LUOLD.

[From an unfinished Epic.]

BY EDWIN ATHERSTONE.

The Scene is in the Danish camp, on the morning after a defeat. The leaders are holding a consultation.

THERE lay upon the ground a slender youth,
Clad in black mail. His shield sustained his arm;
His cheek was pillowed on his hand; death-pale

His face was; his dark eye upon the earth
Was fixed as in a trance: his hair, jet black,
Flowed in profusion downward to his loins :-
His name was Luold. In fair Italy

His fathers dwelt, an ancient, noble line.
There too he first drew breath, beside the bank
Of some swift river, in a gorgeous vale,

With mountains in the distance, dim and vast:
And he remembered, when the sun sank down,
It seemed to dip in some bright, restless fire:
And he had visions still of deep-blue skies,
And landscapes of ineffable delight,

And woods all perfume :—and he saw bright eyes,
And faces beautiful that smiled on him;
And heard sweet voices talk in music to him;

And felt sweet lips impressing kisses on him;

And thought them lovely dreams-but they were trug. Ere he was yet four summers old, a band

Of northern pirates, favoured by the night,

Came from their ships-his father's castle stormed,
Plundered, and burnt-slew, or made captive, all
Who fled not-and, before the morrow's sun
Looked o'er the eastern mountains, their dark sails
Were specks upon the sea.

On a high cliff
The wretched father stood in agony,

And watched the barks that bore his only child
For ever from him—and kneeled down, and prayed
Kind Heaven to guard him—and rose up and poured
On the fierce ravishers his teeming soul

In bitterest curses-and returned, and saw

Black, smoking walls, that once had been his home!
Then, with a tearless eye, and heart like stone,
Hardened and deadened with its misery,

Laid in the quiet earth his slaughtered wife-
Girded his arms upon him—and went forth

A silent, fierce avenger! Wheresoe'er

The Northman warr'd, there found his vengeance food:
In Gaul, Spain, Italy-in Britain last.

So 'gainst the long-lost son thé father fought
The son against the sire, unknown. At times,
In Luold's mind, remembrance of that night
Came like some horrid dream of infancy-
Dark, indistinct, and terrible! He saw
Blackness, and sudden fire, and monstrous shapes

Like demons-and heard shrieks, and groans, and laughter,

And heavy tramplings-and was borne away,

He knew not how, 'mid darkness, and the roar
Of winds and waters.

CHRIST CRUCIFIED.

[Imitated from the Italian of Gabriele Fiamma, a poet of the 16th century.]

"Behold the MAN!" Are these the gracious eyes Whose beams could kindle life among the dead? Is this the awful and majestic head

Of Him, the Lord Almighty and all-wise?

Are these the hands that stretched abroad the skies,
And earth with verdure, heaven with stars o'erspread?
Are these the feet that on the waves would tread,
And calm their rage when wildest storms arise?

Ah me! how wounded, pale, disfigured now!

Those eyes, the joy of Heaven, eclipsed in night; Torn, bleeding, cold, those hands, these feet, this brow:

I weep for love, grief, transport, at the sight.

"My Lord! my God!" for me, for me didst Thou, In shame, reproach, and torment, thus delight?

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

THE SAVOYARDS.

"Un liard-un seul liard, Madame, pour le pauvre petit d'un autre pays," were the words addressed to me by a little Savoyard, who, with his marmotte closely clinging to his shoulder, and his hurdy-gurdy hung round his neck, raised his fine eyes, and looked in my face with that indescribable expression which spoke even more than the forcible appeal he had uttered-"Le pauvre petit d'un autre pays!" There was something so plaintive in his voice, something so pleasing in his countenance, and something so truly eloquent in the simple sentence in which he preferred his petition, that I could not avoid pausing to hear it repeated, and to give the best answer I was able to "the poor little one of a foreign land."

His words had the talismanic effect of transporting me in an instant to his native mountains of Savoy, where, perhaps, his parents, brothers, sisters, and playmates dwelt in tranquillity; while he, a little houseless wanderer, was desolate among thousands-with no friend but his

marmotte.

His story was simple. When he was ten years old, and his brother Pierre twelve, their parents could support

them no longer; so they gave to the one a marmotte, and to the other a hurdy-gurdy, and sent them to make their fortunes in "the fine countries, over the mountains far away." But his brother Pierre was "bien malade," and he had borrowed the hurdy-gurdy hoping that by his music and his marmotte, he might make as much money as when they both laboured together, so that Pierre would not be sorrowful as well as sick. He had travelled through France and Italy, and he could do better now if his music were new; but his music was old, and people liked monkies better than marmottes; there was, however, he assured me, no comparison between them—his marmotte 'si gentille et si sage," and loved him so much, and knew him in his native land. When he grew rich he was to return home to his parents, and live with them in Savoy : but he got little money now, and feared it would be a long time, as Pierre was "bien, bien malade." I asked the little foreigner's address, gave him a present for his sick brother, and left him gaily carolling one of the songs of his native land, as, with lightened step and sparkling eye, he trotted round the square. I caught some of the words of his simple ditty, and knew it to be one of those which the Savoyards teach their children, to prepare their minds for the wandering life to which they are so often destined.

was

Pour gagner les pays beaux,

Les montagnes je trotte,

Mon pere m'a donner chapeau

Un habit, ma culotte,

Avec ma marmotte.