Ceased the Earl, and loud round through the court-men, Hoarsely roll'd approval of his counsel.

But the King sat silent in his high-seat,

And on all the Earl spoke much he pondered;

Then arose the storm of song, fierce-chaunted; Snorr's the Scald's song, sweeping all hearts warwards; "Launch the serpents! launch the gold-maned dragons! "Let their long keels cleave again the billows!

"Let their dark sails hold again the storm-winds!
"Let their tall masts creak before the tempests!

"Let the sun glow red upon their shield-rows,
"On their steel scales rank'd along their bulwarks!

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Swift, with strong-arm'd stroke, we sweep the ocean; "Swift our long oars smite the foam-maned billows;

Grey rise England's surf-swept cliffs to landwards; “Green her fields, and black her ports rise shorewards;

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Deep our furrows cut the rushy Humber;

"Dark our anchors cleave the Ouse's tideway;

"Why so near to Yule-tide flash the Bael-fires? "Fast the beacons flame afar our coming;

"Why do thane and thrall snatch down their war-gear? "Fast from forest, moor, and dale, they muster;

"Fast the thickening tide of war rolls onwards;
"Fast the war-ranks pour towards the foemen;

"Well may Jovick's Earls their war-men gather!
"Sore shall wall and tall tower need their bowmen ;

"For he comes whose war-deeds scalds are chanting!

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'He, the shield-ring-breaker in the war-fray;

Through the sleet of hissing arrows stalks he; "Where the death-sparks leap from helms deep-cloven;

"War-cries, and the shrill-tongued yells of slaughter
"Shriek the conquering war-way of Hardrada."

So sang Snorr, the Scald, and, to his singing,
Fiercely throbb'd the war-men's hearts around him ;

And around the bearded court-men rising,
Clash'd their liking of the stormy scald-song.

Then the rage of battle seized Hardrada,
The Berserker thirsting for the onset;

And his faith he plighted to Earl Tosti,
And his word sped forth through shore and upland.
Fast his host have gather'd; through the tempest,
Fast his dragons steers he towards the slaughter.

THE EXECUTION,

AND HOW IT EDIFIED THE BEHOLDERS.

A Sketch.

HE staggered on upon the drop; oh, who that saw his look Can forget it, as his place beneath the gallows first he took, Can forget the deadly shivering that shook him when his

eye

First rested on the heaving crowd agape to see him die,
On the mass of upturned faces that had waited hours below
And cursed the sluggish jail clock whose minutes crept so

slow;

Though brutal jokes and laughter were bandied fast about To serve to pass the time away until he was brought out, Yet spite of slang and merriment and choice St. Giles's wit, Of guesses how the dead man's clothes the hangman's form would fit

Though through the crowd from time to time the roar of laughter ran

As puns upon the dangling rope were tossed from man to

wan,

Though still fresh source of pleasure high for ever new was found

In the murderer's words and doings that from mouth to mouth went round,

And still, with offered bets and oaths, his best admirers stuck To their calm reliance on him that he'd die with honour

pluck

Though now and then some minutes yet more jollily were spent

In laughing down some milksop fool who hoped he would repent

Though Turpin's rides and Sheppard's feats, rehearsed with pride and glee,

Taught young aspirers to their fame how great they yet might be

Though now a pocket picked—a row-a women's fight

or so,

Served to keep the crowd in humour, still the time was damned as slow,

And when before their straining eyes the dead man staggered there,

With shouts and yells of gladness they tore the shuddering air;

A thousand tongues took up the roar-a thousand rolled

it wide;

Ten times it sank and rose again flung back from side to

side;

Then silence fell upon the crowd-a hush as of the dead; You might hear the platform creaking beneath the hangman's tread;

You might hear the paper's rustle where the painter's hand would try

To seize a fine convulsion-a striking agony;

You might catch the poet's mutter of his rhymes in murmurs faint

As he strove in taking measure the wretch's fear to paint;
Of one reporter's pencil a scratch you might not lose,
As smiling he his tablets gave a crowns-worth good of news.
Still on the glaring multitude unbroken stillness lay
Till with a shriek for mercy the felon tried to pray,

Then suddenly from out the crowd burst up a scoffing yell, Their scorn of this, his utter lack of manly pluck to tell, Nor ceased it when the quivering wretch first felt the hangman's touch

And swooned from out his agony, for nature's strength too much,

But fiercer rose the mingling roar of curse and yell bestowed

Upon the craven dastard who so poor a spirit showed, And gin-shop pals and jail-birds who had looked with pleasant pride

To see how to the very last the law he still defied,

Who'd boasted how with bow polite the cheering crowd he'd greet,

And how his friend, the hangman, with jeer and jest he'd meet,

That high in gallows' annals would live his honoured name, A spur to all who'd tread his steps, like him, to finish

game,

Now cursing deep his agony and mocking his despair

The fiercest yelled—the thickest filled with howls the reeling air;

Nor many a damn and many an oath, to roar were hundreds slow

'Gainst him whose chickenheartedness stole from them half the show,

Ay, hundreds swore 'twas cursed hard that out of half the fun

They'd waited there five hours for, at last they should be done;

And women who'd for windows paid, were sure 'twas never right

They should turn the man off fainting and spoil their paid

for sight;

But through the ghastly hell of sound-of curse and howl and yell,

The hangman lifts the senseless wretch from where he fainting fell,

And down the clammy forehead-and down the ashen face, The cap is drawn, the tightened noose is settled in its place;

Now God have mercy upon him upon whom men have none! A swinging form-a quivering corpse-a stillness—all is done;

A minute more, the sunshine is merry once again

With the buzz of talk and laughing of those who still remain,
With the settling by noisy knots of idlers through the street,
Of which shall be the gin-shop to finish off the treat;
Some, deep in plans of crimes to do, are lounging off to find
Fresh gallows' food, to virtue, to awe the public mind,
And lovers of the good old times and gibbet walk off loud
In praises of the moral good the hanging's done the crowd.

THE MATE'S RETURN.

On the quay, the young mate jumps from the boat;
Three long years has he seen afloat.

Three weary years, and at length he lands;
Yes, there, with his sea-chest again he stands.

Three long years, the world has he ranged;
Well, the black old seaport seems all unchanged.

Now, for a time, no more will he roam ;
Money he has, and he'll not from home.
Comfort he'll have, and his toil shall cease;
Hardly he's earned some pleasure and peace.
Now for some land-life and joys ashore,
And one, than all others, to him that's more
More than his old mother's face, though he
Longs to see that, that no dearer can be.

But there's one to his heart that's dearer still,
One always that's with him, go where he will.

Whose is that thought-of name and face?
Whose but those of his darling Grace?
Grace, the girl that, the long years through,
Always his heart has been constant to.