Angrily the king replieth;
Flashed the awful eye again
With disdain—
“Call him not alone who lieth
Low amidst such noble slain;
Call him not alone who dieth
Side by side with gallant men.”
Slowly, sadly we departed—
Reached again that desolate shore,
Never more
Trod by him, the brave, true-hearted,
Dying in that dark ship’s core!
Sadder keel from land ne’er parted,
Nobler freight none ever bore!
There we lingered, seaward gazing
Watching o’er that living tomb,
Through the gloom—
Gloom which awful light is chasing;
Blood-red flames the surge illume!
Lo! King Hacon’s ship is blazing;
’Tis the hero’s self-sought doom.
Right before the wild wind driving,
Madly plunging—stung by fire—
No help nigh her—
Lo! the ship has ceased her striving!
Mount the red flames higher, higher,
Till, on ocean’s verge arriving,
Sudden sinks the viking’s pyre.—
Hacon’s gone!
—Lord Dufferin.
MR. PICKWICK ON THE ICE
On Christmas morning Mr. Wardle invited Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and his other guests to go down to the pond.
“You skate, of course, Winkle?” said Mr. Wardle.
“Ye—s; oh, yes!” replied Mr. Winkle. “I—I—am rather out of practice.”
“Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle,” said Arabella. “I like to see it so much.”
“Oh, it is so graceful,” said another young lady.