The rebels advance with a shout and a cheer; But they reck not the might of that spectral host, Each warrior chieftain a blood-freezing ghost, Who answered their mirth with a jeer. Strange voices—such sounds as the winter winds make When lattice and casement they wrench at and shake, Were heard in those halls; And such terrible calls As made the most valiant assailant to quake. The castle, a lucent volcano, emits An ocean of flame on the heads of the foe, They waver—they stagger—they lose their five wits, And print their appalling defeat in the snow. Short, sharp and decisive the battle—no breach— In that marvellous structure the rebels could reach. To the mountain, abashed, bearing torches, they fled, Oppressed with the weight of their wounded and dead. The Frost-King, no longer enveloped in wrath, With pity surveyed their laborious path; And then, to the multitude bending, he said:—
“What folly, what ingratitude! To think with such rebellious war This wonder of the world to mar! This temple that in mist and flood And cataract in embryo slept, Till near this Royal Island crept The fluent particles, on which I breathed and wedded each to each, And made the solid lustre rich In dazzling beauty, fit to reach And rival, in these gleaming spires, The loveliness of astral fires, The mellow radiance of the moon. Ah! whether late or soon We with our retinue depart, Is there a single human heart Will mourn our exit? Shall we not Some few months hence be quite forgot? If even so, another year, With equal pleasure, equal cheer, King Frost shall hold his court, we wot, And meet your warmest welcome here.”
PETER WIMPLE’S COURTSHIP.
This poem was written when the author was a pupil of a literary institute in the State of New York, and was read at a public entertainment given by that institution, too long ago to make mention of the date desirable.
I. Twice forty years have rolled away Since first I saw the light of day, And sage experience bids me say, Without a grumble, The youth who yields to woman’s sway, Down hill will tumble.
II. While in my “teens,” like some of you, And life’s gay colours all were new, My heart was in a constant stew About the fair; Though oft a learned friend and true Said: “Pete, beware!”
III. Love songs I scribbled when a lad, For many a transient choice I had, Now marching gay, now moping sad, Time’s flight unheeded; A switch, which cures—or kills—the mad, Was what I needed.
IV. My sixteenth summer drawing nigh, I winked with an experienced eye; At church I chanced a maid to spy, With beauty blest, Who made me heave a double sigh, And spoiled my rest.