SYBILLINE LEAVES.

BY G. W. THORNBURY.

MAY AND I.

As the sun the swallow,
As the spring the bee,
As the cloud its shadow
O'er the moving sea,

So through spring and summer
Will I ever follow,

Spite of frowning-thee.

As day chases visions,

As night chases day,

As the motes each other
Through the slanting ray,

As the Greek through tempest

Sought the isles Elysian,

I will follow May.

WAR SONGS OF THE NORSEMEN.

[These songs we have put in the mouth of the "Flameman," one of the Danish chiefs most dreaded by the Saxons of the northern coast. This Viking

derived his name from the flame of burning villages that announced his approach. The Land Ravager was the title given to the banner of Hasting, a Norseman of a later epoch. Difference of religion made these early wars the most bloody and vindictive of perhaps any that have ever been waged between Pagan and Christian. In every bay of England these black bands landed, bringing terror and desolation in their train.]

I have spread out a feast
For the eagle and raven,
For the wolf of the forest
That feeds on the craven;
The goshawks shall prey
On the skull-cloven vassal,
The kite may now build
In the roof of the castle.

I have stabled my steed
In the hall of the palace,
To Odin I've drank

From the gem-gleaming chalice,

Their stone saints I've broken

To ballast my galley,

I plundered the shrine

Of the church in the valley.

There was crowding of banners

And hewing of shields,

There was cleaving of bucklers
On blood-sodden fields;
The gore fell like dew

From the battle-smiths' hammers,
There were groanings and shrieks
Mixed with cursings and clamours

I spread out a meal
For the wolf of the forest;

I muttered my runes

When our need was the sorest;
The cross snaps in twain

As the icicle shivers

When our sea-horses bound
Up the tide of the rivers.

There is not a province
But what is our own;
The deck of the galley

Is the wave-monarch's throne;
The swan's path's our highway,
Our wings are our sails,

As our conquest we claim

The deep bath of the whales.

The horn of the walrus

Is our gathering cry;

Through the scud of the breakers
Like the petrel we fly;

By the light of the serf

We steer us till day,

Then swoop like the osprey
With a shriek on our prey.

We seek not a home
In green meadow or field;
We will lie on no bed

But our iron-bound shield;

We die with no prayer,

Like the monk and the slave,

But leap with a laugh

In our gore-flooded grave.

ANOTHER BATTLE-SONG.

Sword and fire the FLAMEMAN brings '
To scare half the Saxon kings,
As when wolf leaps from forest den
Fly the Jarls and Eldermen,

And the monks scoop out the graves
When they see us on the waves.
Howl ye grey wolves of the weald
At the gleaming of our shield!
Howl ye in the autumn wood
When ye

sniff the crimson food!

Where the Pagan warriors tread,

From the green turf moist and red

Never springs the corn again,

Where the blood poured down like rain.
We bring woe to husbandmen;

In the wold and in the glen
Leaps the fire upon the crag
At the flapping of our flag.

How the serf the oxen's goading,
When he hears us shout to Odin ;
Where the grey sea sounding o'er,
Comes the savage cry to Thor;

Looking down from great Valhalla,
Smile the men of ancient valour.

From the Tyne unto the Humber,
With their wealth our decks we cumber;
Thorp and homestead, rick and barn,
From the distant Lindisfarne,
To the city of the plain,*

Where the Saxon monarchs reign,
We have burnt as flat and bare
As the moor the foxes share.

Farmers bar them in their stead
Priests leave lovers still unwed:
At the grave's mouth lies the corse,
And the mourners cry "To horse!"
Sickles gleam amid the corn,
Untouched stands the reaper's horn.
When they see us on the waves,
Then the sexton digs the graves.
Wheresoever blows the wind,
There an heritage we find ;
Wheresoever steers the prow,
Is our own, as this is now.
Wessex trembles at our shout;
The Land Ravager is out;

England, from the north to south,

Shudders in the white shark's mouth.

THE BELLS OF TREVENNA.

