KING WITLAF'S DRINKING-HORN.

In an

66 'September 30, 1848. Worked upon Kavanagh all the morning; and wound up with King Witlaf's Drinking-Horn which I painted with a sweep of the pencil just before dinner." other entry in the journal is the source from which the legend was derived: "Here is the part of King Witlaf's charter to the Abbey of Croyland relating to his drinking-horn, cited in Maitland's Dark Ages: 'I also offer to the refectory the horn of my table, that the elders of the monastery may drink out of it on the festivals of the saints; and may sometimes, amid their benedictions, remember the soul of the donor, Wichtlaf.'" The text is found in Ingulph's Chronicle of Croyland in Bohn's Antiquarian Library.

...

WITLAF, a king of the Saxons,
Ere yet his last he breathed,
To the merry monks of Croyland
His drinking-horn bequeathed, -

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,
And bade the goblet pass;

In their beards the red wine glistened
Like dew-drops in the grass.

They drank to the soul of Witlaf,
They drank to Christ the Lord,
And to each of the Twelve Apostles,
Who had preached his holy word.

They drank to the Saints and Martyrs
Of the distal days of pure,

And as soon as the bim was empty
They remembered one Saint more.

And the reader droned from the pulpit,
Like the murmur of many bees.
The legend of good Saint Guthlac,
And Saint Bach's bonifies;

Till the great bells of the convent,
From their prison in the tower,
Gutblae 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.

Written January 30, 1849. It appears to have been suggested by a passage in Sterling's Spanish Painters, which Mr. Longfellow was reading at the time with great pleasure. He had some thought of writing a drama based on Sterling's account of Murillo's life in Seville.

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
At his toil untiring wrought;

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,

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.

"October 21, 1846. I am anxious to get out The Estray, as a companion to The Waif, and cannot get to the level of writing the introductory poem, for which I have the idea in my mind, namely, Pegasus in Pound. For years I have not had so unpoetic an autumn, which grieves me sore. I always rely upon the autumn, and chiefly on October. Last year how many poems I wrote; and this year, as yet, not one!"

"November 9. Work in college all day. Voted for Palfrey, in the rain. In the evening, Faculty-meeting. After which I sat by the fire in my deep chair and wrote [with pencil] the greater part of Pegasus in Pound, a proem to the collection to be entitled The Estray."

The Estray was published in 1847. When making up The Seaside and the Fireside, Mr. Longfellow included this poem.

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 ;
'T was the daily call to labor,
Not a triumph meant for him.

Not the less he saw the landscape,
In its gleaming vapor veiled;
Not the less he breathed the odors
That the dying leaves exhaled.

Thus, upon the village common,

By the school-boys he was found; And the wise men, in their wisdom, Put him straightway into pound.

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
Winged steed, with mane of gold.

Thus the day passed, and the evening
Fell, with vapors cold and dim ;
But it brought no food nor shelter,
Brought no straw nor stall, for him.

Patiently, and still expectant,

Looked he through the wooden bars, Saw the moon rise o'er the landscape, Saw the tranquil, patient stars;