THE MINSTREL'S DEATH-SONG.
The Saxons stood in firm array,
Tough as their forest oak,
With glaive and bill, whose deadly sway
Needs not a second stroke.
Their limbs were cast in giant frame,
Their shaggy brows all bent, And Harold, of victorious fame, Led the bold armament:
He who waged battle for his crown,
A short seven days before,
And smote fierce Norway's monarch down
On Welland's crimson shore.
Like a steel rampart, silently
They stood their King around,
As men prepared to win or die,
But yield no inch of ground.
Our stern Duke, hight the Conqueror,
Exclaimed," A gallant show!
Ha, Northmen! by the mace of Thor,
We meet a well-matched foe
At last; a joy worth battling for,
Which none but Northmen know."
Then forth into the van-ward space,
Which narrowed now amain,
Spurred out a knight of noble race,
Betwixt the battles twain.
It was the minstrel Taillefer,
Of the old Berserkir blood,
Rapt on that day, as all might swear,
In his ancestral mood.
His barbed charger's tramp kept time,
As on firm earth it rung,
Unto the antique Runic chime
Of the death-song that he sung.
Room there, ho! for Taillefer,
In the throng of sword and spear.
First-fruits of this noble field,
He hath vowed him under shield,
Self-devoted, here to die,
Pledge of hard won victory.-
Die! maintaining well the fame
Of the bold Berserkir name.
Grandsires of my valiant sire,
Arms of steel, and hearts of fire,
Foremost ay on field and flood,
Tameless at the scent of blood.
Champions of the Northmen's line,
May your fame, your fate, be mine!
THE MINSTREL'S DEATH-SONG.
Room there, ho! for Taillefer;
Comrades! let him claim his share
In the glories of this morn,
Theme for minstrels yet unborn.
Forward! honour lies before us.
Chaunt ye now in stormy chorus,-
Harold! would that it might be
My proud fate to fall by thee !
By true honour's rival zeal,
By the love which brave men feel
To the brave, I greet ye well.
Strive ye which shall bear the bell.
Foemen! your good swords prepare!
Room there, ho! for Taillefer,
Champions of the Northmen's line,
May your fame, your fate, be mine!
A deafening shout was the reply,
The ranks prepared to close;
He spurred his steed triumphantly,
And plunged amid the foes,
And left and right, with main and might,
He dealt his trenchant blows.
They closed upon the self-doomed dead
With spear and falchion-sway;
Soon gashed and gored from heel to head,
War-horse and horseman lay,
A foretaste of the banquet red
Shared by grim death that day.
Thus perished in his dauntless mood
This noble bard and chief;
The birth-right of his genuine blood
Were worth a royal fief;
A solace still in good or ill,
In joyaunce or in grief.
AN exquisite invention this,
Worthy of Love's most honied kiss,
This art of writing billets-doux
In buds, and odours, and bright hues,-
Of saying all one feels and thinks
In clever daffodils and pinks,
Uttering (as well as silence may)
The sweetest words the sweetest way.
How fit, too, for the lady's bosom,
The place where billets-doux repose 'em!
How charming, in some rural spot,
Combining love with garden plot,
At once to cultivate one's flowers,
And one's epistolary powers,
Growing one's own choice words and fancies
In orange-tubs and beds of pansies;
THE FLORAL LOVE-LETTER.
One's sighs and passionate declarations
In odorous rhetoric of carnations;
Seeing how far one's stocks will reach!
Taking due care one's flowers of speech
To guard from blight as well as bathos,
And watering, every day, one's pathos!
A letter comes, just gathered. We
Doat on its tender brilliancy;
Inhale its delicate expressions
Of balm and pea; and its confessions,
Made with as sweet a maiden blush
As ever morn bedewed in bush;
And then, when we have kissed its wit
And heart, in water putting it
To keep its remarks fresh, go round
Our little eloquent plot of ground;
And with delighted hands compose
Our answer, all of lily and rose,
Of tuberose, and of violet,
And little darling (mignonette);
And gratitude, and polyanthus,
And flowers that say, "Felt ever man thus ?"
Our friend, the Albanian, in the print,
Is clearly thinking, that by dint
Of his explanatory roses
(Spite of some doubts his look discloses),
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