[Every headland in Cornwall has its legend. On all the granite blocks that are heaped up in savage confusion, like fragments of the ruined castle of the genii, have lives been offered to appease the angry demons of the sea. The legend of Tintagel (not Trevenna) is not the least interesting. It runs thus: Once upon a time the inhabitants of Boscastle, envious of the neighbouring bells of Tintagel, sent a vessel to the south to procure a peal for themselves. They were shipped safely, and arrived off Boscastle, when the storm-bells of Tintagel were swinging low with solemn roar. The sounds reached the ears of the pilot, who, elated by the welcome of his native village, piously thanked God that he should be at his home that evening. "Thank the ship and the canvas!" exclaimed the captain; "thank God on shore." "Nay," said the pilot, "we should thank God at sea as well as on land." "Not I," quoth the captain; "thank yourself and a fair wind." The pilot rebuked him. The captain violently swore and blasphemed. By this time the ship had neared the land, and the dark headland of Willapark and the precipices of the Black Pit were crowded by the inhabitants, eagerly expecting the precious freight. Suddenly, however, the sky became darkened, a furious wind arose, and the ship, struck by the mountainous waves, capsized and foundered. The pilot alone, supported by a portion of the wreck, was washed ashore alive, and to him we are indebted for the legend. It is said that during the pauses of a gale the bells are heard distinctly tolling from the ocean graves. We need not say we have considered the wreck a judgment on the pride of the people and the impiety of the captain.]

The waves shout all together,

And boast of the woe they've wrought,
And around the cliffs the breakers

Like foaming monsters fought.

* York.

In the cove where the wreck lies bleaching
The tide breaks in apace,

To the level sand where the drowned men lie
The eager billows race.

All night by the gleam of the breakers
Steers the pilot to the port;
It is the eve of Saint Christopher,

And the saint's good help he sought.

'Twas storm all night, and o'er the helm
The mountain billows flew,

But when dawn showed her angel face
The wild sea calmer grew.

At dawn he hears Trevenna's bells,
Up the valley swinging low;
"Thank God!" he cries, with eager eyes,
"All praise thee here below."

"Thank thou the good ship Osprey,
And this strong rope and sail;
'Tis time enough to thank the saint
When safe from the tooth of the gale."

"Hark! captain," cried the pilot,
"The loud winds bid us pray;

Weak man should kneel by land and sea,
By night as well as day.'

"Bah! thank the helm and rudder,
And thank the favouring wind,
And thank the sturdy shipwrights
We left in the dock behind."

"Thank God I see the haven,

And the old tower on the steep."
"Hurrah!" swore out the captain,
And mocked at the raging deep.

"Let the priests and women falter ;
Of the winds, at God's command,
I know no help but a stout oak plank,
Sure eye, and ready hand."

"Thank God!" the pilot cries, "I see
The valley and the mill,

And the red roofs underneath the rock,
And the old church on the hill!"

Keep prayers for shore!" the captain cries,
"We want no mumblers here;

I mock the wind; in a ship like this
No rock or shoal I fear."

But as he spoke a sudden storm

Took his mainmast by the board,

And the shredded sails like black winged birds
Up to the dark sky soared.

Ill-omened night barred out the morn,
Dark stretched the frowning lee,

When a sudden blast came long and loud
And hurried them out to sea.

Jan.-VOL. CIII. NO. CCCCIX.

I

They passed St. Agnes' Head at noon,
And they've left St. Ives behind,

But through the wild waves gleams the reef,
And louder grows the wind.

Like a muffled stroke on a coffin-lid

The billows smote the bark ;

Like a field of snow the breakers spread
And glimmered through the dark.

The sea broke o'er the vessel's side

And swept athwart the deck;

Like bones that crunch in a wild beast's mouth
It gnashed on the parting wreck.

As the dying vessel shuddered,
The bells rolled to and fro,
And rang a low and muffled knell
For the drowned that lay below.

And through the scud of mist and rain
Corpse-candles moved about,
Creeping, as if instinct with life,
Mocking the tempest shout.

Cleaving the darkness thick and dense
The crushed wreck swept along,
And through the tangled rigging
The winds harped out a song.

O like the shriek of a bursting heart

Was the scream when it struck the rock,
And the sharp keen spear of the jutting reef
Clove the frail planks with a shock.

The waves roared out a welcome
As that cursing man leapt in;
And the sea-birds, joyful at the storm,
Laughed high above the din.

But when the clouds had broken,

In the light the bright sun cast,
The pilot lay upon the sand
Lashed to a shattered mast.

And far above him on the hill
He hears Trevenna's bells,
And sees his welcome children
Come leaping down the dells.

"Thank God!" be cries, and raised his hands

Unto the fiery sun,

"But for His help that howling sea,

That still creeps on and on,

"As if it waited for a prey,

Had swept me to the grave.

Thank God on shore by night and day,

Thank God who rules the wave."