Till at length the bell at midnight
Sounded from its dark abode,

And, from out a neighboring farm-yard,
Loud the cock Alectryon crowed.

Then, with nostrils wide distended,
Breaking from his iron chain,
And unfolding far his pinions,
To those stars he soared again.

On the morrow, when the village
Woke to all its toil and care,
Lo! the strange steed had departed,
And they knew not when nor where.

But they found, upon the greensward
Where his struggling hoofs had trod,
Pure and bright, a fountain flowing
From the hoof-marks in the sod.

From that hour, the fount unfailing
Gladdens the whole region round,
Strengthening all who drink its waters,
While it soothes them with its sound.

TEGNER'S DRAPA.

"October 14, 1847. Went to town, after finishing a poem on Tegnér's death, in the spirit of the old Norse poetry." In the first edition, the poem bore the title Tegnér's Death. The word drapa signifies death-song, or dirge.

I HEARD a voice, that cried, "Balder the Beautiful

Line 16. From the hoof-prints in the sod.

Is dead, is dead!"

And through the misty air
Passed like the mournful cry
Of sunward sailing cranes.

I saw the pallid corpse
Of the dead sun

Borne through the Northern sky.

Blasts from Niffelheim

Lifted the sheeted mists

Around him as he passed.

And the voice forever cried, "Balder the Beautiful Is dead, is dead! "

And died away

Through the dreary night,
In accents of despair.

Balder the Beautiful,

God of the summer sun,

Fairest of all the Gods!

Light from his forehead beamed,

Runes were upon
his tongue,
As on the warrior's sword.

All things in earth and air
Bound were by magic spell
Never to do him harm;
Even the plants and stones;
All save the mistletoe,
The sacred mistletoe!

Hæder, the blind old God,

Whose feet are shod with silence, Pierced through that gentle breast With his sharp spear, by fraud, Made of the mistletoe,

The accursed mistletoe!

They laid him in his ship,
With horse and harness,
As on a funeral pyre.
Odin placed

A ring upon his finger,

And whispered in his ear.

They launched the burning ship! It floated far away

Over the misty sea,

Till like the sun it seemed,

Sinking beneath the waves.
Balder returned no more!

So perish the old Gods!
But out of the sea of Time
Rises a new land of song,

Fairer than the old.

Over its meadows green

Walk the young bards and sing.

Build it again,

O ye bards,

Fairer than before!

Ye fathers of the new race,

Line 16. Till like the moon it seemed,

Feed upon morning dew,

Sing the new Song of Love!

The law of force is dead!
The law of love prevails!
Thor, the thunderer,

Shall rule the earth no more,
No more, with threats,
Challenge the meek Christ.

Sing no more,

O ye bards of the North,
Of Vikings and of Jarls!
Of the days of Eld

Preserve the freedom only,
Not the deeds of blood!

SONNET

ON MRS. KEMBLE'S READINGS FROM SHAKESPEARE.

In the winter of 1849 Mrs. Fanny Kemble Butler was reading Shakespeare in Boston, and Mr. Longfellow was a constant attendant. He notes in his diary under date of February 20: "We did not go last night to hear Othello. I wrote this morning a sonnet on Mrs. Butler's readings." A week later the poet entertained Mrs. Butler after a reading in Cambridge, and read his sonnet at the close of the supper.

O PRECIOUS evenings! all too swiftly sped!
Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages

Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages,
And giving tongues unto the silent dead!
How our hearts glowed and trembled as she read,
Interpreting by tones the wondrous pages

Of the great poet who foreruns the ages,
Anticipating all that shall be said!

O happy Reader! having for thy text

The magic book, whose Sibylline leaves have caught

The rarest essence of all human thought!

O happy Poet! by no critic vext!

How must thy listening spirit now rejoice
To be interpreted by such a voice!

THE SINGERS.

"November 6, 1849. Wrote The Singers to show the excellence of different kinds of song." No individual poets were intended. GOD sent his Singers upon earth

With songs of sadness and of mirth,

That they might touch the hearts of men,

And bring them back to heaven again.

The first, a youth with soul of fire,

Held in his hand a golden lyre;

Through groves he wandered, and by streams,
Playing the music of our dreams.

The second, with a bearded face,
Stood singing in the market-place,

And stirred with accents deep and loud
The hearts of all the listening crowd.

A gray old man, the third and last,
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast,
While the majestic organ rolled
Contrition from its mouths of gold.