'Twas now the first

Of the Judean autumn; and the leaves,
Whose shadows lay so still upon his path,
Had put their beauty forth beneath the eye
Of Judah's loftiest noble. He was young,
And eminently beautiful; and life
Mantled in elegant fulness on his lip,
And sparkled in his glance; and in his mien
There was a gracious pride that every eye
Followed with benisons;—and this was he!

And he went forth-alone! Not one of all
The many whom he loved, nor she whose name
Was woven in the fibres of his heart

Breaking within him now, to come and speak
Comfort unto him. Yea, he went his way,
Sick, and heart-broken, and alone,-to die!
For, God had cursed the leper!

It was noon,
And Helon knelt beside a stagnant pool
In the lone wilderness, and bathed his brow
Hot with the burning leprosy, and touched
The loathsome water to his fevered lips,
Praying that he might be so blest-to die!
-Footsteps approached; and, with no strength to flee,
He drew the covering closer on his lip,

Crying, "Unclean! Unclean!" and, in the folds
Of the coarse sackcloth shrouding up his face,
He fell upon the earth till they should

pass.
Nearer the Stranger came, and, bending o'er
The leper's prostrate form, pronounced his name,
"Helon!"-The voice was like the master-tone
Of a rich instrument,-most strangely sweet;
And the dull pulses of disease awoke,
And, for a moment, beat beneath the hot
And leprous scales with a restoring thrill!
"Helon! arise!"—and he forgot his curse,
And rose and stood before Him.

Love and awe
Mingled in the regard of Helon's eye,
As he beheld the Stranger.-He was not
In costly raiment clad, nor on his brow
The symbol of a princely lineage wore;
No followers at his back,-nor in his hand
Buckler, or sword, or spear:-yet, if he smiled,

A kingly condescension graced his lips,
A lion would have crouched-to in his lair.
His garb was simple, and his sandals worn;
His stature modeled with a perfect grace;
His countenance the impress of a God,
Touched with the opening innocence of a child;
His eye was blue and calm, as is the sky
In the serenest noon: his hair unshorn
Fell to his shoulders; and his curling beard
The fulness of perfected manhood bore.
-He looked on Helon earnestly awhile,

As if his heart were moved; and, stooping down,
He took a little water in his hand,

And laid it on his brow, and said, "Be clean!"
And lo! the scales fell from him; and his blood
Coursed with delicious coolness through his veins ;
And his dry palms grew moist, and on his brow
The dewy softness of an infant's sole:

His leprosy was cleansed; and he fell down
Prostrate at Jesus' feet, and worshiped Him,

LX.-THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD.

-Motherwell.

THE eagle hearts of all the North have left their stormy strand; The warriors of the world are forth to choose another land! Again, their long keels sheer the wave, their broad sheets court the breeze;

Again, the reckless and the brave ride lords of weltering seas. Nor swifter from the well-bent bow can feathered shaft be sped,

Than o'er the ocean's flood of snow their snoring galleys tread.Then lift the can to bearded lip, and smite each sounding shield;

Wassaile! to every dark-ribbed ship, to every battle-field! So proudly the Scalds raise their voices of triumph,

As the Northmen ride over the broad-bosomed billow. Aloft, Sigurdir's battle-flag streams onward to the land; Well may the taint of slaughter lag on yonder glorious strand. The waters of the mighty deep, the wild birds of the sky, Hear it, like vengeance, shoreward sweep, where moody men

must die.

The waves wax wroth beneath our keel-the clouds above us lower;

They know the battle-sign, and feel all its resistless power!

"Who now uprears Sigurdir's flag, nor shuns an early tomb? Who shoreward, through the swelling surge, shall bear the scroll of doom?"

So shout the Scalds, as the long ships are nearing
The low-lying shores of a beautiful land.

Silent the Self-devoted stood beside the massive tree;
His image mirrored in the flood was terrible to see!

As, leaning on his gleaming axe, and gazing on the wave,
His fearless soul was churning up the death-rune of the brave.
Upheaving then his giant form upon the brown bark's prow,
And tossing back the yellow storm of hair from his broad
brow,

The lips of song burst open, and the words of fire rushed out, And thundering through that martial crew pealed Harald's battle shout:

(It is Harald the dauntless that lifteth his great voice, As the Northmen roll on with the Doom-written banner.) "I bear Sigurdir's battle flag through sunshine or through gloom;

Through swelling surge on bloody strand I plant the scroll of doom!

