When, on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armed 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,
So that our foe we saw
Laugh as he hailed us.

My soul ascended!

There from the flowing bowl

Deep drinks the warrior's soul,

Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!"*

Thus the tale ended.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

* A customary salutation in Scandinavia, when drinking a health.

Barclay of Ury.

UP the streets of Aberdeen,

By the kirk and college-green,
Rode the Laird of Ury;

Close behind him, close beside,
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,
Pressed the mob in fury.

Flouted him the drunken churl,
Jeered at him the serving girl,

Prompt to please her master;

And the begging carlin, late
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate,
Cursed him as he passed her.

Yet with calm and stately mien
Up the streets of Aberdeen
Came he slowly riding;
And, to all he saw and heard,
Answering not with bitter word,
Turning not for chiding.

Came a troop with broadswords swinging, Bits and bridles sharply ringing,

Loose, and free, and froward: Quoth the foremost, "Ride him down! Push him! prick him! Through the town Drive the Quaker coward!"

But from out the thickening crowd

Cried a sudden voice and loud:

"Barclay! Ho! a Barclay!"

And the old man at his side

Saw a comrade, battle-tried,

Scarred and sunburned darkly;

Even though He slay me.”

Pledges of thy love and faith,

Proved on many a field of death,
Not by me are needed."

Marvelled much that henchman bold,
That his laird, so stout of old,
Now so meekly pleaded.

"Woe's the day," he sadly said,
With a slowly-shaking head,
And a look of pity;

"Ury's honest lord reviled!
Mock of knave and sport of child,
In his own good city!

"Speak the word, and, master mine, As we charged on Tilly's line,

And his Walloon lancers,

Smiting through their midst, we'll teach

Civil look and decent speech

To these boyish prancers!"

"Marvel not, mine ancient friendLike beginning, like the end,”

Quoth the Laird of Ury;

"Is the sinful servant more
Than his gracious Lord who bore
Bonds and stripes in Jewry?

"Give me joy that in His name
I can bear, with patient frame,
All these vain ones offer;

While for them He suffereth long,
Shall I answer wrong with wrong,
Scoffing with the scoffer?

"Happier I, with loss of all— Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall,

With few friends to greet me— Than when reeve and squire were seen Riding out from Aberdeen

With bared heads to meet me ;

"When each good wife, o'er and o'er, Blessed me as I passed her door; And the snooded daughter,

Through her casement glancing down, Smiled on him who bore renown

From red fields of slaughter.

“Hard to feel the stranger's scoff,
Hard the old friends' falling off,
Hard to learn forgiving!
But the Lord his own rewards,
And his love with theirs accords-

Warm, and fresh, and living.

'Through this dark and stormy night

Faith beholds a feeble light

Up the blackness streaking;

Knowing God's own time is best,

In a patient hope I rest

For the full day-breaking!"