Death closed her mild blue eyes, "Still grew my bosom then, The sun-light hateful! 66 upon my spear, Thus, seamed with many scars My soul ascended! There from the flowing bowl THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, The skipper he stood beside the helm, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow Then up and spake an old sailòr, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, 1 In Scandanavia this is the customary salutation when drinking a health. I have slightly changed the orthography of the word, in order to preserve the correct pronunciation. 66 Last night, the moon had a golden ring, The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, Colder and louder blew the wind, Down came the storm, and smote amain, She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, "Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr, He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat He cut a rope from a broken spar, "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, 66 66 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast !"And he steered for the open sea. O father! I hear the sound of guns, 0 say, what may it be ?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!" "O father! I see a gleaming light, But the father answered never a word. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That saved she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, And ever the fitful gusts between The breakers were right beneath her bows, And a whooping billow swept the crew She struck where the white and fleecy waves But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, At day-break, on the bleak sea-beach, To see the form of a maiden fair, The salt sea was frozen on her breast, And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, Christ save us all from a death like this, THE LUCK OF EDENHALL. FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND. The tradition, upon which this ballad is founded, and the "shards of the Luck of Edenhall," still exist in England. The goblet is in the possession of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Bart., of Eden Hall, Cumberland; and is not so entirely shattered, as the ballad leaves it. OF Edenhall, the youthful Lord Bids sound the festal trumpet's call; And cries 'mid the drunken revellers all, The butler hears the words with pain, Then said the Lord, "This glass to praise, The gray-beard with trembling hand obeys; It beams from the Luck of Edenhall. Then speaks the Lord, and waves it light, 66 Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite; ""Twas right a goblet the Fate should be First rings it deep, and full, and mild, Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall, The glorious Luck of Edenhall. "For its keeper takes a race of might, The fragile goblet of crystal tall; It has lasted longer than is right; Kling! klang!-with a harder blow than all As the goblet ringing flies apart, And through the rift, the wild flames start; In storms the foe, with fire and sword; On the morrow the butler gropes alone, "The stone wall,” saith he, " doth fall aside, THE ELECTED KNIGHT. FROM THE DANISH. The following strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Nyerup and Rahbek's "Danske Viser" of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the first preaching of Christianity in the North, and to the institution of KnightErrantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and Charity. The irregularities of the original have been carefully preserved in the transiation. SIR OLUF he rideth over the plain, Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide, He saw under the hill-side A Knight full well equipped; His steed was black, his helm was barred; He wore upon his spurs Twelve little golden birds; Anon he spurred his steed with a clang, And there sat all the birds and sang. |