Then outspake the daughter in tender emotion, "Ah! father, my father, what more can there rest? Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean— He has served thee as none would, thyself hast confest. If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire, Be your knights not, at least, put to shame by the squire !" The king seized the goblet-he swung it on high, And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side! And thine arms shall embrace as thy bride, I decree, The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee." In his heart, as he listened, there leapt the wild joyAnd the hope and the love through his eyes spoke in fire, On that bloom, on that blush, gazed, delighted, the boy; The maiden she faints at the feet of her sire! Here the guerdon divine, there the danger beneath; He resolves!-To the strife with the life and the death! They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell; MORNING HYMN TO MOUNT BLANC. (COLERIDGE.) HAST thou a charm to stay the morning star Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer Yet like some sweet, beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thoughts As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven. Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink: And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Forever shattered and the same forever? Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, And who commanded,—and the silence came,— "Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?" Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven "GOD!" sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice, Utter forth" GOD!" and fill the hills with praise. Once more, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peak, Slow-traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth! THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. (CAROLINE NORTON.) 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; (O! ride as though you were flying!) Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Thirty nobles saddled with speed; (Hurry!) Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; His nobles are beaten, one by one; (Hurry!) They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, 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, 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 The panting steed, with a drooping crest, The king returned from her chamber of rest, And, that dumb companion eyeing, The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; THE RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX. (BROWNING.) I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris and he: I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts un drew; "Speed!" echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace— Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. |