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[The tradition upon which this ballad is founded, and the "sbards of the Luck of Edenball," still exist in England. The goblet is in the posscesion of Sir Christopher Musgrave, Burt., of Eden Hall, Cumberland ; and is not so entirely shattered as the ballad leaves it.)

OF Edenhall, the youthful lord
Bids sound the festal trumpet's call;
He rises at the banquet board,
And cries, 'mid the drunken revellers all,
“Now bring me the Luck of Eden hall!”
The butler bears the words with pain,
The house's oldest seneschal
Takes slow from its silken cloth again
The drinking glass of crystal tall;
They call it the Luck of Edenhall.
Then said the lord: “This glass to praise,
Fill with red wine from Portugal!”
The grey-beard with trembling hand obeys;
A purple light shines over all,
It beans from the Luck of Edenhall.

Then speaks the lord, and waves it light,
“This glass of flashing crystal tall
Gave to my sires the Fountain-Sprite;
She wrote in it; If this glass doth fall,
Farewell then, 0 Luck of Edenhali!
“ 'Twas right a goblet the Fate should be
Of the joyous race of Edenhall!
Deep draughts drink we right willingly;
And willingly ring, with merry call,
Kling! klang! to the luck of Edenhall !"
First rings it deep, and full, and mild,
Like to the sound of a nightingale;
Then like the roar of a torrent wild;
Then mutters at last like the thunder's fall,
The glorious Luck of Edenhall.

“For its keeper takes a race of might,

The fragile goblet of crystal tall;
It has lasted longer than is right;
Kling! klang! with a harder blow ihan all
Will I try the Luck of Edenhall !"

As the goblet ringing flies, apart,
Suddenly cracks the vaulted hall;
And through the rift, the wild flames start;
The guests in dust are scattered all,
With the breaking Luck of Edenhall !
In storms the foe, with fire and sword;
He in the night had scaled the wall,
Slain by the sword lies the youthful Lord,
But holds in his hand the crystal tall,
The shattered Luck of Edenhall.

On the morrow the butler gropes alone,
The grey-beard in the desert-hall,
He seeks his loru's burnt skeleton,
He seeks in the dismal ruin's fall
The shards of the Luck of Edenhall.

“ The stone wall,” saith he, “ doth fall aside,

Down must the stately columns fall;
Glass is this earth's Luck and Pride;
In atoms shall fall this earthly ball
One day like the Luck of Edenhall !"

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* This poem is placed by Mr. Longfellow amongst bis translations: we had always supposed it to be original, and still think it bears intornal evidence of being from his own pen.


A YOUTH, light-hearted and content, The mother beautiful was brought;
I wander through the world:

Then dropt the child asleep.
Here, Arab-like, is pitched my tent,
And straight again is furled.

But now the dream is wholly o'er,

I bathe mine eyes and see;

And wander through the world once Yet oft I dream, that once a wife

more, Close in my heart was locked,

A youth so light and free.
And in the sweet repose of life
A blessed child I rocked.

Two locks,--and they are wondrous

fair, I wake! Away that dream,--away!

Left me that vision mild; Too long did it remain !

The brown is from the mother's hair, So long, that both by night and day

The blond is from the child. It ever comes again.

And when I see that look of gold, .

Pale grows the evening-red;
The end lies ever in my thought; And when the dark lock I behold,
To a grave so cold and deep

I wish that I were dead.


How I started up in the night, in the night,

Drawn on without rest or reprieval,
The streets, with their watchmen, were lost to my sigh

As I wandered so light

In the night, in the night,
Through the gate with the arch mediæval.
The mill-brook rushed through the rocky height,

I leaned o'er the bridge in my yearning;
Deep under me watched I the waves in their flight,

As they glided so light

In the night, in the night,
Yet backward not one was returning.
O'erhead were revolving, so countless and bright,

The stars in melodious existence;
And with them the moon, more serenely bedight;

They sparkled so light

In the night, in the night,
Through the magical measureless distance.
And upward I gazed, in the night, in the night,

And again on the waves in their fleeting;
Ah woe! thou hast wasted thy days in delight,
Now silence thou light

In the night, in the night,
The Remorse in thy heart that is beating.





KING CHRISTIAN stood by the lofty mast

In mist and smoke;
His sword was hammering so fast,
Through Gothic helm and brain it passed;
Then sank each hostile hulk and mast,

In mist and smoke.
“Fly !" shouted they, "fly, he who can!
Who braves of Denmark's Christian

The stroke?”
Nils Juel gave heed to the tempest's roar;

Now is the hour!
He hoisted his blood-red flag once more,
And smote upon the foe full sore,
And shouted loud, through the tempest's roar,

“Now is the hour!"
“Fly!” shouted they, “ for shelter fly!
Of Denmark's Juel who can defy

The power ”
North Sea ! a glimpse of Wessel rent

Thy murky sky!
Then champions to thine arms were sent;
Terror and Death glared where he went;
From the waves was heard a wail, that rent

Thy murky sky!
From Denmark, thunders Tordenskiol',
Let each to Heaven commend his soul,

And fly!
Path of the Dane to fame and might!

Dark-roiling wave!
Receive thy friend, who, scorning flight,
Goes to meet danger with despite,
Prondly as thou the tempest's might,

Dark-rolling wave!
And amid pleasures and alarms,
And war and victory, be thine arms

My grave!


[The following strange and somewhat mystical ballad is from Nyerup and Rahbek's Danske Viser of the Middle Ages. It seems to refer to the first preaching of Christianity in the North, and to the institution of Knight-Errantry. The three maidens I suppose to be Faith, Hope, and Charity. The irregularities of the original have been carefully preserved in the translation.]

SIR OLUF he rideth over the plain,

Full seven miles broad and seven miles wide,
But never, ah never, can meet with the man

A tilt with him dare ride.

He saw under the hill-side

A Knight full well equipped ;
His steed was black, his helm was barred;

He was riding at full speed.

He wore upon his spurs

Twelve little golden birds;
Anon he spurred his steed with a clang,

And there sat all the birds and sang.

He wore upon his mail

Twelve little golden wheels;
Anon in eddies the wild wind blew,

And round and round the wheels they few.

He wore before his breast

A lance that was poised in rest;
And it was sharper than diamond-stone,

It made Sir Oluf's heart to groan.

He wore upon his helm

A wreath of ruddy gold;
And that gave him the Maidens Three,

The youngest was fair to behold.

Sir Oluf questioned the Knight eftsoon

If he were come from heaven down;
“ Art thou Christ of Heaven," quoth he

“So will I yield me unto thee.

“ I am not Christ the Great,

Thou shalt not yield thee yet;
I am an Unknown Knight,

Three modest Maidens have me bedight.”


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