Last the Musician, as he stood Illumined by that fire of wood; Fair-haired, blue-eyed, his aspect blithe, A radiance, streaming from within, The Angel with the violin, Painted by Raphael, he seemed. He lived in that ideal world Whose language is not speech, but song; Around him evermore the throng Of elves and sprites their dances whirled; The Strömkarl sang, the cataract hurled Its headlong waters from the height; And mingled in the wild delight The scream of sea-birds in their flight, The rumor of the forest trees, The plunge of the implacable seas, The tumult of the wind at night, Voices of eld, like trumpets blowing, Through mist and darkness pouring forth, Like Elivagar's river flowing Out of the glaciers of the North. The instrument on which he played Fashioned of maple and of pine, That in Tyrolian forests vast Had rocked and wrestled with the blast: Exquisite was it in design, Perfect in each minutest part, A marvel of the lutist's art; And in its hollow chamber, thus, The maker from whose hands it came Had written his unrivalled name, "Antonius Stradivarius." And when he played, the atmosphere The dead came from beneath the sea, The music ceased; the applause was loud, A sound like that sent down at night By birds of passage in their flight, From the remotest distance heard. Then silence followed; then began A clamor for the Landlord's tale, The story promised them of old, They said, but always left untold; And he, although a bashful man, And all his courage seemed to fail, Finding excuse of no avail, Yielded; and thus the story ran. THE LANDLORD'S TALE. PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. LISTEN, my children, and you shall hear Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, "If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light, One, if by land, and two, if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, |