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Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the greensward spread,
And the ancient king so trustful laid on Frithiof's knees his head;
Slept, as calmly as the hero sleepeth after war's alarms

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On his shield, calm as an infant sleepeth in its mother's arms.
As he slumbers, hark! there sings a coal-black bird upon a bough:
"Hasten, Frithiof, slay the old man, close your quarrel at a blow;
Take his queen, for she is thine, and once the bridal kiss she gave;
Now no human eye beholds thee; deep and silent is the grave.'
Frithiof listens; hark! there sings a snow-white bird upon the bough:
"Though no human eye beholds thee, Odin's eye beholds thee now.
Coward, wilt thou murder slumber? a defenceless old man slay?
Whatsoe'er thou winn'st, thou canst not win a hero's fame this way.'
Thus the two wood-birds did warble; Frithiof took his war-sword good,
With a shudder hurled it from him, far into the gloomy wood.
Coal-black bird flies down to Nastrand; but on light unfolded wings,
Like the tone of harps, the other, sounding towards the sun upsprings.
Straight the ancient king awakens. "Sweet has been my sleep," he said;
"Pleasantly sleeps one in the shadow, guarded by a brave man's blade.
But where is thy sword, O stranger? Lightning's brother, where is he?
Who thus parts you, who should never from each other parted be?"
"It avails not," Frithiof answered; "in the North are other swords;
Sharp, O monarch, is the sword's tongue, and it speaks not peaceful words;
Murky spirits dwell in steel blades, spirits from the Niffelhem,
Slumber is not safe before them, silver locks but anger them."

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Then seemed to me this world far less

in size,

Likewise it seemed to me less wicked
far;

Like points in heaven, I saw the stars
arise,

And longed for wings that I might
catch a star.

I saw the moon behind the island fade,
And thought, "O, were I on that
island there,

I could find out of what the moon is
made,

Find out how large it is, how round,
how fair!"

Wondering, I saw God's sun through
western skies,

Sink in the ocean's golden lap at
night,

And yet upon the morrow early rise,
And paint the eastern heaven with

crimson light;

And thought of God, the gracious
Heavenly Father,

Who made me, and that lovely sun
on high,

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DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN.
FROM THE FRENCH.

THE archbishop, whom God loved in high degree,
Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free;
And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan,
And a faint shudder through his members ran.
Upon the battle-field his knee was bent;
Brave Roland saw, and to his succour went,
Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced,
And tore the shining hauberk from his breast;
Then raising in his arms the man of God,
Gently he laid him on the verdant sod.

"Rest, Sire," he cried,-"for rest thy suffering needs.
The priest replied, "Think but of warlike deeds!
The field is ours; well may we boast this strife!
But death steals on,-there is no hope of life;

In paradise, where the almoners live again,

There are our couches spread,-there shall we rest from pain."
Sore Roland grieved; nor marvel I, alas !
That thrice he swooned upon voice cried he,
the thick, green grass.

When he revived, with a

"O Heavenly Father! Holy Saint Marie!
Why lingers death to lay me in my grave?
Beloved France, how have the good and brave
Been torn from thee and left thee weak and poor!"
Then thoughts of Aude, his lady-love, came o'er
His spirit, and he whispered soft and slow,
"My gentle friend!-what parting full of woe!
Never so true a liegeman shalt thou see;-
Whate'er my fate, Christ's benison on thee!
Christ, who did save from realms of woe beneath
The Hebrew prophets from the second death."
Then to the paladins, whom well he knew,
He went, and one by one unaided drew
To Turpin's side, well skilled in ghostly lore ;-
No heart had he to smile,-but, weeping sore,
He blessed them in God's name, with faith that he
Would soon vouchsafe to them a glad eternity.

The archbishop, then,-on whom God's benison rest!-
Exhausted, bowed his head upon his breast;-
His mouth was full of dust and clotted gore,
And many a wound his swollen visage bore.
Slow beats his heart,-his panting bosom heaves,-
Death comes apace,-no hope of cure relieves.

Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed

That God, who for our sins was mortal made,-
Born of the Virgin,-scorned and crucified,-

In paradise would place him by his side.

Then Turpin died in service of Charlon,

In battle great and eke great orison;

'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion ;God grant to him his holy benison !

RONDEL.

FROM THE FRENCH.

LOVE, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!

I do not know thee,-nor what deeds are thine:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I fixed or sure in thee!

Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine?
Ye who are blessed in loving, tell it me:
Love, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine?
Naught see I permanent or sure in thee!

RONDEL.

FROM THE FRENCH.

HENCE away, begone, begone,
Carking care and melancholy!
Think ye thus to govern me
All my life long, as ye have done?
That shall ye not, I promise ye:
Reason shall have the mastery.
So hence away, begone, begone,
Carking care and melancholy!
If ever ye return this way,

With your mournful company,
A curse be on ye, and the day
That brings ye moping back to me!
Hence away, begone, I say,
Carking care and melancholy!

RENOUVEAU.

FROM THE FRENCH.

Now Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain,
And clothes him in the embroidery
Of glittering sun and clear blue sky.
With beast and bird the forest rings,
Each in his jargon cries or sings;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.
River, and fount, and tinkling brook
Wear in their dainty livery
Drops of silver jewelry;

In new-made suit they merry look;
And Time throws off his cloak again
Of ermined frost, and cold and rain.

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FRIAR LUBIN.

FROM THE FRENCH.

To gallop off to town post-haste,

So oft, the times I cannot tell; To do vile deed, nor feel disgraced,Friar Lubin will do it well. But a sober life to lead,

To honour virtue, and pursue it, That's a pious, Christian deed,Friar Lubin cannot do it.

To mingle with a knowing smile,

The goods of others with his own,
And leave you without cross or pile,
Friar Lubin stands alone.
To say 'tis

yours is all in vain,
If once he lays his finger to it;
For as to giving back again,
Friar Lubin cannot do it.

With flattering words and gentle tone,
To woo and win some guileless maid,
Cunning pander need you none,-
Friar Lubin knows the trade.

Loud preacheth he sobriety,

But as for water, doth eschew it; Your dog may drink it,-but not he; Friar Lubin cannot do it.

ENVOI.

When an evil deed's to do,
Friar Lubin is stout and true;
Glimmers a ray of goodness through it,
Friar Lubin cannot do it.

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[THE following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the seashore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armour; and the idea occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto as the Old Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the Mémoires de la Société Royale des Antiquaires du Nord, for 1838-9,

says,

"There is no mistaking in this instance the style in which the more ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which belongs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, especially after the time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the West and North of Europe, where it continued to predominate until the close of the twelfth century; that style which some authors have, from one of its most striking characteristics, called the round arch style, the same which in England is denominated Saxon and sometimes Norman architecture.

"On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier rather than of a later period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all who are familiar with Old Northern architecture will concur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE TWELFTH CENTURY. This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not to the alterations that it subsequently received; for there are several such alterations in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to various uses, for example, as the substructure of a windmill, and latterly as a hay magazine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fireplace, and the apertures made above the columns. That this building could not have been erected for a windmill is what an architect will easily discern."

I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well established for the purpose of a ballad, though doubtless many an honest citizen of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of the Round Tower, will be ready to exclaim with Sancho, "God bless me! did I not warn you to have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing but a windmill? and nobody could mistake it but one who had the like in his head."]

"SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast

Still in rude armour drest,

Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,

Why dost thou haunt me?"
Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies

Gleam in December;

And, like the water's flow
Under December's snow,
Came a dull voice of woe

From the heart's chamber.
"I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,

No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man's curse!
For this I sought thee.

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