Then threw Frithiof down his mantle, and upon the greensward spread, On his shield, calm as an infant sleepeth in its mother's arms. From the cares which keep us still in prison. We are still as in a dungeon living, Still oppressed with sorrow and misgiving; Our undertakings Are but toils, and troubles, and heartbreakings. Ye, meanwhile, are in your chambers Quiet, and set free from all our weeping; Hinders your enjoyments with denial. ever; Ye have that for which we still endeavour. To you are chanted Songs which yet no mortal ear have haunted. Ah! who would not, then, depart with To inherit heaven for earthly sadness? Longer in bewailing and in anguish? Come, O Christ, and loose the chains that bind us! Lead us forth, and cast this world behind us! With thee, the Anointed, Finds the soul its joy and rest appointed. DEATH OF ARCHBISHOP TURPIN. THE archbishop, whom God loved in high degree, "Rest, Sire," he cried,-"for rest thy suffering needs." In paradise, where the almoners live again, There are our couches spread,-there shall we rest from pain." That thrice he swooned upon the thick, green grass. The archbishop, then,-on whom God's benison rest!— Slow beats his heart,-his panting bosom heaves,— Towards heaven he raised his dying hands and prayed Then Turpin died in service of Charlon, In battle great and eke great orison; 'Gainst Pagan host alway strong champion ;God grant to him his holy benison ! RONDEL. FROM THE FRENCH. LOVE, love, what wilt thou with this heart of mine? I do not know thee,-nor what deeds are thine: Shall I be mute, or vows with prayers combine? RONDEL. FROM THE FRENCH. HENCE away, begone, begone, If ever ye return this way, With your mournful company, A curse be on ye, and the day That brings ye moping back to me! Hence away, begone, I say, Carking care and melancholy! RENOUVEAU. FROM THE FRENCH. Now Time throws off his cloak again Has its appointed space, 53 As heat in the bright flame finds its allotted place. Kindles in noble heart the fire of love, As hidden virtue in the precious stone: This virtue comes not from the stars above, Till round it the ennobling sun has shone; But when his powerful blaze Has drawn forth what was vile, the stars impart Strange virtue in their rays: And thus when Nature doth create the heart Noble and pure and high, Like virtue from the star, love comes from woman's eye. FRIAR LUBIN. FROM THE FRENCH. To gallop off to town post-haste, To honour virtue, and pursue it, To mingle with a knowing smile, If once he lays his finger to it; With flattering words and gentle tone, To woo and win some guileless maid, Cunning pander need you none,Friar Lubin knows the trade. Loud preacheth he sobriety, But as for water, doth eschew it; Your dog may drink it,-but not he; Friar Lubin cannot do it. ENVOI. When an evil deed's to do, Friar Lubin is stout and true; Glimmers a ray of goodness through it, Friar Lubin cannot do it. [THE following Ballad was suggested to me while riding on the seashore at Newport. A year or two previous a skeleton had been dug up at Fall River, clad in broken and corroded armour; and the idea occurred to me of connecting it with the Round Tower at Newport, generally known hitherto as the Old Windmill, though now claimed by the Danes as a work of their early ancestors. Professor Rafn, in the Mémoires de la Société Royale des Antiquaires du Nord, for 1838-9, says, "There is no mistaking in this instance the style in which the more ancient stone edifices of the North were constructed, the style which belongs to the Roman or Ante-Gothic architecture, and which, especially after the time of Charlemagne, diffused itself from Italy over the whole of the West and North of Europe, where it continued to predominate until the close of the twelfth century; that style which some authors have, from one of its most striking characteristics, called the round arch style, the same which in England is denominated Saxon and sometimes Norman architecture. "On the ancient structure in Newport there are no ornaments remaining which might possibly have served to guide us in assigning the probable date of its erection. That no vestige whatever is found of the pointed arch, nor any approximation to it, is indicative of an earlier rather than of a later period. From such characteristics as remain, however, we can scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all who are familiar with Old Northern architecture will concur, THAT THIS BUILDING WAS ERECTED AT A PERIOD DECIDEDLY NOT LATER THAN THE TWELFTH CENTURY. This remark applies, of course, to the original building only, and not to the alterations that it subsequently received; for there are several such alterations in the upper part of the building which cannot be mistaken, and which were most likely occasioned by its being adapted in modern times to various uses, for example, as the substructure of a windmill, and latterly as a hay magazine. To the same times may be referred the windows, the fireplace, and the apertures made above the columns. That this building could not have been erected for a windmill is what an architect will easily discern." I will not enter into a discussion of the point. It is sufficiently well established for the purpose of a ballad, though doubtless many an honest citizen of Newport, who has passed his days within sight of the Round Tower, will be ready to exclaim with Sancho, "God bless me! did I not warn you to have a care of what you were doing, for that it was nothing but a windmill? and nobody could mistake it but one who had the like in his head."] "SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armour drest, Comest to daunt me! Why dost thou haunt me?" Gleam in December; And, like the water's flow From the heart's chamber. No Saga taught thee! |