THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.
Word was brought to the Danish king, Hurry! That the love of his heart lay suffering, And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; O, ride as though you were flying! Better he loves each golden curl On the brow of that Scandinavian girl Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl; And his rose of the isles is dying!
Thirty nobles saddled with speed; Hurry! Each one mounting a gallant steed Which he kept for battle and days of need; O, ride as though you were flying! Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; But ride as they would, the king rode first, For his rose of the isles lay dying!
His nobles are beaten, one by one; Hurry! They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; His little fair page now follows alone, For strength and for courage trying! The king looked back at that faithful child; Wan was the face that answering smiled; They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, Then he dropped; and only the king rode in Where his rose of the isles lay dying!
The king blew a blast on his bugle-horn; Silence! No answer came; but faint and forlorn An echo returned on the cold gray morn, Like the breath of a spirit sighing. The castle portal stood grimly wide; None welcomed the king from that weary ride; For dead, in the light of the dawning day, The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, Who had yearned for his voice while dying!
The panting steed, with a drooping crest, Stood weary. The king returned from her chamber of rest, The thick sobs choking in his breast; And, that dumb companion eying, The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; He bowed his head on his charger's neck; "O steed, that every nerve didst strain, Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain To the halls where my love lay dying!"
Hon. Caroline Norton.