Often our midnight shout
Set the cocks crowing,

As we the Berserk's tale,
Measured in cups of ale,

Draining the oaken pail,

Filled to o'erflowing.

“Once, as I told in glee,

Tales of the stormy sea,

Soft eyes did gaze on me,
Burning, yet tender;

And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,

On that dark heart of mine
Fell their soft splendor.

"I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid,

And in the forest's shade

Our vows were plighted.

Under its loosened vest

Fluttered her little breast

Like birds within their nest
By the hawk frighted.

"Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chanting his glory;

When of old Hildebrand

I asked his daughter's hand,

Mute did the minstrels stand

To hear my story.

F

"While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed;
And as the wind gusts waft

The sea foam brightly,

So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn

From the deep drinking horn,

Blew the foam lightly.

"She was a Prince's child,

I but a Viking wild,

And though she blushed and smiled,
I was discarded.

Should not the dove so white

Follow the seamew's flight,

Why did they leave that night
Her nest unguarded?

"Scarce had I put to sea,

Bearing the maid with me, -

Fairest of all was she

Among the Norsemen,

When, on the white sea strand

Waving his arméd hand,

Saw we old Hildebrand,

With twenty horsemen.

"Then launched they to the blast;
Bent like a reed each mast;

Yet we were gaining fast,

When the wind failed us,

And, with a sudden flaw,
Came round the gusty Skaw,

Death closed her mild blue eyes.

Under that tower she lies;

Ne'er shall the sun arise

On such another!

"Still grew my bosom then,
Still as a stagnant fen.
Hateful to me were men,

The sunlight hateful.

In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,

Oh, death was grateful!

"Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars

My soul ascended.

There from the flowing bowl

Deep drinks the warrior's soul.

SKOAL! to the Northland! SKOAL!"
Thus the tale ended.

THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS

S

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

OMEWHAT back from the village street

Stands the old-fashioned country seat.

Across its antique portico,

Tall poplar trees their shadows throw,

And from its station in the hall,

Half-way up the stairs it stands,

And points and beckons with its hands
From its case of massive oak,

Like a monk, who, under his cloak,
Crosses himself, and sighs, alas!

With a sorrowful voice to all who pass,

"Forever-never!

Never - forever!"

By day its voice is low and light;
But in the silent dead of night,
Distinct as a passing footstep's fall,
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Along the ceiling, along the floor,

And seems to say at each chamber door, "Forever never!

Never forever!"

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude

Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, As if, like God, it all things saw,

It calmly repeats those words of awe,

"Forever-never!

Never-forever!"

In that mansion used to be

Free-hearted Hospitality;

His great fires up the chimney roared;
The stranger feasted at his board;