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 Then, with nostrils wide distended, On the morrow, when the village 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. And above, in the light Of the star-lit night, Swift birds of passage wing their flight Through the dewy atmosphere. I hear the beat Of their pinions fleet, As from the land of snow and sleet They seek a southern lea. I hear the cry Of their voices high Falling dreamily through the sky, Oh say not so; Those sounds that flow In murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds. They are the throngs Of the poet's songs, Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sounds of winged words. This is the cry Of souls, that high On toiling, beating pinions, fly, From their distant flight It falls into our world of night, With the murmuring sound of rhyme. KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, That, whenever they sat at their revels, So sat they once at Christmas, In their beards the red wine glistened They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to the Saints and Martyrs And as soon as the horn was empty And the reader droned from the pulpit, Till the great bells of the convent, Proclaimed the midnight hour. And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, But not for this their revels For they cried, "Fill high the goblet ! TEGNER'S DRAPA. I HEARD a voice that cried And through the misty air I saw the pallid corpse Borne through the Northern sky. Lifted the sheeted mists Around him as he passed. And the voice for ever cried, Is dead, is dead!' Through the dreary night, Balder the Beautiful, God of the summer sun, Light from his forehead beamed, All things in earth and air Hoder, 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. |