Hæder, the blind old God,
Whose feet are shod with silence,
Pierced through that gentle breast
With his sharp spear, by fraud
Made of the mistletoe,
The accursed mistletoe!
They laid him in his ship,
With horse and harness,
As on a funeral pyre.
Odin placed
A ring upon his finger,
And whispered in his ear.
They launched the burning ship!
It foated far away
Over the misty sea,
Till like the sun it seemed,
Sinking beneath the waves.
Balder returned no more !
So perish the old Gods !
But out of the sea of Time
Rises a new land of song,
Fairer than the old.
Over its meadows green
Walk the young bards and sing.
Build it again,
O ye bards,
Fairer than before !
Ye fathers of the new race,
Feed upon morning dew,
Sing the new Song of Love!
The law of force is dead!
The law of love prevails !
Thor, the thunderer,
Shall rule the earth no more,
No more, with threats,
Challenge the meek Christ.
Sing no more,
O ye bards of the North,
Or Vikings and of Jarls!
Of the days of Eld
Preserve the freedom only,
Not the deeds of blood !

THE SINGERS.
God sent his Singers upon earth
With songs of sadness and of mirth,
That they might touch the hearts of men,
And bring them back to heaven again.

The first, a youth, with soul of fire,
Held in his hand a golden lyre;
Through groves he wandered, and by streams,
Playing the music of our dreams.
The second, with a bearded face,
Stood singing in the market-place,
And stirred with accents deep and loud
The hearts of all the listening crowd.
А

gray, old man, the third and last,
Sang in cathedrals dim and vast,
While the majestic organ rolled
Contrition from its mouths of gold.
And those who heard the Singers three
Disputed which the best might be;
For still their music seemed to start
Discordant echoes in each heart.
But the great Master said, “I see
No best in kind, but in degree;
I gave a various gift to each,
To charm, to strengthen, and to teach.
“These are the three great chords of might,
And he whose ear is tuned aright
Will hear no discord in the three,
But the most perfect harmony."

SUSPIRIA
Take them, O Death I and bear away

Whatever thou canst call thine own!
Thine image, stamped upon this clay,

Doth give thee that, but that alone!
Take them, O Gravel and let them lie

Folded upon thy narrow shelves
As garments by the soul laid by,

And precious only to ourselves !
Take them, O great Eternity !

Our little life is but a gust,
That bends the branches of thy tree,

And trails its blossoms in the dust.

HYMN FOR MY BROTHER'S ORDINATION. Christ to the young man said : “Yet one thing more :

If thou wouldst perfect be,
Sell all thou hast and give it to the poor,

And come and follow me!”
Within this temple Christ again, unseen,

Those sacred words hath said,

And his invisible hands to-day have been

Laid on a young man's head.
And evermore beside him on his way

The unseen Christ shall move,
That he may lean upon his arm and say,

“Dost thou, dear Lord, approve?" Beside him at the marriage feast shall be,

To make the scene more fair;
Beside him in the dark Gethsemane

Of pain and midnight prayer.
O holy trust! O endless sense of rest :

Like the beloved John
To lay his head upon the Saviour's breast,

And thus to journey on!

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH UNDER a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door :
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,

And sits among his boys ;
He hears the parson pray and preach,

He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice,

Singing in Paradise !
He needs must think of her once more,

How in the grave she lies ;

And with his hard, rough hand he wipes

A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, --rejoicing, --sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes ;
Each morning sees some task begin,

Each evening sees it close ;
Something attempted, something done,

Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought !

THE RAINY DAY.
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the day is dark and dreary.
My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary ;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,

And the days are dark and dreary.
Be still, sad heart! and cease repining ;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.