crying?
Then on the roof the osprey screamed aloud;
And here they brought our father in his shroud.
There is his grave, there stands the cross we
set;

Why dost thou clasp me so, dear Margaret?
Come in: The bride will be here soon:
Thou tremblest! O my God! thou art going to
Swoon!"

She could no more-the blind girl, weak and weary!

A voice seemed crying from that grave so dreary,

What wouldst thou do, my daughter?"-and she started.

And quick recoiled, aghast, faint-hearted; But Paul, impatient, urges ever more

Her steps towards the open door;

And when, beneath her feet, the unhappy maid
Crushes the laurel near the house immortal,
And with her head, as Paul talks on again

Touches the crown of filigrane
Suspended from the low-arched portal,
No more restrained, no more afraid,
She walks as for a feast arrayed,
And in the ancient chapel's sombre night
They both are lost to sight.

""Tis he!" a well-known voice has cried,

And while the wedding guests all hold their breath,

Opes the confessional, and the blind girl, see! Baptiste," she said," since thou hast wished my death,

As holy water be my blood for thee!"
And calmly in the air a knife suspended!
Doubtless her guardian angel near attended,
For anguish did its work so well,
That, ere the fatal stroke descended,
Lifeless she fell!

At eve instead of bridal verse,
The De Profundis filled the air;
Decked with flowers a simple hearse
To the churchyard forth they bear;
Village girls in robes of snow
Follow weeping as they go;
Nowhere was a smile that day,

No, ah, no! for each one seemed to say: