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THE CAVE OF SILVER.

SEEK me the cave of silver!
Find me the cave of silver!
Rifle the cave of silver!

Said Ilda to Brok the Bold:
So you may kiss me often;
So you may ring my finger;
So you may bind my true love
In the round hoop of gold!

Bring me no skins of foxes;
Bring, me no beds of eider;

Boast not your fifty vessels

That fish in the Northern Sea;

For I would lie upon velvet,
And sail in a golden galley,

And naught but the cave of silver
Will win my true love for thee.

Reena, the witch, hath told me
That up in the wild Lapp mountains
There lieth a cave of silver,

Down deep in a valley-side;

So gather your lance and rifle,
And speed to the purple pastures,

And seek ye the cave of silver
As you seek me for your bride.

THE CAVE OF SILVER.

I go, said Brok, right proudly;
I go to the purple pastures,
To seek for the cave of silver

So long as my life shall hold ;
But when the keen Lapp arrows
Are fleshed in the heart that loves you,
I'll leave my curse on the woman
Who slaughtered Brok the Bold!

But Ilda laughed as she shifted
The Bergen scarf on her shoulder,
And pointed her small white finger
Right up at the mountain gate;
And cried, O my gallant sailor,
You're brave enough to the fishes,
But the Lappish arrow is keener

Than the back of the thorny skate!

The Summer passed, and the Winter
Came down from the icy ocean :
But back from the cave of silver
Returned not Brok the Bold;

And Ilda waited and waited,

And sat at the door till sunset,

And gazed at the wild Lapp mountains That blackened the skies of gold.

I want not a cave of silver!

I care for no cave of silver!

O far beyond caves of silver
I pine for my Brok the Bold!

A DIRGE.

O ye strong Norwegian gallants,
Go seek for my lovely lover,
And bring him to ring my finger
With the round hoop of gold!

But the brave Norwegian gallants
They laughed at the cruel maiden,
And left her sitting in sorrow,

Till her heart and her face grew old;
While she moaned of the cave of silver,
And moaned of the wild Lapp mountains,
And him who never will ring her

With the round hoop of gold!

FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN.

A DIRGE.

CALL for the robin-redbreast and the wren,
Since o'er shady groves they hover,
And with leaves and flowers do cover

The friendless bodies of unburied men.

Call unto his funeral dole

The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole,

To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm,

And (when gay tombs are robbed) sustain no harm;

But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men,

For with his nails he'll dig them up again.

JOHN WEBSTER.

REST AND LABOR.

"Two hands upon the breast,

And labor's done;

Two pale feet crossed in rest,

The race is won;

Two eyes with coin weights shut,

And all tears cease;

Two lips where grief is mute,

Anger at peace!"

So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot;
God in his kindness answereth not.

"Two hands to work addrest,

Aye for His praise;

Two feet that never rest,

Walking His ways;

Two eyes that look above,

Through all their tears;

Two lips still breathing love,

Not wrath, nor fears!"

So pray we afterwards, low on our knees;

Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these!

DINAH MARIA MULOCH.

[graphic][merged small]

A WEARY weed, tossed to and fro,
Drearily drenched in the ocean brine,

Soaring high and sinking low,

Lashed along without will of mine; Sport of the spoom of the surging sea, Flung on the foam afar and anear,

Mark my manifold mystery:

Growth and grace in their place appear.

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