The Sea.

THROUGH the night, through the night, In the saddest unrest,

Wrapt in white, all in white,

With her babe on her breast,

Walks the mother so pale,
Staring out on the gale
Through the night!

Through the night, through the night, Where the sea lifts the wreck,

Land in sight, close in sight,

On the surf-flooded deck Stands the father so brave, Driving on to his grave Through the night!

RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.

The King of Denmark's Ride.

WORD was brought to the Danish king

(Hurry!)

That the love of his heart lay suffering,

And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; (Oh! ride as though you were flying!)

Better he loves each golden curl

On the brow of that Scandinavian girl
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl;

And his rose of the isles is dying!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry!)

Each one mounting a gallant steed

Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(Oh! ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his rose of the isles lay dying!

His nobles are beaten, one by one;

(Hurry!)

They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward

gone;

His little fair page now follows alone,

517

For strength and for courage trying! The king looked back at that faithful child; Wan was the face that answering smiled; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped; and only the king rode in Where his rose of the isles lay dying!

The king blew a blast on his bugle-horn;
(Silence!)

No answer came; but faint and forlorn
An echo returned on the cold gray morn.
Like the breath of a spirit sighing.
The castle portal stood grimly wide;
None welcomed the king from that weary ride;
For dead, in the light of the dawning day,
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,

Who had yearned for his voice while dying!
The panting steed, with a drooping crest,
Stood weary.

The king returned from her chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast;

And, that dumb companion eyeing,
The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck:
"O steed-that every nerve didst strain,
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain
To the halls where my love lay dying!"

In sooth he was a peerless hound,

The gift of royal John;

But now no Gêlert could be found,

And all the chase rode on.

And now, as o'er the rocks and dells

The gallant chidings rise,

All Snowdon's craggy chaos yells
The many-mingled cries!

That day Llewelyn little loved

The chase of hart and hare;

And scant and small the booty proved,
For Gêlert was not there.
Unpleased, Llewelyn homeward hied,
When, near the portal-seat,
His truant Gêlert he espied,

Bounding his lord to greet.

But when he gained his castle door,
Aghast the chieftain stood;

The hound all o'er was smeared with gore;
His lips, his fangs, ran blood!

Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprise,
Unused such looks to meet;
His favorite checked his joyful guise
And crouched and licked his feet.
Onward in haste Llewelyn passed,
And on went Gêlert too;

And still, where'er his eyes were cast,
Fresh blood-gouts shocked his view!
O'erturned his infant's bed he found,
With blood-stained cover rent,
And all around, the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent.

He called his child — no voice replied —
He searched with terror wild;
Blood, blood, he found on every side,

But nowhere found his child!

"Hell-hound! my child's by thee devoured!" The frantic father cried;

And to the hilt his vengeful sword

He plunged in Gêlert's side!

His suppliant looks, as prone he fell,

No pity could impart ;
But still his Gêlert's dying yell
Passed heavy o'er his heart.

Aroused by Gêlert's dying yell,

Some slumberer wakened nigh:

What words the parent's joy could tell,
To hear his infant's cry!
Concealed beneath a tumbled heap,

His hurried search had missed,
All glowing from his rosy sleep,

The cherub boy he kissed!

Nor scathe had he, nor harm, nor dread,
But, the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead-
Tremendous still in death!

Ah! what was then Llewelyn's pain! For now the truth was clear;

His gallant hound the wolf had slain To save Llewelyn's heir.

Vain, vain, was all Llewelyn's woe:

'Best of thy kind, adieu!

The frantic blow which laid thee low,
This heart shall ever rue!"

And now a gallant tomb they raise,

With costly sculpture decked;
And marbles, storied with his praise,
Poor Gêlert's bones protect.

There never could the spearman pass
Or forester unmoved;

There oft the tear-besprinkled grass
Llewelyn's sorrow proved.

And there he hung his horn and spear,

And there, as evening fell,

In fancy's ear he oft would hear
Poor Gêlert's dying yell.

And till great Snowdon's rocks grow old,
And cease the storm to brave,
The consecrated spot shall hold
The name of "Gêlert's Grave."

WILLIAM ROBERT SPENCER

Lord Ullin's Daughter.

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?"

"Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.