When of old Hildebrand

I asked his daughter's hand,
Mute did the minstrels stand
To hear my story.

"While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind-gusts waft
The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
Blew the foam lightly.

"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 arméd hand,
Saw we old 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!

Midships 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,

66

Bore I the maiden.

"Three weeks we westward bore,

And when the storm was o'er,

Cloud-like we saw the shore

Stretching to leeward;

There for my lady's bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,
Stands looking seaward.

"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 sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,

O, 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.

JOME dreams we have are nothing else but dreams
Unnatural and full of contradictions;
Yet others of our most romantic schemes

Are something more than fictions.

It might be only on enchanted ground;
It might be merely by a thought's expansion;
But in the spirit, or the flesh, I found
An old deserted mansion.

A residence for woman, child, and man,
A dwelling-place, and yet no habitation;
A house, but under some prodigious ban
Of excommunication.

Unhinged, the iron gates half open hung,

Jarred by the gusty gales of many winters,

That from its crumbled pedestal had flung
One marble globe in splinters.

No dog was at the threshold, great or small;

No pigeon on the roof,

no household creature,

No cat demurely dozing on the wall,

Not one domestic feature.

No human figure stirred, to go or come;

No face looked forth from shut or open casement; No chimney smoked, · - there was no sign of home From parapet to basement.

With shattered panes the grassy court was starred; The time-worn coping-stone had tumbled after; And through the ragged roof the sky shone, barred With naked beam and rafter.

O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear;
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is haunted!

The flower grew wild and rankly as the weed,
Roses with thistles struggled for espial,
And vagrant plants of parasitic breed
Had overgrown the dial.

But

gay or gloomy, steadfast or infirm,

No heart was there to heed the hour's duration;

All times and tides were lost in one long term

Of stagnant desolation.