KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, That, whenever they sat at their revels, So sat they once at Christmas, In their beards the red wine glistened They drank to the soul of Witlaf, They drank to the Saints and Martyrs And as soon as the horn was empty And the reader droned from the pulpit, The legend of good Saint Guthlac, Till the great bells of the convent, Proclaimed the midnight hour And the Yule-log cracked in the chimney, And the Abbot bowed his head, And the flamelets flapped and flickered, But the Abbot was stark and dead. Yet still in his pallid fingers He clutched the golden bowl, But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, "Fill high the goblet! GASPAR BECERRA. By his evening fire the artist Pondered o'er his secret shame; Baffled, weary, and disheartened, Still he mused, and dreamed of fame. "T was an image of the Virgin That had tasked his utmost skill; But alas! his fair ideal Vanished and escaped him still. From a distant Eastern island Had the precious wood been brought; Day and night the anxious master At his toil untiring wrought; Till, discouraged and desponding, Found oblivion in sleep. Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! Woke, and from the smoking embers O thou sculptor, painter, poet! PEGASUS IN POUND. ONCE into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet's winged steed. |