On Scandia's lonest, bleakest waste, beneath a starless sky, The shadowy Three like meteors passed, and bade young Harald die ;

They sang the war-deeds of his sires, and pointed to their tomb;

They told him that this glory-flag was his by right of doom. Since then, where hath young Harald been, but where Jarl's son should be ?

'Mid war and waves-the combat keen that raged on land or sea!"

So sings the fierce Harald, the thirster for glory,

As his hand bears aloft the dark death-laden banner.

"Mine own death's in this clenched hand! I know the noble trust;

These limbs must rot on yonder strand-these lips must lick its dust:

But shall this dusky standard quail in the red slaughter day; Or shall this heart its purpose fail-this arm forget to slay? I trample down such idle doubt; Harald's high blood hath sprung

From sires whose hands in martial bout have ne'er belied their tongue;

prey,

Nor keener from their castled rock rush eagles on their
Than, panting for the battle-shock, young Harald leads the way.
It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible beauty,
Pours forth his big soul to the joyance of heroes.

"The ship-borne warriors of the North, the sons of Woden's

race,

To battle as to feast go forth, with stern and changeless face;
And I, the last of a great line, the Self-devoted, long

To lift on high the Runic sign which gives my name to song.
In battle-field young Harald falls amid a slaughtered foe,
But backward never bears this flag, while streams to ocean
flow;-

On, on above the crowded dead this Runic scroll shall flare, And round it shall the lightnings spread, from swords that never spare.'

So rush the hero-words from the Death-doomèd one,
While Scalds harp aloud the renown of his fathers.

"Green lie those thickly-timbered shores fair sloping to the

sea;

They're cumbered with the harvest-stores that wave but for the free:

Our sickle is the gleaming sword, our garner the broad shield, Let peasants sow, but still he's lord who's master of the field; Let them come on, the bastard-born, each soil-stain'd churl!— alack!

What gain they but a splitten skull, a sod for their base back? They sow for us these goodly lands, we reap them in our might, Scorning all title but the brands that triumph in the fight!"

It was thus the land-winners of old gained their glory, And grey stones voiced their praise in the bays of far isles. "The rivers of yon island low glance redly in the sun, But ruddier still they're doomed to glow, and deeper shall they run;

The torrent of proud life shall swell each river to the brim, And in that spate of blood, how well the headless corpse will swim!

The smoke of many a shepherd's cot curls from each peopled
glen;
And, hark! the song of maidens mild, the shout of joyous men!
But one may hew the oaken tree, the other shape the shroud:
As the LANDEYDA o'er the sea sweeps like a tempest cloud.".
So shouteth fierce Harald-so echo the Northmen,
As shoreward their ships like mad steeds are careering.

66

Sigurdir's battle-flag is spread abroad to the blue sky, And spectral visions of the dead are trooping grimly by; The spirit-heralds rush before Harald's destroying brand, They hover o'er yon fated shore and death-devoted band. Marshal, stout Jarls, your battle fast! and fire each beacon height;

Our galleys anchor in the sound, our banner heaves in sight! And through the surge and arrowy shower that rain on this broad shield,

Harald uplifts the sign of power which rules the battle-field!"

So cries the Death-doomed on the red strand of slaughter,
While the helmets of heroes like anvils are ringing.

On rolled the Northmen's war-above the Raven Standard flew: Nor tide nor tempest ever strove with vengeance half so true. 'Tis Harald-'tis the Sire-bereaved-who goads the dread career, And high amid the flashing storm the flag of Doom doth rear. "On, on!" the tall Death-seeker cries, "these earth-worms soil our heel,

Their spear-points crash like crisping ice on ribs of stubborn steel!"

Hurrah! hurrah! their whirlwinds sweep, and Harald's fate is sped;

Bear on the flag-he goes to sleep with the life-scorning dead. Thus fell the young Harald, as of old fell his sires, And the bright hall of heroes bade hail to his spirit.

LXI. THE CLOUD.-Shelley.

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under;

And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.