Wondering, I saw God's sun, through western skies, Sink in the ocean's golden lap at night, And yet upon the morrow early rise, And paint the eastern heaven with crimson light; And thought of God, the gracious Heavenly Father, Who made me, and that lovely sun on high, And all those pearls of heaven thickstrung together, Dropped, clustering, from his hand o'er all the sky. With childish reverence, my young lips did say The prayer my pious mother taught to me: THUS then, much care-worn, The son of Healfden Sorrowed evermore, Nor might the prudent hero The war was too hard, Good among the Goths, Noble and stalwart. For him that journey The sea-wood sought he. And first went forth. The ship was on the waves, Boat under the cliffs. Then went over the sea-waves, Hurried by the wind, The ship with foamy neck, Till about one hour Their mail-sarks shook, Their war-weeds. God thanked they, That to them the sea-journey Easy had been. Then from the wall beheld The warden of the Scyldings, Had in his keeping, Bear o'er the balks Who thus the brown keel Over the water-street Leading come Hither over the sea? I these boundaries As shore-warden hold, That in the Land of the Danes Nothing loathsome With a ship-crew Not seldom this warrior Is in weapons distinguished; Your origin know, As false spies By which were united Long it is thenceforth The soul shall come That it erst dwelt in; BY CHARLES D'ORLEANS. Now Time throws off his cloak again River, and fount, and tinkling brook In new made suit they merry look; DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN. FROM THE CHANSON DE ROLAND. THE Archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, Beheld his wounds all bleeding fresh and free; And then his cheek more ghastly grew and wan, And a faint shudder through his members ran. Upon the battle-field his knee was bent; Brave Roland saw, and to his succor went, Straightway his helmet from his brow unlaced, And tore the shining hauberk from his breast. Then raising in his arms the man of God, Gently he laid him on the verdant sod. Rest, Sire," he cried, "for rest thy suffering needs." The priest replied, "Think but of warlike deeds! The field is ours; well may we boast this strife! But death steals on, there is no hope of life; In paradise, where Almoners live again, There are our couches spread, there shall we rest from pain." |