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PAGE.

XIV. The Crew of the Long

Serpent.

564

xv. A Little Bird in the Air 565

xvi. Queen Thyri and the
Angelica-stalks

566

XVII. King Svend of the Forked

Beard

568

XVIII. King Olaf & Earl Sigvald 570
xix. King Olaf's War-Horns. 571
xx. Einar Tamberskelver. 572
XXI. King Olaf's Death-drink 574
XXII. The Nun of Nidaros 575
Interlude.

577
THE THEOLOGIAN'S TALE:
Torquemada.

578
Interlude.

583
THE POET'S TALE:
The Birds of Killingworth 594
Finale

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Nöel .

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LONGFELLOW'S POEMS.

Voices of the Night.

Πότνια, πότνια νυξ,
υπνοδότειρα των πολυπόνων βροτών, ,
έρεβόθεν ίθι: μόλε μόλε κατάπτερος
'Αγαμεμνόνιον επί δόμον
υπό γαρ άλγέων, υπό τε συμφοράς
διοιγόμεθ', οίχόμεθα.

EURIPIDES,

PRELUDE.

PLEASANT it was, when woods were green,

And winds were soft and low,
To lie amid some sylvan scene,
Where, the long drooping boughs between,
Shadows dark and sunlight sheen

Alternate come and go;
Or where the denser

grove

receives
No sunlight from above,
But the dark foliage interweaves
In one unbroken roof of leaves,
Underneath whose sloping eaves

The shadows hardly move.
Beneath some patriarchal tree

I lay upon the ground;
His hoary arms uplifted he,
And all the broad leaves over me
Clapped their little hands in glee,

With one continuous sound ;-
A slumberous sound,

,—a sound that brings
The feelings of a dream,-
As of innumerable wings,
As, avhen a bell no longer swings,
Faint the hollow murmur rings

O'er meadow, lake, and stream.

B

And dreams of that which cannot die,

Bright visions, came to me,
As lapped in thought I used to lie,
And gaze into the summer sky,
Where the sailing clouds went by,

Like ships upon the sea ;
Dreams that the soul of youth engage

Ere Fancy has been quelled;
Old legends of the monkish page,
Traditions of the saint and sage,
Tales that have the rime of age,

And chronicles of Eld.
And, loving still these quaint old themes,

Even in the city's throng
I feel the freshness of the streams,
That, crossed by shades and sunny gleams,
Water the green land of dreams,

The holy land of song.
Therefore, at Pentecost, which brings

The spring, clothed like a bride,
When nestling buds unfold their wings,
And bishop's-caps have golden rings,
Musing upon many things,

I sought the woodlands wide.
The green trees whispered low and mild;

It was a sound of joy !
They were my playmates when a child
And rocked me in their arms so wild !
Still they looked at me and smiled,

As if I were a boy ;
And ever whispered, mild and low,

“Come, be a child once more!"
And waved their long arms to and fro,
And beckoned solemnly and slow;
Oh, I could not choose but go

Into the woodlands hoar;
Into the blithe and breathing air,

Into the solemn wood,
Solemn and silent everywhere!
Nature with folded hands seemed there,
Kneeling at her evening prayer!

Like one in prayer I stood.
Before me rose an avenue

Of tall and sombrous pines ;
Abroad their fan-like branches grew,

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