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'She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled,

I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea-mew's flight,
Why did they leave that night

Her nest unguarded?
“Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me, -
Fairest of all was she

Among the Norsemen!
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armèd hand,
Saw we the Hildebrand,

With twenty horsemen.
"Then launched they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,

When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw

Laugh as he hailed us.
And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
Death! was the helmsman's hail

Death without quarter!
Mid-ships with iron keel
Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black hulk did reel

Through the black water!

As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,

With his prey laden,
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,

Bore I the maiden.
Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o'er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore

Stretching to lee-ward;
There for my lady's bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,

Stands looking sea-ward.
“There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden's tears;
She had forgot her fears,

She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes,
Under that tower she lies;
Ne'er shall the sun arise

On such another!
“Still grew my bosom then
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,

The sun-light hateful.
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,

0, death was grateful!

"Thus, seamed with many scars Bursting these prison bars, Up to its native stars

My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"

-Thus the tale ended.

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ROBIN HOOD. (To a Friend.) By JOHN KEATS.

O! those days are gone away,

And their hours are old and grey,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have Winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.

No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amazed to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent:
For he left the merry tale,
Messenger for spicy ale.

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