THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.

W

MRS. NORTON.

ORD was brought to the Danish king

(Hurry!)

That the love of his heart lay suffering

And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;
(O ride as though you were flying!)

Better he loves each golden curl
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl
Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl:
And his Rose of the Isles is dying!

Thirty nobles saddled with speed!

(Hurry!)

Each one mounting a gallant steed
Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(O ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank:
Worn-out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the King rode first,
For his rose of the Isles lay dying!

His nobles are beaten, one by one;

(Hurry!)

They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone;

His little fair page now follows alone,

For strength and for courage trying!

The king looked back at that faithful child;

Wan was the face that answering smiled;
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,
Then he dropped; and only the King rode in
Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying!

The King blew a blast on his bugle horn;
(Silence!)

No answer came; but faint and forlorn
An echo returned on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing.

The castle portal stood grimly wide;

None welcomed the King from that weary ride;
For dead, in the light of the dawning day,
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,
Who had yearned for his voice while dying!

The panting steed, with a drooping crest,
Stood weary.

The King returned from her chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast;

And, that dumb companion eying,

The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck:

"O steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain

To the halls where my love lay dying!"

The Hindoo Skeptic.

I think till 1 weary of thinking,
Said the sad-eyed Hindoo King,
And I see but shadows around me,
Illusions in everything.

How knowest thou aught of God,
Of his favor or his wrath?

Can the little fish tell what the lion thinks,
Or map out the eagle's path?

Can the finite the Infinite search?
Did the blind discover the stars?
Is the thought that I think a thought,
Or a throb of the brain in its bars?

For aught that my eye can discern,
Your God is what you think good-
Yourself flashed back from the glass,
When the light pours out on its flood,

You preach to me to be just,

And this is his realm, you say;
And the good are dying with hunger
And the bad gorge every day.

You say that he loveth mercy,
And the famine is not yet gone;
That he hateth the shedder of blood,
And he slayeth us every one.

You say that my soul shall live,
That the spirit can never die-
If he was content when I was not,
Why not when I have passed by?

You say I must have a meaning,

So must dung, and its meaning is flowers; What if our souls are but nurture

For lives that are greater than ours?

When the fish swims out of the water;
When the birds soar out of the blue,
Man's thought may transcend man's knowledge
And your God be no roflex of vou

Swinburne's Assassination Stanza. "God or man, be swift; hope sickens with delay; Smite, and send him howling down his father's

way!

Fall, O fire of heaven, and smite as fire from hell, Halls wherein men's tortures, crowned and cowering, dwell!

These that crouch and shrink and shudder, girt

with power-

These that reign, and dare not trust one trembling hour

These omnipotent, whom terror curbs and drives-These whose life reflects in fear their victims'

These whose breath sheds poison worse than plague's thick breath

These whose reign is ruin, these whose word is

death,

These whose will turns heaven to hell, and day to

night,

These, if God's hand smite not, how shall man's

not smite?"

So from hearts by horror withered as by fire

Surge the strains of unappeasable desire;

Sounds that bid the darkness lighten, lit for

death;

Bid the lips whose breath was doom yield up

their breath;

Down the way of Czars, awhile in vain deferred, Bid the second Alexander light the Third.

TO SENECA LAKE.

J. G. PERCIVAL.

N thy fair bosom, silver lake,

The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break, As down he bears before the gale.

On thy fair bosom, waveless stream,
The dipping paddle echoes far,
And flashes in the moonlight gleam,
And bright reflects the polar star.

The waves along thy pebbly shore,

As blows the north wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar,

As late the boatman hies him home.

How sweet, at set of sun, to view

Thy golden mirror spreading wide,

And see the mist of mantling blue

Float round the distant mountain's side!

At midnight hour, as shines the moon,
A sheet of silver spreads below,
And swift she cuts, at highest noon,

Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow.

On thy fair bosom, silver lake,
O, I could ever sweep the oar,
When early birds at morning wake,
And evening tells us toil is o'er!