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THE OPEN WINDOW.
THE old house by the lindens
Stood silent in the shade,
And on the gravelled pathway
The light and shadow played.
I saw the nursery windows

Wide open to the air;
But the faces of the children,
They were no longer there.
The large Newfoundland housedog
Was standing by the door;
He looked for his little playmates,
Who would return no more.
They walked not under the lindens,
They played not in the hall;

But shadow, and silence, and sadness,
Were hanging over all.

The birds sang in the branches,

With sweet, familiar tone; But the voices of the children

Will be heard in dreams alone!

And the boy that walked beside me,
He could not understand
Why closer in mine, ah! closer,

I pressed his warm, soft hand!

PEGASUS IN POUND. ONCE into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet's winged steed. It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves;

And, like living coals, the apples

Burned among the withering leaves. Loud the clamorous bell was ringing From its belfry gaunt and grim; 'Twas the daily call to labour,

Not a triumph meant for him. Not the less he saw the landscape, In its gleaming vapour veiled; Not the less he breathed the odours That the dying leaves exhaled. Thus, upon the village common,

By the school-boys he was found, And the wise men, in their wisdom, Put him straightway into pound. 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 farmyard, Loud the cock Alectryon crowed. Then, with nostrils wide distended, Breaking from his iron chain, And unfolding 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.

GASPAR BECERRA. By his evening fire the artist

Pondered o'er his secret shame; Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. 'Twas an image of the Virgin

That had tasked his utmost skill; But, alas! his fair ideal

Vanished and escaped him still. From a distant Eastern island

Had the precious wood been brought; Day and night the anxious master At his toil untiring wrought; Till, discouraged and desponding, Sat he now in shadows deep, And the day's humiliation

Found oblivion in sleep.

Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! From the burning brand of oak Shape the thought that stirs within thee!"

And the startled artist woke,Woke, and from the smoking embers Seized and quenched the glowing wood;

And therefrom he carved an image,

And he saw that it was good. O thou sculptor, painter, poet!

Take this lesson to thy heart: That is best which lieth nearest; Shape from that thy work of art.

KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-
HORN.

WITLAF, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,
To the merry monks of Croyland

His drinking-horn bequeathed,That, whenever they sat at their revels, And drank from the golden bowl, They might remember the donor,

And breathe a prayer for his soul.

So sat they once at Christmas, And bade the goblet pass;

In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.
They drank to the soul of Witlaf,

They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached his holy word.
They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the dismal days of yore,
And as soon as the horn was empty
They remembered one Saint more.*
And the reader droned from the pulpit,
Like the murmur of many bees,
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Basil's homilies;

Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Guthlac and Bartholomæus,

Proclaimed the midnight hour.

And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney,

And the Abbot bowed his head, And the flamelets flapped and flickered, But the Abbot was stark and dead.

Yet still in his pallid fingers

He clutched the golden bowl, In which, like a pearl dissolving, Had sunk and dissolved his soul. But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, "Fill high the goblet! We must drink to one Saint more!'

TEGNER'S DRAPA.

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

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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!
Hoeder, 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,
pyre.

As on a funeral

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 perish 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.

Sing no more,

O ye bards of the North, Of Vikings and of Jarls! Of the days of Eld Preserve the freedom only, Not the deeds of blood!

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 gray, 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!

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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 GOLDEN LEGEND.

THE old Legenda Aurea, or Golden Legend, was originally written in Latin, in the thirteenth century, by Jacobus de Voragine, a Dominican friar, who afterwards became Archbishop of Genoa, and died in 1292.

But

He called his book simply "Legends of the Saints." The epithet of Golden was given it by his admirers; for, as Wynkin de Worde says, Like as passeth gold in value all other metals, so this Legend exceedeth all other books. Edward Leigh, in much distress of mind, calls it "a book written by a man of a leaden heart for the basenesse of the errours, that are without wit or reason, and of a brazen forehead, for his impudent boldnesse in reporting things so fabulous and incredible."

This work, the great text-book of the legendary lore of the Middle Ages, was translated into French in the fourteenth century by Jean de Vignay, and in the fifteenth into English by William Caxton. It has lately been made more accessible by a new French translation: La Légende Dorée, traduite du Latin, par M. G. B. Paris, 1850. There is a copy of the original, with the Gesta Longobardorum appended, in the Harvard College Library, Cambridge, printed at Strasburg, 1496. The title-page is wanting; and the volume begins with the Tabula Legendorum. I have called this poem the Golden Legend, because the story upon which it is founded seems to me to surpass all other legends in beauty and significance. It exhibits, amid the corruptions of the Middle Ages, the virtue of disinterestedness and self-sacrifice, and the power of Faith, Hope, and Charity, sufficient for all the exigencies of life and death. The story is told, and perhaps invented, by Hartmann von der Aue, a Minnesinger of the twelfth century. The original may be found in Mailáth's Altdeutsche Gedichte, with a modern German version. is another in Marbach's Volksbücher, No. 32.

There

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Voices. Oh, we cannot ! The Apostles

And the Martyrs, wrapped in mantles, Stand as warders at the entrance, Stand as sentinels o'erhead!

The Bells.

Excito lentos!

Dissipo ventos!

Paco cruentos!

Lucifer. Baffled! baffled!
Inefficient,

Craven spirits! leave this labour
Unto Time, the great Destroyer!
Come away, ere night is gone!,
Voices. Onward! onward!
With the night-wind,

Over field and farm and forest,
Lonely homestead, darksome hamlet,
Blighting all we breathe upon!

(They sweep away. Organ and Gregorian Chant.)

Choir.

Nocte surgentes Vigilemus omnes!

I.

The Castle of Vautsberg on the Rhine, A chamber in a tower. PRINCE HENRY, sitting alone, ill and restless. Midnight.

Prince Henry. I cannot sleep! my
fervid brain

Calls
up the vanished past again,
And throws its misty splendours deep
Into the pallid realms of sleep!

A breath from that far-distant shore
Comes freshening ever more and more,
And wafts o'er intervening seas
Sweet odours from the Hesperides!
A wind that through the corridor
Just stirs the curtain and no more,
And, touching the æolian strings,
Faints with the burden that it brings!
Come back! ye friendships long de-
parted!

That like o'erflowing streamlets started,
And now are dwindled, one by one,
To stony channels in the sun!
Come back! ye friends, whose lives
are ended,

Come back, with all that light attended,

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