KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. WITLAF, a king of the Saxons, Ere yet his last he breathed, To the merry monks of Croyland That, whenever they sat at their revels, And drank from the golden bowl, They might remember the donor, And breathe a prayer for his soul. So sat they once at Christmas, In their beards the red wine glistened They drank to the soul of Witlaf, And to each of the Twelve Apostles, They drank to the Saints and Martyrs Of the dismal days of yore, And as soon as the horn was empty They remembered one Saint more. KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN. And the reader droned from the pulpit, Like the murmur of many bees, The legend of good Saint Guthlac, 71 Till the great bells of the convent, Guthlac and Bartholomæus, 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, In which, like a pearl dissolving, Had sunk and dissolved his soul. But not for this their revels The jovial monks forbore, For they cried, " Fill high the goblet! We must drink to one Saint more!" 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 Till, discouraged and desponding, Sat he now in shadows deep, And the day's humiliation Found oblivion in sleep. Then a voice cried, "Rise, O master! From the burning brand of oak Shape the thought that stirs within thee!” And the startled artist woke,— PEGASUS IN POUND. Woke, and from the smoking embers Seized and quenched the glowing wood; And therefrom he carved an image, And he saw that it was good. O thou sculptor, painter, poet! Take this lesson to thy heart: That is best which lieth nearest ; Shape from that thy work of art. PEGASUS IN POUND. 73 ONCE into a quiet village, Without haste and without heed, In the golden prime of morning, Strayed the poet's winged steed. It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves. Loud the clamorous bell was ringing From its belfry gaunt and grim ; 'Twas the daily call to labour, Not a triumph meant for him. K Not the less he saw the landscape, In its gleaming vapour veiled; Not the less he breathed the odours Thus, upon the village common, By the schoolboys he was found; And the wise men, in their wisdom, Then the sombre village crier, Ringing loud his brazen bell, Wandered down the street proclaiming There was an estray to sell. And the curious country people, Rich and poor, and young and old, Came in haste to see this wondrous Thus the day passed, and the evening But it brought no food nor shelter, Patiently, and still expectant, Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, Saw the tranquil, patient stars; |