Till the land was in a blaze,
And the cities far and near,
Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir,

In his Book of the Words of the Days, "Were taken as a man

Would take the tip of his ear."

INTERLUDE.

"Now that is after my own heart,"
The Poet cried; 66 one understands
Your swarthy hero Scanderbeg,
Gauntlet on hand and boot on leg,
And skilled in every warlike art,
Riding through his Albanian lands,
And following the auspicious star
That shone for him o'er Ak-Hissar."

The Theologian added here

His word of praise not less sincere,
Although he ended with a jibe;
"The hero of romance and song

Was born," he said, "to right the wrong;
And I approve; but all the same
That bit of treason with the Scribe
Adds nothing to your hero's fame."

The Student praised the good old times,
And liked the canter of the rhymes,
That had a hoofbeat in their sound;
But longed some further word to hear
Of the old chronicler Ben Meir,
And where his volume might be found.

The tall Musician walked the room With folded arms and gleaming eyes, As if he saw the Vikings rise, Gigantic shadows in the gloom; And much he talked of their emprise, And meteors seen in Northern skies, And Heimdal's horn, and day of doom. But the Sicilian laughed again; "This is the time to laugh," he said, For the whole story he well knew Was an invention of the Jew, Spun from the cobwebs in his brain, And of the same bright scarlet thread As was the Tale of Kambalu.

Only the Landlord spake no word; 'T was doubtful whether he had heard The tale at all, so full of care

Was he of his impending fate,

That, like the sword of Damocles,
Above his head hung blank and bare,
Suspended by a single hair,

So that he could not sit at ease,
But sighed and looked disconsolate,
And shifted restless in his chair,
Revolving how he might evade
The blow of the descending blade.

The Student came to his relief
By saying in his easy way

To the Musician: "Calm your grief,

My fair Apollo of the North,

Balder the Beautiful and so forth;

Although your magic lyre or lute
With broken strings is lying mute,
Still you can tell some doleful tale
Of shipwreck in a midnight gale,
Or something of the kind to suit
The mood that we are in to-night
For what is marvellous and strange;
So give your nimble fancy range,
And we will follow in its flight."

But the Musician shook his head; "No tale I tell to-night," he said, "While my poor instrument lies there, Even as a child with vacant stare Lies in its little coffin dead."

Yet, being urged, he said at last :
"There comes to me out of the Past
A voice, whose tones are sweet and wild,
Singing a song almost divine,

And with a tear in every

line;

An ancient ballad, that my nurse

Sang to me when I was a child,

In accents tender as the verse;

And sometimes wept, and sometimes smiled

While singing it, to see arise

The look of wonder in my eyes,

And feel my heart with terror beat.

This simple ballad I retain

Clearly imprinted on my brain,

And as a tale will now repeat.

THE MUSICIAN'S TALE.

THE MOTHER'S GHOST.

Written March 26, 1873.

SVEND DYRING he rideth adown the glade;
I myself was young!

There he hath wooed him so winsome a maid;
Fair words gladden so many a heart.

Together were they for seven years,
And together children six were theirs.

Then came Death abroad through the land,
And blighted the beautiful lily-wand.

Svend Dyring he rideth adown the glade,

And again hath he wooed him another maid.

He hath wooed him a maid and brought home a

bride,

But she was bitter and full of pride.

When she came driving into the yard,

There stood the six children weeping so hard.

There stood the small children with sorrowful heart;

From before her feet she thrust them apart.

She gave to them neither ale nor bread;
"Ye shall suffer hunger and hate," she said.

She took from them their quilts of blue,

And said: "Ye shall lie on the straw we strew."

She took from them the great waxlight: "Now ye shall lie in the dark at night.”

In the evening late they cried with cold;
The mother heard it under the mould.

The woman heard it the earth below: "To my little children I must go."

She standeth before the Lord of all:
"And may I go to my children small?”

She prayed him so long, and would not cease,
Until he bade her depart in peace.

"At cock-crow thou shalt return again; Longer thou shalt not there remain!"

She girded up her sorrowful bones,
And rifted the walls and the marble stones.

As through the village she flitted by,

The watch-dogs howled aloud to the sky.

When she came to the castle gate,
There stood her eldest daughter in wait.

"Why standest thou here, dear daughter mine? How fares it with brothers and sisters thine?"